Under the Same Sky (2 page)

I was cleaning out my locker at school the next day, working beside Randy. We were both on the junior varsity lacrosse team, so when I took my stick out of my locker, I dropped back and pretended to throw him a pass. We'd just played the last game of the season, beating our big rival, and were still feeling pretty good about it.

Randy, who was the team captain and a great attack man, made the motions of catching the ball and quick-sticking for a goal.

Loudly, I hummed the victory song the band struck up every time our team scored. Randy took a bow. “So,” he said, turning back to his locker, “did you show the catalog to your parents?”

I nodded.

“Did they order the bike, or what?”

I told him what had happened.

“Tough luck, dude,” he said. “I hate to rub it in, but I made out way better. I told Dad that Mom said motorbikes aren't safe, and he came through with the money right away. I'm getting the Thunderbird.”

Listening, I couldn't help thinking there were advantages to having divorced parents. It seemed to me that Randy's mother and father were in a contest to show who loved their son the most, and the way they tried to prove it was by buying him stuff. If one of them wouldn't get him something he wanted, the other surely would, just to show what a bad guy the first parent was. Randy was an expert at playing the game.

“You lucky bum,” I muttered.

“So, wait a second,” Randy continued. “You're saying you have to spend the summer on one of your father's chain gangs?”

I squirmed uncomfortably at the image. “They're not chain gangs,” I said. “They're work crews.”

“But aren't all those guys, like, greasers?”

“They're from Mexico,” I said cautiously, glad Mom wasn't there to hear him. She'd probably drag him into the boys' lav and wash his mouth out with soap.

“Like I said, greasers,” said Randy with a shrug. “Do they even speak English?”

“Some. They mostly talk Spanish to each other.”

“That's going to be weird,” Randy said. He laughed. “They could be saying all kinds of bad stuff about you, and you wouldn't even know it.”

Randy was always coming out with comments like that. Sometimes I wondered why I thought of him as my best friend. “Why would they do that?” I asked.

“You're the boss's son, right?”

“So?”

“So you'll get special treatment, right?”

“Not much chance of that,” I said darkly. I might be the boss's son, but I didn't think my father was going to cut me any slack because of it. And I sure wasn't going to be running to him for favors. I planned to avoid him as much as possible.

“Well, it's not like you're going to be one of the guys,” Randy said. The bell rang just as he added, “Not that you'd want to be.”

I wasn't sure what he meant, or even if I'd heard him right, but there was no time to ask. He was already headed to his next class, and I had to go, too.

Later on, at lunch, I heard someone yell across the cafeteria, “José! Excuse me, Señor José Pedersen, is that you?”

I looked up to see Randy and another kid on our team, Jason Steiner, grinning at me. “Señor José,
amigo
,” said Jason, “why you not working een the fields earning
muchos dineros?
”

Randy, it seemed, had been spreading the word about my new job.

“Very funny,” I said. “How many years have you been taking Spanish? You sound pathetic.”

“Yeah? How much Spanish do you know?”

“Not much,” I admitted. I'd had a little in third grade. When we had to sign up to take a language in middle school, I'd picked French, mostly because Mom had taken it and I figured she'd be able to help me.

“Well, you better learn quick, señor, so you can spic to your
amigos
. Get it?
Spic
to your
amigos?
” Randy looked quite proud of his little joke.

“Ha-ha,” I muttered.

“So, Joe,” Jason said, “Randy told me your dad is making you do, like, slave labor this summer.”

“Slaves don't get paid, pea-brain,” I pointed out. “I am.”

“Well, I hope you're getting paid a lot, man,” said Jason. “I've seen those guys working, and it is definitely not my idea of a good time.”

Mine, either. Suddenly I saw in my mind a group of dark-skinned, dark-haired, raggedly dressed people with hats or bandannas on their heads, moving slowly down long rows of plants, their backs bent, their bodies swaying with the movement of their hoes. It was something I'd seen on farms all around us for as long as I could remember, but for the first time I was really
seeing
it. I tried to imagine myself in the middle of that scene, and found that I couldn't.

I shook my head. “My old man says it's gonna be good for me. He's so—” I shook my head again, unable to come up with a suitable word to describe my father. “Lame,” I finally said.

Sometimes when I thought of my father, I pictured one of those guys in a robe or a toga from an old religious movie. Like Moses. Stern. Strict. Serious. Always right. Always telling everybody else what to do.

“I can't believe what a lousy summer I'm going to have,” I moaned. “He doesn't even get it. He thinks farming's so great, just because his ancestors did it. I hate to tell him, but there's no way I'm following in the old family footsteps. As soon as I earn enough for the Streaker, I'm outta there.” I added grimly, “And as soon as I can ride a real motorcycle away from Stanley, New York, believe me, I will.”

“Hey!” Randy said. “I just thought of something. Can your dad really make you do this? Aren't there laws against child labor?”

I laughed sarcastically. “Yeah, you have to be sixteen to work—everywhere except on a farm. Kids can do farm work when they're twelve if their parents say it's okay.”

“Well, then, look at it this way,” said Randy with an evil grin. “You got off easy for the past two years!”

“Thanks,” I said. “I feel much better now.”

When school let out for good that afternoon, I didn't get the rush of pure happiness that had always come to me with the beginning of summer. Usually, I treasured the countless days stretching out before me, filled with the promise of lazy hours spent by the lake or at the town pool or just fooling around with Randy and Jason. This year, summer vacation felt more like a prison sentence.

I turned down Randy's invitation to spend “my last day as a free man” at his house after school. I just didn't feel like it. I didn't feel like hearing Jason and him talk about all the fun things they were going to be doing now that school was out. And I sure didn't feel like hearing any more of that “Señor José Pedersen” stuff. Randy was a big-shot jock, and his popularity kind of rubbed off on me because I hung around with him. But he could really get on my nerves sometimes.

When I stepped through the kitchen doorway, Meg sang out happily, “Hi, Joe! No more homework, no more books!”

“Only Daddy's dirty looks,” added LuAnn, looking at me with a smirk. “Man, you really asked for it last night. What made you think Mom and Dad would get you such an expensive present? You should have shown it to me first. I could have told you to forget it.”

“I suppose you could have told me Mom would let him put me on the crew, too,” I said, reaching into the refrigerator for some milk. “That's what I couldn't believe.”

“It
was
kind of surprising,” LuAnn admitted. “Especially considering how upset she gets every time there's an accident around here.”

We all knew Mom's spiel about how dangerous farming was. According to her, it was right up there with bull-fighting and race car driving. She had a point, I guessed. We all knew about farmworkers who'd gotten mangled by machinery or kicked in the head by a cow, or who had worked with a dangerous pesticide and gotten sick.

Sometimes I wondered how a city kid like Mom had ended up being a farmer's wife. Although, come to think of it, she did have another spiel about how growing food to feed the world was the most noble, honest labor there was, blah blah blah.

“Plus,” LuAnn was saying, “Mom's been worried about trouble with the crew this summer.”

“What do you mean? Aren't they the same guys we had last summer?”

“Most of them. But what I meant was that she's worried about other people making trouble for them.”

“What kind of trouble?” Meg asked. “And why?”

LuAnn looked as if she wished she'd kept her mouth shut. I thought I knew what LuAnn was talking about, but I was curious to see how she'd explain it to Meg. We still tried to protect Meg from scary or unpleasant stuff, since she was only nine.

“Oh, you know,” LuAnn said quickly. “Some people don't like other people just because they look different or dress different. It's so silly.”

That was a pretty tactful way of putting it, I thought. There were folks who plain didn't like Mexicans and didn't think they belonged here and didn't think we should hire them. I'd heard people talk about it, but not lately. Maybe Mom had.

“Well, Luisa has a dress I like a
lot
,” Meg said eagerly.

LuAnn and I exchanged a glance of relief. Meg seemed to have picked up on the part about dressing differently.

“What's it like?” LuAnn asked.

“It's got flowers and birds all over it in the brightest colors you've ever seen. Her mom sewed them on. Luisa only wears it for very special occasions.”

I was about to ask who Luisa was, but Meg was looking at me and saying, “Anyway, Joe, I think you're lucky.”

“Oh, yeah, squirt? Why is that?”

“You get to work with her. And Manuel.”

I looked at her. “What's so great about that?”

“They're really nice,” said Meg.

“What, they're your big buddies or something?” I asked.

“I practice Spanish with them. Manuel's cute,” she added, with a sly look at LuAnn.

Sometimes it seemed as if Meg lived in her own little universe. I didn't know Manuel, but what normal nine-year-old kid wanted to hang around with an old Mexican guy—and thought he was cute?

“Does Mom know you're going out back?” LuAnn asked Meg.

“Out back” was what we called the area of the farm where the migrant workers lived when they were here. Past our house and past the barns, the driveway ended in a circle. Around the circle were four trailers.

Behind the trailers were several acres of woods. In front there was a big, open area with a couple picnic tables and a grill and a basketball hoop and stuff like that, and the old swing set that LuAnn and Meg and I had outgrown. Sometimes whole families came with little kids, sometimes not. I didn't know if there were any kids this year. I hadn't paid that much attention, what with the end of lacrosse season and exams and all.

“Does Mom know?” LuAnn asked again, when Meg hadn't answered.

Meg shrugged.

“She won't like it if she catches you,” LuAnn warned.

There was kind of a rule about leaving the workers alone. Mom said they deserved their privacy. I never even thought about going out back, but apparently Meg did.

Just then, Mom appeared with the laundry basket in her arms. She proceeded to take clothes out and fold them, making piles for each person in the family. “This is going to be your job this summer, Meggie,” she said. “And, LuAnn, I want you to take care of doing the wash. You two can share the job of hanging the wet clothes on the line and taking them down, okay?”

“Can't we use the dryer?” LuAnn asked.

“Only if the weather's bad,” said Mom. “Hanging clothes saves on electricity.”

I knew what she was going to say next, and she did.

“Plus the clothes smell so much better.”

I grinned at LuAnn. She stuck her tongue out at me and asked, “What's
Joe
going to do?”

Mom sighed. “You heard your father last night. Joe's going to work with the crew.” She looked at me. “It's not that I disagree with his decision, Joe. It's just that I'll worry. I suppose it's silly of me, but…” Her voice trailed off.

I felt a glimmer of hope. This was my chance to talk to Mom without Dad around, and it sounded as if I might be able to get her to change her mind—and make Dad change his. I decided it was worth a shot.

“Mom, don't you think this idea of Dad's is a little harsh? I mean, none of my friends have to do slave labor.” I didn't like it when Jason suggested I was going to be a slave, but I thought it might help make my point.

To my surprise, Mom looked annoyed rather than sympathetic. “We certainly don't treat our workers like slaves, Joe.”

Quickly, I said, “I know. That's not what I meant. But Randy's dad is buying him a motorbike, not making him work for it over summer vacation.”

A funny expression crossed Mom's face. “You know, I don't think it's going to hurt you a bit to spend time with someone like Manuel for a change, instead of Randy and Jason.”

I didn't even want to know what that meant.

Mom smiled and added, “Now get out of the kitchen, so I can bake your ‘surprise' chocolate-and-peanut-butter birthday cake.”

I left, thinking that I was tired of everybody deciding what was going to be good for me. And I was already mighty sick of hearing about how wonderful Manuel was.

If birthday dinners are supposed to be fun, happy events with lots of laughs, I guess you'd have to say mine didn't qualify as a big success. It started out okay, with LuAnn giving me a very cool motorbike-racing magazine. Meg had made me a card, with a drawing of me zooming down the road on a bike labeled “The Streaker.” It was surprisingly accurate, except that it was pink and purple, her favorite color combination. The inside of the card said, “I hope your birthday wish comes true soon. Love, Meg. P.S. Will you take me for a ride?”

The party went downhill after that. I'd been trying to figure out how long it was going to take me to earn the money for the bike, but all I knew was that I was going to make as much as any beginning worker. I asked what that was.

“Five-fifteen an hour,” Dad answered. “That's minimum wage.”

I'd heard of minimum wage. It meant I'd be getting the absolute lowest wage it was legal to pay somebody. From my own father. No, Randy, I wasn't going to get any special favors for being the boss's son.

I excused myself from the table to get a pad of paper and a pencil off the counter. I needed to figure out how long this was going to take.

“How many hours does the crew work each day?” I asked, sitting back down.

“Ten,” Dad replied. “Seven a.m. to six p.m.”

I thought for a minute. “Hold on. That's eleven.”

“You have an hour for lunch,” Dad said. “Unless the weather's been bad and we're really hustling to catch up.”

“And we don't get paid for lunch?”

Dad just looked at me.

Oh. Ten times $5.15 was $51.50 per day. “Do we work Saturdays?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Sundays, too, from time to time. When the strawberries are really coming in, for example.”

Mom spoke up then. “Joe's coming to church with us on Sundays,” she said firmly.

There was no arguing with that. But working Saturdays was fine with me. The way I figured it, the more hours per week I worked, the sooner I'd be able to quit.

I continued my figuring out loud. “Fifty-one dollars and fifty cents a day times six days means I'll make—wow!—three hundred nine dollars a week. Divide that into seven hundred seventy-nine…That's a little over two point five.” I looked up happily. “That means I'll earn the bike in, like, two and a half weeks! No sweat!”

Meg cheered.

Dad said, “Hold your horses now. There are a few things you haven't thought of.”

“What?” I asked warily.

“Where's that catalog you had last night?”

I reached into my back pocket and handed it to him.

He looked it over and said, “You've got to add seven-percent state sales tax. Go ahead and figure that.”

After a minute I said, “Fifty-four dollars and fifty-three cents. Man.” I shrugged. “Okay, so I'll work another day.”

“Plus shipping,” Dad said. “Ten percent.”

“No way!”

He pointed to the order form. “Says so right here. But go ahead and call that 800 number if you want.”

“Okay, that makes another seventy-eight bucks,” I said.

“You're going to need money for gas to put in that thing,” Dad said.

“Okay, another two days. So it'll take
three
weeks,” I replied grudgingly.

“You've got to wear a helmet,” Mom said.

LuAnn, who had been looking through the
X-treme Sportz
catalog, chimed in. “They run anywhere from thirty-nine dollars to a hundred sixty-nine.”

“I want you to get a good quality one, Joe,” said Mom.

“Okay,” I said quickly, before she could start imagining terrible accidents and change her mind about the whole thing. “I'm adding another sixty bucks for a helmet.”

“Now, the workers get free housing,” Dad went on. “Of course, you do, too. But they do their own laundry—”

“LuAnn and I do that, too!” Meg interrupted, looking pleased with herself.

“Since when?” Dad asked, although he was smiling when he said it.

“Since tomorrow,” Meg answered, smiling back.

“Good for you,” said Dad. “As I was saying, the workers pay for their own food and telephone—”

This time it was Mom who interrupted. “Jim! You're not suggesting we make Joe pay for his food!”

To no one in particular Dad said, “It's mighty hard to finish a sentence around here tonight.” When no one answered, he said, “No, Vivian, I'm not suggesting that Joe pay for his food. What I am trying to do is point out that, although he'll be working along with the crew, he will not have many of their obligations and responsibilities, and I hope he appreciates that.”

I continued adding everything up, and came to a grand total of $1,074.53. Okay, so it would actually take me closer to a month. That was doable.

Then Dad spoke up again. “Don't forget, Uncle Sam has to get his share.”

“Share of what?”

“Your wages.”

“You're kidding me!” I said. “People who make minimum wage have to pay taxes?
Kids
have to pay taxes?”

Dad nodded. “The days when farmers could pay family members or anybody else under the table are gone. Your mother keeps the accounts, and she goes strictly by the book, right, Vivian?”

“It's true, Joe.”

I couldn't believe this. I was almost afraid to ask. “How much?”

Mom thought for a moment. “It'll come to about thirty dollars a week. Maybe a little less.”

I groaned and started my math all over again.

Mom added brightly, “Of course, since you won't make all that much total income, you'll get your tax money back.”

“When?” I asked.

“After April 15th, next year,” she said, making a face. “Too late to help you with the motorbike, I guess.”

“Hey, Joe!” Meg said eagerly. “Don't forget your allowance!”

She looked so pleased that I couldn't help but smile at her. I
had
forgotten about my allowance, which I got for taking out the garbage and making my bed and stuff like that.

“Good thinking, Meggo,” I said, turning back to my figuring. “Okay…I'll make two hundred seventy-nine a week, plus ten bucks allowance makes two hundred eighty-nine. It's the end of June, so I'll have enough by the end of July, and I'll have the whole month of August and a week in September left. That's not too bad.”

LuAnn was still examining the catalog. “It says here it takes two to three weeks for shipping,” she said.

I glanced at Mom. She was looking at Dad. When I saw his face, I didn't even have to ask the question. He was shaking his head apologetically. “No, Joe. We can't order it ahead of time. I made a rule a long time ago never to spend money I hadn't earned yet. It's one of the reasons we're still making it when a lot of farmers have gone under.”

“Jim, it's his birthday,” Mom said softly.

Dad sighed. “I know that, Vivian, and I don't appreciate being made to look like the bad guy in front of my children.”

“No one said that.” Mom got up to take some dishes over to the sink.

“The point is,” Dad said with another sigh, “there are hard lessons that everybody's got to learn, having to do with money. And it seems to be Joe's time to learn 'em.” He turned to me. “Joe, you clear on everything, or have you got more questions?”

“What will I be doing tomorrow?”

“Setting cabbage.”

“I don't know how,” I said. I wasn't really worried, though. How hard could it be?

“Manuel's been doing it for years,” said Dad. “He'll show you everything you need to know.”

Manuel again. I should have known. Just then, Mom came back to the table holding a cake flaming with fourteen candles.

Happy Birthday to me.