Under the Feet of Jesus Read online

  She remembered how one teacher, Mrs. Horn, who had the face of a crumpled Kleenex and a nose like a hook—she did not imagine this—asked how come her mama never gave her a bath. Until then, it had never occurred to Estrella that she was dirty, that the wet towel wiped on her resistant face each morning, the vigorous brushing and tight braids her mother neatly weaved were not enough for Mrs. Horn. And for the first time, Estrella realized words could become as excruciating as rusted nails piercing the heels of her bare feet.

  The curves and tails of the tools made no sense and the shapes were as foreign and meaningless to her as chalky lines on the blackboard. But Perfecto Flores was a man who came with his tool chest and stayed, a man who had no record of his own birth except for the year 1917 which appeared to him in a dream. He had a history that was unspoken, memories that only surfaced in nightmares. No one remembered knowing him before his arrival, but everyone used his name to describe a job well done.

  He opened up the tool chest, as if bartering for her voice, lifted a chisel and hammer; aquí, pegarle aquí, to take the hinge pins out of the hinge joints when you want to remove a door, start with the lowest hinge, tap the pin here, from the top, tap upwards. When there’s too many layers of paint on the hinges, tap straight in with the screwdriver at the base, here, where the pins widen. If that doesn’t work, because your manitas aren’t strong yet, fasten the vise pliers, these, then twist the pliers with your hammer.

  Perfecto Flores taught her the names that went with the tools: a claw hammer, he said with authority, miming its function; screwdrivers, see, holding up various heads and pointing to them; crescent wrenches, looped pliers like scissors for cutting chicken or barbed wire; old wood saw, new hacksaw, a sledgehammer, pry bar, chisel, axe, names that gave meaning to the tools. Tools to build, bury, tear down, rearrange and repair, a box of reasons his hands took pride in. She lifted the pry bar in her hand, felt the coolness of iron and power of function, weighed the significance it awarded her, and soon she came to understand how essential it was to know these things. That was when she began to read.

  Perfecto called from inside the bungalow, wanted her to open his tool chest and bring him thinner nails, the ones in the baby-food jar. The thicker nails splintered the brittle wood in two.

  He kneeled and plugged a hole the size of a hand where the field mice came and went, and he placed the slivers of silver nails between his dry lips. His hair curved around his ears and fell straight back upon his neck in slick little waves and whenever he did not wear his hat, and the sun hit just so on his silver hair, it had a hint of tarnish. But he wore his hat mostly and his hat quivered as he hammered. The hammering was rhythmic, slow. It took three swings from the heavy ball of the hammer to secure each nail on the warped wood. He worked in a square of dusk from the window, and she saw his wide hand spread on the floor, a purple thumbnail. Perfecto leaned back, and pushed his bifocals up to inspect his repair.

  —I’m not your papa. But you’re getting me old with your ...

  —Where did you put the lantern?

  —Stay away from the barn, hear me?

  —You’re right. You’re not my papa.

  —That should do it.

  Although reluctant at first, Estrella helped him up from his knees by cupping her hand under his elbow. The room was now clean and safe to spread the blankets. They held a sky-blue sheet between them to divide the rooms. He held one corner, she another, and he nailed one corner, passed the hammer to her, and she did the other. He hammered a thick nail near the entrance and plucked off his hat and hung it. He then placed a bucket in the corner for the weak bladders of the twins who refused to go outdoors in the night.

  —It will be good to sleep lying down, he said, dragging his feet outside.

  —Where did you put the lantern? she asked again, following close behind.

  Perfecto Flores was not her papa. In the last labor camp, near the water spigot where the farmworkers got their drinking water, Estrella used her knuckles to rip Maxine Devridge’s mouth into a torn pocket to prove it.

  There were ten Devridges in all, not counting the ones in prison, and the other families pitched tents as far away from them as possible. Of all the people who migrated to the fields, Maxine was the only one Estrella knew by last name. Last names were plentiful and easily forgotten because they changed with the crops and the seasons and state lines. But everyone remembered a Devridge. The mother warned Estrella to keep her distance. A head shorter and two years younger than Maxine, Estrella tried to ignore her even as she worked close enough to hear Maxine blurt out Kingdom Come or Christ Almighty whenever the sun was too hot or the drinking water ran out. By mid-harvest, with only a quarter of the tomato field picked, one of the Devridge boys, the one as skinny as a weed, was handcuffed and guided by the elbow across the camp yard to a four-door Buick Wildcat parked near the water pipe. The weed boy had such high regard for himself, the man with a ten-gallon hat had to push his head to his chin to get him in the car.

  —Low life! Dumb frog, Maxine yelled and Estrella didn’t know if she meant her own brother, the man, or Big Mac the Foreman, who waved the gawkers away. Maxine sat on her porch under the crooked awning of the Devridge wooden shack and gathered her printed dress above her knees, vising it between her legs. She watched the Buick drive away. A lumpy mattress leaned to one side of the house. She fanned herself with a magazine.

  —Hey, you. Looky what I got, Maxine yelled, and she held the magazine up. Estrella cupped water and twisted the spigot off, and sucked the water from the palm of her hand. When she heard Maxine Devridge call, she brushed her wet fingers on her chest.

  —Yeah, you. You talk ’merican? Maxine asked and Estrella glanced around to make sure the mother was not watching. The waistline of her dress ripped wider every time Estrella poked her fingers to scratch a patch of mosquito bites and she kept her fingers scratching as she walked toward the porch steps.

  The blue stripes on the mattress had yellow teabag stains. The mother was disgusted at how the Devridges had no shame sun-drying the peed mattress in full view every morning. But if Maxine felt shameful of her brother’s thievery or the peed mattress or the way her dress was hiked up between her legs, she didn’t show it and she continued waving the magazine proudly.

  Estrella stared at Maxine’s red burnt cheeks. Her hair was so white on her face, her eyebrows were invisible. The glossy page of the magazine shone in the sun.

  —You deaf, girl? Looky here, ain’t this purty? and Maxine pointed to the picture of Millie the Model, her bold yellow hair in a flowing flip, her painted breasts perfect smiles on her chest. The model was crying, big tears melting from her ice blue eyes.

  —I ain’t got no cooties, stupid.

  —Don’t call me that.

  —What they call you then?

  -Star.

  —Christ Almighty. What kinda name ... like movie star? Maxine narrowed one inquiring eye and her hair, thin and stringy, laid flat on her round head. Orange peelings, cracked and chewed sunflower seeds were scattered around the porch steps. A dirty mason jar squatted on the railing with a trace of water in it.

  —Why’s she bawling?

  —I dunno.

  —Suit yourself. Maxine got up and the porch plank creaked. The dress she wore had a faded print of yellow corncobs with kernels falling and the corn kernels tumbled to her ankles. Standing on the step, she seemed taller and skinnier than her brother.

  —Okay, okay. Gimme it. And Estrella grabbed the gloss in her hands. The teachers in the schools had never let her take picture books outside of the classroom. The only book she had ever owned was a catechism chapbook that her godmother had given her. Estrella had read and reread the chapbook I Believe in God and The Holy Spirit came in the form of tongues of fire to show His love, and in a great wind to show the power of His grace.

  Maxine’s book was light and Estrella flipped the first page open. The pictures had bubbles with words. Words like the kind in the newspapers thrown in trash c
ans at filling stations, or oatmeal instructions, or billboard signs that Estrella read over and over: Clorox makes linens more than white.... It makes them sanitary, too! Swanson’s TV Dinners, closest to Mom’s Cooking. Coppertone—Fastest Tan Under the Sun with Maximum Sunburn Protection. She traced her finger under the sentence of the first box of the comic.

  —Read it out, Maxine said, turning to the fields beyond the water pipe and rows of labor shacks and beyond that to the tarps that fluttered like bats. She stood as straight as the ARGO woman on a box of corn starch. Then she looked down at her bare feet. She wriggled her yellow toes on the planks.

  —I got a whole lot of other ones if you read me them. Maxine owned what her brothers stole, and what she owned was a crate of comic books.

  —She likes him, Estrella explained and she pointed to a man with a camera around his neck.

  —Figured it had to be over some man. Maxine sat on the porch again and her dress billowed and scattered corn kernels upon her feet. She flapped the dress between her knees to make space for Estrella to sit.

  —Tell it to me, she asked, and Estrella did and that was how it began.

  Day after day, when the last row of tomatoes had been picked and the sun was low, Estrella walked down the road to meet Maxine, who waited with a scrolled-up comic book. She dragged her shoes across the softened soil, her back like boiled muscle, her water jug empty and smudged with her fingerprints. The fragrance of tomatoes lingered on her fingers, her hair, her pillow, into the next morning and throughout the day, until it became a thick smell that no longer simply lingered but stuck in her nose like paste.

  Estrella would wave to Maxine and Maxine would wave back, leaning on one of the oaks, the scrolled-up comic vised under her arm while she unfastened her wrist cuff fold to up a sleeve. Estrella would walk toward her, a pair of trousers under her dress and an oversized, unbuttoned, long-sleeved shirt which would fly open and bend around her body.

  They headed for the irrigation ditch and halted near the walk bridge. By then their throats were dry and sore and swallowing meant a painful raking. Estrella had heard through the grapevine about the water, and knew Big Mac the Foreman lied about the pesticides not spilling into the ditch; but the water seemed clear and cool and irresistible on such a hot day.

  —Wanna go for a dip? asked Maxine, unstrapping her laces, but Estrella shook her head NO.

  —You think ’cause of the water our babies are gonna come out with no mouth or something? Estrella asked, pushing up her sleeves. She lay on her stomach and dipped her bandanna into the water. The cool water ran over her fingers and over the gravel like velvet.

  —Looky you. Thinkin’ about babies ’ready, Maxine said, retying her shoe. All I know is that my ma’s been drinking this water for forty some-odd years, and if you askin’ me, she has too many mouths to feed. Maxine bent over the weeds and washed her face, moistened her lips, but this time neither of them took a drink.

  Estrella and Maxine lay side by side in the cattail reeds near the ditch to read Maxine’s favorite copy of Millie the Model. Maxine was in love with Clicker, the photographer, but wouldn’t admit it and Estrella teased her about the sissy white boy. Maxine told her to shut her trap and squeezed closer for a better look at the soiled comic book. They were about to find the redhaired Sheila trying to seduce Clicker when the air became thick with the smell of rotting flesh.

  —You break wind? asked Maxine, and Estrella laughed. Maxine stood and pointed. Looky, Looky, she said, along with a whole sentence of excited English words that didn’t sound English at all to Estrella, Looky there! She pointed to a drowned, bloated dog, which floated down the canal. The carcass rolled on its back, its belly swollen and damp dark, then rolled back to its side, its legs like spears dipping gently toward the bridge until it passed them. The girls pinched their noses.

  —Poor little dog, Estrella said. The stinking carcass stalled at a grate under the bridge. As soon as the carcass rested, a thick coat of horseflies appeared from nowhere. Estrella picked up a rock and pelted it. Maxine joined in her efforts to dislodge the carcass and make it go to the other side of the bridge. But the carcass did not move. The smell and flies too foul to withstand, they headed back to the camp. Maxine carried the scrolled-up comic book in her fist.

  It was Maxine who started it, who liked to make words out of the silence of the long field they crossed and she rattled on like a broken wheel on a shopping cart until they reached the water pipe in the center of the labor camp. There they saw Perfecto Flores driving off to pick up the mother.

  —Why your papa so old? Maxine asked.

  —He’s not my papa.

  —Then why you let your grandpa fuck your ma fo’?

  Estrella stopped. She halted Maxine with a jerk of her arm.

  —What?

  —Just weird, you know. My ma says it makes for one-legged babies not the wa ...

  —She isn’t fucking him.

  —And how’d you know that?

  —Cause he’s not my papa.

  —Jesus Henry Christ! Maxine replied incredulously. She began to laugh, her giggles bubbling like welling water when the irrigation pipe was twisted on. Sweet toast, don’t you know nothin’?

  —Shut your trap!

  —They ain’t dry-humping.

  Estrella pulled Maxine’s stringy sandy hair with such pure hatred it startled even her. For a moment she felt as if she could kill the white girl. She clawed and wrapped Maxine’s hair around her fingers, pulling clump after clump. Maxine yelled and swung the scrolled comic book wildly at Estrella. Finally, they locked so tightly, so concentrated were their efforts to hurt one another, they fell silent, each grasping the other’s hair with clawed fingers, their workshoes crushing and tearing the pages of the comic book under them. The boys ran from the tire swings, jumped the wooden fences, and circled the two girls wrestling each other to the ground. They hooted and catcalled. By the time Mrs. Devridge came running to whack a broom across Estrella’s back, her shirt was in shreds, and the welts of her nipples showed naked. The boys pointed and laughed.

  —You all go on home now ’fore I kill you myself, Mama Devridge said to Estrella, her wide chest heaving from the run. She had been eating a piece of bread, and swallowed the last of it.

  —Go on now, you all. The boys jumped back, feeling the wind of the swinging broom.

  Estrella stared at Maxine, waiting for her to say something like forget it, or let’s go look for the dead dog, or read me this one or even, what you do that fo’? But Maxine’s face was red and bloated, her upper lip thickening and she wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. Maxine turned and Mama Devridge shoved her forward to their shack.

  Estrella’s tears stung her scratchy cheeks. She watched Mama Devridge’s back hovering over Maxine. The boys circled her one last time, then left, bored at her stillness. Estrella stood. A young girl came and filled a bucket of water cautiously, then hurried away, half the water spilling against her leg. Estrella picked up the remains of the comic book and dusted it. The pages fell loose.

  When Perfecto returned with the mother, Estrella would have to tell her about the fight and the mother would sit outside the tarpaulin tent with aching varicose veins and wait for Big Mac to drive up and tell them to move on for their own good on account of he wasn’t responsible for harm or bodily affliction caused by the devil-sucking vengeful Devridges. Migrant families are tight, he would say, you ought to know. They look out for their own.

  Perfecto would listen, his face like wrinkled khaki as he removed his bifocals and wiped them with the tail of his workshirt. He would not ask Estrella what the fight was about. He would think she is nothing but trouble, this big-legged girl with claws. He would open his tool chest, and ask her to loosen the mushroom spikes from the ground with a ball hammer, drag the agave hemp ropes around her elbow and hitching thumb in neat oval circles to avoid tangles. The twins would look for their shoes lost in a pile of clothes. The mother would remove the hands of Jesucristo and w
rap them in socks and then wrap her statues in flour sack cloth and place them atop the dishes and pans in the zinc basin, after which, the mother would roll the doily scarf and place it in the glove compartment with the envelope of documents. Estrella would unscrew the corner pipes with two clamp wrenches. The boys would hide behind the trees, pick whatever was being harvested and return with pillowcases bulging. Then they would fill the plastic water bottles at the pipe. One of the twins would cry because a shoe was missing and nowhere to be found and did anybody see the dolly?

  Perfecto would lay the long pipes on the flattened tarp, neatly roll them, dragging the tarp against the sun baked earth, and erasing the ruts of their shoeprints and the tracks of their boxes and Estrella would not care how angry he became for not being able to collect on a few days of work. And as they always did, sooner this time than later, they would leave, the comic book laying where her tracks had once been, its pages fluttering under a rock.

  The wagon would pass the long rows of tomato plants where the two girls had plucked tomatoes, rubbing off the white coating of insect spray with their shirt sleeves, and bitten into the hard greenish flesh with relish, adding salt and sucking the warm juicy seeds. The wagon would pass the massive oak tree which they climbed to reread Millie the Model on a lazy Sunday when they were supposed to be in church; passed the ditch where they saw the drowned dog. No one except Estrella saw Maxine follow the trail of dust left behind from the car. The two friends stared at each other until there was enough highway between them to bury their faces.

  —¡’Mano, pronto! Gumecindo whispered, looking up at the soles of his cousin’s shoes. They would be fired if they were caught, and Gumecindo wanted nothing more than for the strange day to end. But Alejo risked climbing onto a thinner and weaker branch to see farther down the canal of cool water. The girl squatted by the edge of the irrigation ditch, and cupped water to clean the mud off a watermelon. He saw her when they were about to call it quits for the night. The watermelon slipped from her hand and gently bobbed to the middle of the ditch, softly tumbling downstream.