It’s chilly. She quickens her steps. In a break in the trees, she sees a few stars still shining. Have you ever noticed how the stars are brightest on the coldest nights?
You always say that, Sam would say, chuckling.
Remind me again, where is Burkina Faso?
That made him chuckle, too. It became their code phrase. A way of reminding each other to stay humble, as there would always be things they didn’t know.
The walk is invigorating. Maybe she’ll do this every morning. Instead of yoga. Take a walk. “Weather permitting,” Vermonters’ version of si Dios quiere. She’ll be one of those invisible people in the book she will never write. Not that she is doing anything useful to keep the world going. Except to keep herself going. The best thing she can do for the people she loves is to take care of herself. But what if that person she loves the most no longer needs her stoicism?
Her mind flashes back to the troubling talk with Tilly about Izzy—was it only yesterday? She wonders about Mona’s diagnosis that their sister is seriously ill. But then Mona is always diagnosing everyone—a professional handicap for a therapist, much like quoting is for Antonia, the teacher. Izzy is just being Izzy. Sure she’s made some poor choices, but then haven’t they all?
She’s used up all her savings, Tilly reported hearing through the grapevine. No, Tilly can’t say who told her. (Easy to do the math on that one: not Antonia, couldn’t be Izzy telling on herself, ergo Mona.)
Savings? Antonia challenged. Izzy has savings? That’s a total oxymoron.
Tilly’s feathers were ruffled. Who are you calling a moron?
She’s always saying she’s broke.
Well she gave a pile of money to that guy in Cuba—
Wait! She was in Cuba?
See what I mean? Tilly says triumphantly.
She’s having a good time anyhow, Antonia defended their sister. But was Izzy really enjoying herself? And what was going to happen when Izzy reached old age having burned every bridge to safety and solvency? Antonia knows what Izzy would say. How do you think most of the world’s viejitos live—if they even get to be old?
She recalls Mario talking about his frail mother, pobrecita, getting so old. She can’t walk anywhere anymore. How old is your mother? Antonia had asked. Cincuenta y cuatro. Fifty-four! Do you know how old I am, Mario? The young man didn’t dare a guess. No puede ser, doñita, he exclaimed when she told him. Sesenta y cinco! Of course, one has to factor in other variables. Just as a year in the life of a dog is equivalent to seven human ones—so she has heard from Mona, the dog lover—poverty years have to be more aging than affluent ones.
How does the imagination of the poor age? Perhaps from much practice over the course of a lifetime—always having to imagine a better life—it stays vigorous. At a recent reading at the college, a guest lecturer spoke about the origins of Black English. This rich folk language is what occurred when African people with an intensely musical and oral culture came up against the King James Bible and the sweet-talking American South, under conditions that denied them all outlets for their visions and gifts except the transformation of the English language into song.
So are songs and stories what we come to when we are divested of all other protections and privileges? These fragments I have shored against my ruins? The Waste Land was always a favorite with her students, many of whom had known only plentitude. And what about those who cannot bear up under deprivations, who are traumatized and silenced by hard times? If she ever gets back to writing, Antonia wants the stories she tells—like the writers she depends on—to come from that deeper, hurting place. Perhaps grief will be good for her work?
If so, thanks, but no thanks. Once again she is talking to Sam as if he has offered her this consolation for his absence.
When no one answers her knock at the trailer, Antonia heads for the barn, where she finds Mario shoveling fresh sawdust from a wheelbarrow into each stall. In the milking parlor, José is manning the machines, softly cursing at the cows.
Antonia remembers overhearing some farmers who had brought in their workers at the Open Door Clinic. She’d been called in to translate that night. Both the hospital and the clinic were seeing an increase in Spanish-speaking cases, but unlike the hospital, the clinic couldn’t afford off-site interpreting services. The farmers were talking among themselves about how they preferred women milkers to men. Antonia had dismissed them as sexist comments, until she realized their point was that the women were gentler with the animals. The cows actually give more milk. The little calves thrive.
Psst! Mario! She calls to him, startling him. Is el patrón around? He shakes his head.
Your novia called again. The coyotes are threatening her. Who are these people you hired? she asks, as if Mario should have checked references first, done his due diligence.
Ay, doñita, ay. The young man clutches his head. What is he to do? The coyotes are insisting on the drop-off fee to Burlington even if they put la novia on a bus in Denver. He has sent those chingados all the savings he had, borrowed the rest. The paisanos all pitched in. That’s how they work it. First, I bring my novia or wife or sister or little brother with your help. Then I help you bring yours. Slowly and all together, we rebuild our lives here. A nest, a home, not just a trailer on shifting sand.
I tried to call back but no answer. Come over and we’ll try again when you’re done with the milking. Otherwise, el patrón . . . No need to complete the sentence. They both know what she means.
Sí, sí, sí, doñita. Mario’s face is lined with worry. She has a sudden glimpse of what he will look like when he is an old man of fifty-four.
Back at her house, she lies down, hoping to go back to sleep until Mario arrives. But she is too worked up. She’s going to have to call Vivian and Franklin and cancel. No way she can attend a dinner party tonight on no sleep in her state of mind.
If her sisters are indeed taking turns, Mona will be calling today. She’ll have the latest on Izzy. Or who knows, maybe wild-card Izzy will phone in herself, wanting to know about Antonia’s plans for her birthday this weekend. They will have heard through the sister grapevine that Antonia turned down Tilly’s invitation to come celebrate it in Chicago. But Antonia is suddenly reconsidering. By leaving town, she will be released from this mess that has come to her door, dragons crawling ashore.
Since she can’t sleep, she might as well do her morning meditation lying down in bed. The Buddha would not approve. But wait, the Buddha wouldn’t care. The start-up gong on her phone meditation app sounds; in twenty minutes it will sound again, startling her in her woolgathering, her brain turning over and over the last twenty-four hours: Izzy and how to help her, the gutters filled with leaves and twigs, Mario calling Estela from her phone . . . her mind suddenly snags on that detail. Why does Mario need to come here to call Estela? Doesn’t he have his own phone? Every undocumented worker she has met has a cell phone. Their one connection to home. Why does Mario need to involve her?
As if in answer to her question, the landline rings. It’s not yet seven. Too early for one of her sisters. It’s Roger. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself or offer any of the niceties of good morning, how are you, hope I didn’t wake you. He launches right in: Does Antonia need Mario’s help today? She mentioned some window washing? If so, Roger can drop off the ladder on his way to town, pick it up later as he won’t be needing it today. No niceties, but who cares? It’s awful nice of you, Antonia thanks him.