“Sí.” He smiled and sat down, grinning at Arturo. He pointed toward the pasture. “El caballo.”
The little boy bounced.
Conall pointed the other direction, toward the grazing cows. “La vaca.”
“La vaca,” Arturo agreed intelligibly.
“I didn’t think to ask whether they spoke English or Spanish at home,” Lia said. “When Arturo was so quiet, it finally occurred to me he probably speaks Spanish.”
“Insofar as a kid this age speaks anything.”
Indignantly, she said, “He’s got a good vocabulary for his age.” She touched a finger to her nose and asked in Spanish, “What’s this, Arturo?”
“Nariz,” he shouted.
His sister giggled in delight.
Lia sang “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” in Spanish and soon had Arturo touching the parts of his body with her. Julia clapped her hands and vocalized.
“I know how to sing that,” Walker said. “’Cept not in Spanish. That’s Spanish, isn’t it?”
Startled again, Lia turned her head to see that both boys had approached unheard. They looked pinched and pale as if they hadn’t seen sunlight in months, but they’d come outside willingly.
She willed her smile not to tremble. “Yes, I finally figured out that Arturo understands Spanish and not English.” Actually, she’d gotten caught speaking it to him, which wasn’t quite the same thing.
Please, Mateo, come and get these children.
“How come?” Walker asked.
“There are quite a few people in this country who speak a different language,” she said. “America is made up of immigrants, you know. Everyone is descended from grandparents or great-grandparents or great-great-grandparents who came from somewhere else. Everyone except the native Americans who lived here first.”
The boy nodded. “Mom said that our father’s grandparents came from Poland. Only…” Uncertainty entered his voice. “I think they went back.”
She nodded matter-of-factly. “Adjusting to a place where everyone speaks a different language and eats unfamiliar food and thinks differently would be hard, wouldn’t it?” She knew; oh, she did.
Both boys nodded.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Conall suggested.
They looked at each other in silent communication, then dropped to the grass side by side, maintaining some distance from the others. Brendan, she suspected, didn’t want to be here at all. His little brother had talked him into coming out. It was Walker who’d opened up to Conall at dinner the other night, too, she remembered. It was Walker who now asked, “But how come Arturo’s mom doesn’t learn to talk English, since she lives here?”
No mention of dad; in Walker’s world, kids didn’t have a father.
Lia smiled at him. “She might not have been here very long. Or she spoke English when she was at work and Spanish at home. She might have wanted her kids to grow up bilingual. Speaking two languages,” she translated.
“She might even be here illegally,” Conall remarked. He’d stretched out on his side and his head was propped on his hand. It was her he was watching, not the boys. Although his tone was still lazy, his eyes weren’t.
“But if the children were born in this country,” Lia shot back, “they’re American citizens.”
He murmured wordless agreement, but she didn’t like the sharp way he continued to watch her.
“I don’t actually know much about their parents,” she lied to the boys, trying to focus on their faces and not his. “They’re only supposed to be here for a week or two. There was some kind of family emergency.” She shrugged.
“Like their mom is dying?” Brendan asked, in the same tone another kid might have said, Like their mom went to the grocery store?
Pity leapt to her throat. “No, honey. No, their mom will be back.”
“After she wades the Rio Grande,” Conall said sotto voce.
Dear God, he knew. Somehow he knew.
“Do they have a dad?” Conall asked.
“Yes,” she snapped, knowing her cheeks were flushed. “Actually…I’m not sure. It was the mom who…had something happen.” Got deported.