Nanowrimo Part the Fifth

The first years that the Gomez family lived in Clovis, they worked so very hard. Every morning they were up with the sun , working. They left before Mario went to school, trusting him to be safe walking in a group with the neighbor children. Everyday that she left for work her heart broke. She would weep walking to the kitchen. She could cook very well. And she could clean. And she would always work hard, no matter what her position. But she mourned the loss of those glorious years in the Villa. She had had eight years with her son, eight years to watch him grow, to teach him, to study with him and to play. He was growing to be a man now. Now the hard work would begin. To train him to use his understanding in seeking wisdom. To teach him to choose his friends and choose his work. To teach him to serve his Lord.

It was a long journey to church of a Sunday. One that Dr. Gomez no longer took with his wife. She and Mario walked into town and then road to the nearest church, twenty miles away, with another Catholic family. How could she teach her son to cherish his Savior, to honor the Holy Mother and to be pure if she only saw him in the evenings? It was a bitter pill to swallow and many days she thought she would never get past the pain of this part of their new life.

The family that drove them to church were kind and devout. In the beginning they directed their conversation to Mario, assuming he was needed to translate.

“Mario, does your mother like the farm she is at?” Inane, but good hearted questions like these.

“Si, Senor. She thinks it muy bueno.” He would answer, still so unsure himself, unsure of how to speak in English. Nervous laughter filled the car. They wanted to love each other. To serve each other and be some kind of family. But the language made them afraid.

“Yes, yes. I do like very much.” Timotea would say nervously.

“Oh yes? We like the Grady’s too. Very nice family. They have a nice farm. What do you do for them?” The wife, so soon to be one of Timotea’s dear friends, tried desperately not to speak louder. She knew that she would talk louder as well as slower and that would embarrass everyone.

“I do cook for the family, and for the employees. They have a cocina--kitchen--where everybody eats on their break and we make the food. Very good food. You would like. Do you like Mexican food?” It was so much work to think it in English, even though she knew that she knew the words.

“Yes. Love it. We love to eat Mexican food. I make enchiladas for the kids. But maybe they aren’t right. I don’t know. But we think they are good.” She was so glad to be in the front seat so this nice woman they were driving couldn’t see her blush.

“You bet we do. Her enchiladas are terrific Mrs. Gomez. You’d like them. I know. Why don’t you all stay for supper tonight? Is your husband free for supper?” This was the first that the husband had spoken to her. They had driven together for weeks now. She was startled and had a long pause to think in English.

“Yes. We would love to come for supper tonight. I may bring something? I think tamales?” She was flushed. She missed so much the company of friends.

“Oh no. I wouldn’t think of it. Don’t bring anything.” Again, she spoke from embarrassment. She was proud of her husband for thinking to invite them over. But what could she do? She couldn’t let these poor immigrants with nothing to their names bring food over. She could never forgive herself.

“Mommy, I want to eat her Tamales!’ Was the plaintive cry of their four year old, who had in mind the candy.

“Yes, hon, let them bring tamales. I bet we’ve never had anything like them before.”

Timotea sat through Mass with a light heart. One thing that was missing here was real friends. They had neighbors. They lived next to kind people. One family near them was their age. But they had so many children. The sheer number of blessings in their life made Timotea hold herself at a distance from them. And the neighbors across the street were also very kind. But they were poor immigrants from Ecuador. They were mostly Quechua and spoke with such a thick accent in Spanish. What did she have in common with them? It was hard for her to bond with the motley assortment that made up their barrio. She didn’t want to think of herself as prejudiced against these people. Here in America they were all of one kind, together. And yet she found it so much easier to relate to them as patients, people who came to them for help, then she did as friends.

James Smith dropped his wife at home, she could start supper. Then he drove Sra. Gomez and Mario back to their home.

“Please come in and see Estefan.” She said politely to James. “He would like to visit with you, I am sure.” She stood at the door of her small home.

“I’d like that, thanks.” He followed Mario up the steps of the home, and through to the back, where Dr. Gomez was listening to a patient discuss his family.

“Hey.” James said it friendly, relaxed.

The patient shifted nervously in his chair.

Dr. Gomez stood up and shook hands with James. “Bienvenidos, amigo.” Estefan smiled broadly at James at motioned to a chair. It struck his fancy that this man should come to the patio and visit with the Doctor and his migrant farm patients.

“Thanks.” James sat down and stretched his legs out across the porch. It was a warm lazy day. He intended to sit and visit until supper time so that they would not feel bothered by accepting a ride into town.

Dr. Gomez turned to the patient and explained that this man was called James.

“Mucho gusto.” The patient said.

“Nice to meet ya.” James replied. “That’s a nice garden you have there, Dr. Gomez. What are you growing.”

“We grow vegetables, of course. We have to make our salsa, no? So we have tomatoes and cilantro and peppers. Would you like to try one of the peppers? I have a very nice habanero.” Then, Dr. Gomez repeated the question and the response for the benefit of his patient. Feeding peppers to a gringo sounded a good deal more entertaining than listening to the other man complain about his teenage children.

“A habanero, you say? I suppose I could try it.” James didn’t move to pick one. But his wife grew peppers as well, and he thought he could handle the heat.

The patient, not wanting to sit silently while the doctor harvested his peppers jumped up to pick some for everyone. He came back, laughing. It was such a funny idea to him, to have this gringo from town sitting on the back porch with his Doctor. And then he stopped laughing. He handed the peppers over to the Doctor and said adios to both of them. He walked away slowly, looking back over his shoulder once as he did. It was funny that his man was on the porch with the Doctor. And whatever Dr. Gomez was about to get caught doing, this patient wanted no part of.

“Okay, doctor, give a man a pepper.” He grinned at the prospect of impressing the doctor.

Ht doctor solemnly handed the pepper to James. “First you will want to split it open and take out the seeds. I am afraid otherwise you will not appreciate my hospitality.”

James watched Dr. Gomez split the pepper and peel the seeds out with his thumb. He copied this action and took the first bit. It was a very hot pepper.

Dr. Gomez took a bite. He watched to see how the gringo would take the fire. His eyes began to water, but he swallowed bravely and declared it a good, hot pepper.

“You have much machismo, James. Very good for you. And thank you for taking my familia to Mass this morning. It is very important. But you may know, I offer some service to the people here who speak Spanish and Sunday is one day they have free to come to me. I would not miss Mass otherwise, but I cannot leave when I could help here.” Dr. Gomez could not keep up a lighthearted banter. Too much in life was too serious for that. He enjoyed watching his man suffer a pepper. But to do more than that…that would be impossible for him now.

“My wife tells me you are a doctor. What kind of medicine did you practice?” James was more than happy to let off the chit chat and talk about something worthwhile. Or sit quietly if it suited Dr. Gomez. He had heard any number of stories about the new man over at Harvey Grady’s place and knew whatever Dr. Gomez had to say would be worthwhile.

“Si. I am a doctor. My familia ran the clinic in our village. I was the Doctor at the clinic for eight years. I am trained, however, as a surgeon.” He gazed across the landscape as he spoke. Past the yard with the impressive garden and off towards the hills.

“That’s no small achievement. Have you thought of practicing medicine here?”

“Si. When I first sought my Visa to come here I applied as a surgeon. It is sometimes the case that a man with high education, trained as a specialist, would be able to come more quickly, with more ease into this country. But my education was found wanting, as it had not taken place at a medical school in America. I was put on a list of doctors who could come and be retrained at a…residency…here in America. But the wait was long and so I put my family also on the list for a visa not attached to a particular job. This is the permission that came soonest and so we accepted it.” He was remarkably passionless as he told James the story of how he gave up his life’s vocation, the calling of his ancestors to become a farm worker.

“Harvey told me the other day about what you did for that cow. Is it strange to work on animals after saving peoples lives?”

Dr. Gomez laughed, wryly. Of course it was strange to use his highly trained fingers on a cow. “I don’t know that I can comment on that. I am not a veterinarian. What I have done for the cow…it cannot be spoken of.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. It was very funny to him that so much of his life here must not be spoken of.

“I suppose so, eh? I hadn’t thought of that though. Could you get into a lot of trouble if you worked on animals at the farm?” It was not likely that James had heard anything of what took place, medically, on that porch. But the question seemed pointed.

“I don’t know about trouble. I think that the manager of the farm, or the man in charge of the cattle even, would be allowed to do what I did. This estupido animal got her leg tangled in the barbed wire fence. Simple really, to take the fence out of the animal’s leg and treat the wound. Nothing a farmer should need to call the veterinarian in for. But I know how to do it better than most people. So that is good for the cow.” He did need to tell James that a farmer would have shot the cow, but they had saved her leg and so saved a perfectly fine milking cow for more years of service.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with farm work. That’s for sure. It’s hard, long hours. But you’ve got yourself a job at a great place. Real profitable. Real stable. It’s not running a whole clinic though, and that’s the truth.” James shook his head and was quiet for a while. James worked twenty miles away at a truck shop as a mechanic. His father had had to sell the family farm. The land was spent and it wasn’t very big anyway. James missed the farm dearly and wished he had it now to raise his son on. But his work was honest and it paid the bills. He tried, and failed, to imagine what it must have been to give up the work of a surgeon to move to a place like this.

This conversation was the beginning of integration for Dr. Gomez. The dinner that night the beginning of American life for Timotea. At the dinner Timotea relaxed and spoke freely. Talking fluently in English. Mary-Catherine relaxed. She loved their town. She grew up near to here. She enjoyed her friends in town. But there is something very special about a friend who is like you.

“Have you always lived in this town?” Timotea asked her new friend.

“No, I’m actually from a town south of here. But I like Clovis. It’s nice and small.”

“Si. It is very nice here. A very clean town. Was it hard to move here at first?”

“Not really. I knew so many people from Clovis. My school did a lot with the school here. So it was easy to get to know the people. It can be pretty hard to move to a small town though. It can take quite a while to make friends. I’m really glad you asked about finding a mass to attend.”

“As am I. When we were in Portland their were many Churches, so I assumed that here we would find a Catholic Church as well. I was much disappointed to see there was none we could walk to.”

“I think the church may have been why my parents lived in their town. My dad is a state trouper so we could have lived most anywhere, I suppose.”

“A state trooper? Is this like a police officer?”

“Yes. He just retired but he loved being an officer. He brought that exacting attitude of an cop home with him though. That wasn’t any fun when I was a kid.”

“This is the same when I was a girl. My father was a police officer. He was very strict at home. So was my mother. But they wanted me to go to college and I needed to work very hard to earn a scholarship.”

“I can’t believe your dad was a cop too. That’s such a coincidence. Do you think you parent like your father did? Are you strict with Mario?”

Estefan responded, “No. She is like an angel to he boy. It is a wonder he is not spoiled beyond all reason. I should beat him regularly to keep him in line, but I just can’t find the time.”

James looked up from the football game, surprised at Dr. Gomez’s interjection. But Dr, Gomez was laughing and tussling his son’s hair. He hadn’t expected the solemn man to make a joke. He laughed to himself and went back to the game.

Timotea and Mary-Catherine looked horrified at Estefan. They turned from him, leaving him to the incomprehensible game of American football. The two women spent the rest of the night talking about parenting. Comparing notes on raising boys. Timotea told Mary-Catherine about the joys of having a nanny and a cook. They both sighed for the good days past. Before the evening had ended Timotea was signed up to teach a catechism class to the Spanish speaking children. And Mary-Catherine was coming over on Wednesday to sew with Timotea, to learn a new form of embroidery.

James learned gradually what Estefan was doing, with his speakeasy of a dispensary. It was James who introduced Raul to the doctor. James was troubled by the lack of care the farm workers received. As a boy he had not understood profit margins. But he had understood that the people who came through and harvested his fathers crops did not stay in any one place long. That they handled chemicals--the same chemicals his father cautioned him to stay away from--without any real protection for themselves.

Now that he was grown and shared the concerns of profit and loss with his friends, he didn’t know where he stood as it regarded the conditions that people worked under. He fixed a small Mazda for a man called Raul one day. Raul had just come down from Canada. He told James that the high mileage on his car was from regular trips up and down the coast, all the way from Mazatlan to Vancouver. His style and manner seemed to indicate he wasn’t taking pleasure trips or visiting family. Raul was very happy with the quick fix on his ride and said glibly, “you ever need anything I can get you up north, just find Raul.”

Raul had shut the door and was about to drive away when James rapped a knuckle on his window. “You mean it?”

“Yeah. I mean it. You need something, I get it.” Raul had sunglasses on but his air was open, quite like a man who had the world to offer.

“Okay. I have a friend I need you to talk to.” James was a few steps away from the window, speaking in a normal level voice. He felt the need to appear as though there was nothing to hide in what he said. For all James chose to know, that was true.

That night Raul came to see Dr. Gomez, but did not tell him how he got the address.

Timotea’s life was changed more so than her husband's life had been. The doctor had seen the world, after a fashion, and so he considered his new life of isolation from the town to be a choice he made deliberately. After but two years on the farm he was given a job of prominence with pay enough to take the family into a nice home in the town. But as this would seriously impact his ability to serve his patients he chose to stay where he was.

His wife had not had the privilege of travel. Neither before their move to America nor before their marriage. Her English quickly improved in the states, but had been nothing more than school girl English before she moved. In this, though, she was better off than millions of people who emigrated both before and after the Gomez family.

When Mary-Catherine became a real friend to Timotea, Timotea found a bridge to the life in town. She lived on the outskirts of town, adjacent to the farm. This was enough to keep her from regularly falling in the way of other women of her status. Educated women. Mary-Catherine was educated, Catholic, and a young mother. Timotea’s loneliness fell away as they got to know each other. Mary-Catherine was not condescending, though she was as nervous as Timotea in the beginning. And although Mary-Catherine had a lovely house in town and two cars she accepted that Timotea was worth knowing.

When she had lived in Oregon for two years and her husband had received his promotion and raise she chose to work only part of the week. The Grady’s hated to let her go, but couldn’t force her to work full time. They really didn’t want to run their kitchen without her so accepted her part time proposal. Her husband found her working a bitterness in his heart but could not argue her reasoning. They had but two rooms in their home. The kitchen was just a wall of the living room and the bathroom barely bigger than a closet. She had no car of her own to drive around town in. What would she do with herself all day if she did not go to the farm and cook? He understood her. And he understood that she was not complaining about their small home, or telling him it was not as good as the Villa had been. She did not need to tell him that. Of course it was not as good. But he heard clearly the message that was behind the words. Their son was a growing boy in school all day. And she had no more babies at home. What does a home need a mother for, she seemed to be asking him, silently, with her eyes, if there are no babies in it?