Delia's Crossing (Delia 1)

I pleaded softly for her to reconsider. All of her siblings were gone now, her other sons working in America. I was the closest family she had left to be beside her, and she was my closest, too, I realized.

“You would have no chance here, Delia. You would grow old quickly, as I did, maybe even more quickly. Your parents wouldn’t want this. Think of all the men and women who would love to have your opportunity. You will eventually become a citizen of the United States! You will get a better education and everything you need to stay healthy and strong, and you know how much your mother wanted you to have an education. Maybe you will go to a college, too.”

“But Isabela was not good to us, Abuela.”

“What she was she was. What she is she is now,” she replied, and waved her right forefinger. “Remember, Delia, hasta el diablo fué un ángel en sus comienzos. Even the devil was an angel when he began. It’s not too late to change.”

I thought she recited it all more to convince herself than to convince me, or perhaps to make herself feel better about her inability to keep me with her. I couldn’t continue to contradict her, for fear I would make her feel even more terrible than she already felt. There was nothing to do but nod and smile and accept.

“You will return to visit soon,” she continued. “You will come back in fancy clothes and in a fancy car. Everyone will be envious of you.”

I turned away so she wouldn’t see my face, the great pain and the terrible doubt. I looked down at the small suitcase we had packed for my trip. The fastener no longer worked. It had to be tied with one of my father’s old belts.

Señor Orozco had delivered my aunt’s warning about bringing along lice, and that had frightened us into limiting what I was to take. I packed only my newest garments, and my grandmother had washed them even though they did not need to be washed. What I had wouldn’t have filled more than two suitcases anyway.

“I’m sure she means to buy you many new things,” my grandmother told me. “She didn’t intend to be nasty about lice. It’s simply that she wouldn’t let you wear old clothes in her beautiful new hacienda. You are her niece. She won’t want you to look any worse than her

own children. Isabela was always concerned about the way she looked. Appearances are very important to her.”

I glanced at mi abuela. She was struggling so to make my future look rosy. I knew she didn’t believe these things. She, like most everyone else, was not approving of Isabela’s worship of wealth.

“I don’t care about beautiful clothes,” I said.

“Oh, sure you do. You will. Why shouldn’t you? You are a beautiful young woman, the most beautiful in our family on both sides. Would you put a dirty, old, ugly frame around a beautiful painting? No.”

She made me smile.

“I’m not a beautiful painting, Abuela Anabela.”

“Sí, you are, God’s beautiful painting,” she said, stroking my face and smiling. “Don’t fill your heart with too much pride, but don’t regret yourself,” she advised, and kissed me on the forehead.

And then she shook her head and muttered to herself. “I lived too long to have lived to see this.”

Finally, she went off to be alone, shed her tears, and talk to God.

I sat waiting and wondering why all of this had happened. What had we done to bring such tragedy down upon us? Father Martinez’s explanations in church seemed hollow and inadequate to me. God had brought them to his bosom? Why would God want to take my parents from me? Why would he be so selfish? I would have to go elsewhere to understand, I thought, and I might spend my whole life getting there.

The car sent for me arrived surprisingly early in the morning the next day. I didn’t remember my aunt’s car when she came to her mother’s funeral as well as some of the other people in the village remembered it, but I couldn’t imagine a more luxurious-looking or bigger automobile. She had hired the driver and the car out of Mexico City. Everyone who saw it approaching came out to watch the driver, who was in a uniform and cap, take my small bag and put it into the cavernous trunk, where it looked about as insignificant as it could, like one pea on a plate. It didn’t occur to me until that very moment how quickly it was all happening. Mi tía Isabela had practically pounced on me the moment the news had arrived in Palm Springs, California. Again I wondered, was that good? Why had she decided so quickly?

There was no longer any time to think about it. Mi abuela Anabela followed me out to hug me and say a prayer over me. She kissed me and made me promise to say my prayers every night, for myself, yes, but for my poor departed parents’ souls as well.

“And for you,” I added.

“Sí, y para mí,” she said, smiling. “You will do well, Delia. You have a heart big enough for many who need love. I am sorry I can give you nothing more than my prayers.”

“It’s enough,” I said, holding back my tears.

I looked at our house, our stubble of grass in front, and the old fountain. I was sure it wasn’t much of anything compared with where I was going, but it was all I knew as home. In this poor house, we had laughed and cried, eaten our meals, and slept through our dreams. We had celebrated our birthdays and holidays and talked into the night, with me mostly listening and my parents and grandmother remembering. It was through them that I had grown to know my extended family and my personal heritage, and now that was all being left behind.

I might as well be shot into outer space, I thought when I turned to get into the limousine. Where I was going was just as far away as a distant planet, not in miles so much as in customs, language, and lifestyle. Without my ties to my family here, I would be like someone floating through space, untethered to anything, alone, hoping to land on a warm star.

Grandmother Anabela kissed me and held me tightly for a moment, before she sighed deeply and let me go.

“No more good-byes,” she said, and urged me to get into the limousine.

I paused to look at our neighbors and friends. I could see the pity for me in their faces, even though I was getting into this expensive automobile and heading for the United States, a world of endless promise and wealth, from which so many norteños sent back remittances that were enough to make eyes bulge and put smiles on hungry faces of despair. The committees of los norteños sent back funds that helped restore our church and plaza, repair roads and sewers, and make our village more livable. The United States was a well of opportunity into which I would have the privilege of dipping my hands.

And yet they didn’t envy me. They saw how lost and alone I was, and despite their own poverty and limited futures, they would not trade places with me. In fact, they stepped back into their doorways or into the shadows, as if to avoid being contaminated by the tragedy that had befallen me. Some wouldn’t even wave good-bye. Some wouldn’t even nod. They stared, and some crossed themselves and moved closer to their loved ones.