Under the Same Sky (8 page)

That day, I'd hoped to ask my parents about some of the things Luisa and I had talked about, so I could figure out what I'd said that had made her turn away from me. But Mom brought up the subject of her family's big reunion again. It was less than two weeks away.

Mom's maiden name was Olmstead. She'd lived in Pennsylvania her whole life until she came to college in central New York. One night she had skated into my dad at the ice rink in town and, the way Mom told it, it was love at first sight. She and Dad got married, then we kids came along, and soon she didn't have much free time for visits back home to Pennsylvania.

The Olmsteads had a family reunion every July in Bucks County, where Mom was from. Olmsteads came from all over the country with their families and had a big old party that lasted for three days and was just about more fun than a person could stand. At least, that was how Mom remembered it, and how she described it to us.

Mom hadn't gone in seventeen years, and the rest of us had never gone. The middle of July was one of the busiest times of the year for a farmer, and Dad had always said there was no way he could up and leave to go to a party.

So we'd heard stories about the reunion from Mom, who got sort of a misty, longing look whenever she spoke about it. Being a good farm wife, she said she understood that the farm comes first. But this year marked the fiftieth Olmstead reunion, and Mom was putting her foot down.

“It's important for the children to know their own family. Why, some of my relatives have never even laid eyes on you all.” She placed slices of meat loaf on plates and handed them around. “I figure we can leave as late as Thursday afternoon, stay Friday and Saturday, and head home Sunday.”

To Dad she said matter-of-factly, “You've got the contracts all lined up for the rest of the strawberries. Manuel knows when and where to deliver them. The berries will be winding down by a week from Thursday, and there's absolutely nothing he and the crew can't handle for three days.”

I could tell Mom was really serious about this, and Meg and LuAnn were looking eagerly at Dad. Dad chewed for a while before answering. “I know how much this means to you, Vivian,” he said, “and I know you kids want to go. And you're right, the rest of the strawberry harvest should go pretty smoothly.” He paused, looking troubled. “But I'm concerned about leaving after what happened here and at Tom's place the other night.”

“Do you think there's going to be more trouble?” Mom asked with a frown.

Dad shrugged. “No telling.”

“It's so stupid,” LuAnn said indignantly. “Why should people care if Mr. Matthews wants to build his workers a nice place to live?”

“They think treating them well will only bring more Mexicans to this area, and they don't want that,” Mom explained with a sigh. “They don't actually know any of the Mexicans, mind you, but they have all sorts of wrong ideas about them.” She shook her head. “It's so ridiculous, it makes me tired.”

“I'd thought maybe things had settled down for good, until we had that disturbance the other night,” Dad said.

I remembered what Mom had told me about the shooting in Williamson several years ago, and couldn't help thinking: what if the men who drove through the farm had had guns instead of fireworks and stink bombs?

No, I told myself. That was the old days. Stuff like that didn't happen anymore.

“Well, maybe this will all blow over,” Dad replied. “I hope so. Meantime, I can't help feeling uncomfortable at the idea of leaving.”

There was a silence while we all thought about this. I could see Mom fighting disappointment, and I could almost feel LuAnn and Meg hoping somebody would come up with a solution that would allow them to go, after all. And suddenly I had one.

“I could stay home,” I said.

“Oh, Joe, no,” Mom said immediately.

But I forged ahead as a plan grew in my mind, sounding better all the time. “I'd really like to keep the paychecks coming in so I can get the Streaker before the end of summer. And if I stay, I can keep an eye on things here. If anything weird happens, I could call the police. Or Uncle Arnie or Uncle Bud.”

“Leave you home alone, Joe? I really don't think so,” Mom said. But there was a note of doubt in her voice, and I could tell she was actually considering what I'd said. Dad appeared to be thinking about it, too. No one, at least, was voicing another outright no.

“It's not like I'd be totally by myself,” I said. “Think about it. I mean, Uncle Bud and Uncle Arnie would come in a second if I needed help or advice or anything. This way, at least Meg and LuAnn could meet your relatives, Mom. And you could take photos of me to show everybody what a handsome son you have,” I added with a grin.

LuAnn hooted and Mom smiled. “I'd like them to see you in person, sweetie,” she said.

“This way's better, Mom, believe me,” said LuAnn. “You can show them some normal kid's picture and say it's Joe.”

I waved away her remark, not wanting to get sidetracked by a fight with LuAnn.

“I don't know…” Mom murmured.

“
Please
, Mom?” Meg begged. “
Please
, Dad?”

“It's only for three days,” I said. “Nothing's going to happen.” To Dad I said, “Anyway, we've got all this coming week and most of next to see if there's going to be any trouble. Maybe things really have settled down.”

Mom was beginning to cave, I could tell. Dad gave me a long, searching look.

“Well, Joe,” he said finally, “you seem eager to do this.”

“Yes, sir. I am.” I don't know where the “sir” came from, but it seemed appropriate for the situation.

“Do you really think you're up to it?” he asked, sounding doubtful.

“Yes, sir,” I said emphatically. I relished the prospect of being not Little Boss but The Boss, at least for a couple days.

Dad and Mom exchanged one of those looks that meant they were going to talk it over without us kids around. They gave us the answer that's not really an answer: “We'll see.”

Sometimes that's the best you can do.

The next morning I woke up to a chilly, drizzling rain. Strawberries don't wait for good weather, so I dragged myself down to breakfast. This time I heeded Mom's advice when she told me to take my rain slicker and rain pants and to dress warmly underneath.

“You can always peel down if you get hot,” she said, “but there's nothing worse than being damp and cold all day long.”

As we rode out to the field in the truck, I checked out what the rest of the crew were wearing. They had on layers of flannel shirts underneath their jackets, but nobody else had lightweight, waterproof gear like mine. Jorge and Carlos wore hooded sweatshirts, Frank wore his Yankees cap and jacket, and the other guys had on caps from farm machinery and feed stores. They had bandannas hanging down from under the caps to keep the rain off their necks. As we drove, Luisa took a plastic garbage bag out of her pocket, poked a hole for her head and two for her arms, and slipped it over her head.

“
Mejor
,” I said, pretty sure it meant “better.” I smiled, and watched her face closely to see if she was still upset with me.

She flung out her arms in a mock fashion-model pose. “The newest style,” she said. “All the girls in Mexico wish for one of these.”

I was relieved. She didn't seem mad. I wanted to offer to take the bag and let her wear my slicker, but I wasn't sure how to do it. Would she feel insulted? Would the guys tease me? Would Manuel scowl at me with disapproval? I chickened out, and just kept smiling at her.

It was pretty much of a drag, picking in the rain. For once, I was really glad to see LuAnn with the urn of hot coffee. It felt good to hold on to the cup and let the warmth seep into my cold, numb fingers. I actually drank two cups of the stuff to warm up my insides, as well.

After lunch, I came back out to the truck with two old, extra rain parkas we had hanging around the house. Luisa gratefully took one. Rafael fit into the other one.

Somewhere around four o'clock that afternoon I saw Manuel straighten up, shade his eyes with his hands, and gaze toward the county road that bordered our land about a half mile away. Something about his rigid posture made me look, too.

Peering through the misty rain, I saw two white vans with green stripes and some kind of official-looking insignia pulled up to the side of the road. I watched as four guys in uniforms got out of the vans, looked toward us, talked for a minute, and began heading our way across the field.

Silence fell as, one by one, each crew member stopped work to look and then froze. Someone asked a question in Spanish, and I heard panic in his voice. I could feel fear in the air. It was contagious.

“Who are those guys?” I asked. My voice sounded high and squeaky. I wanted to run, but didn't know why. There was nowhere to run to, anyway. The men were drawing closer. To my amazement, I saw that they had guns in holsters around their waists.

“Who
are
they?” I repeated urgently, when no one answered.

“
Migra…
” someone whispered.

Migra
. I had heard that word before. I'd asked Luisa what it meant, but she hadn't answered.

“What's that?” I asked.

“I.N.S.,” Manuel said at last. “Immigration and Naturalization Service.”

Gilberto added in a hushed voice, “Border patrol.”

Border patrol? What border? We were smack in the middle of New York State, for crying out loud.

“What do they want?”

“
Ellos
,” Gilberto replied. “Them.” I looked in the direction in which he'd pointed. From the expression on the faces of Luisa, Frank, and Rafael, I knew who “them” was.

“Manuel,” I said urgently, “what should we do?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just wait.”

“Ginny heard that they were around,” Luisa said despairingly. “But I prayed they would not come here.”

Hearing the anguish in Luisa's voice, I had the bizarre thought that I had been set down in the middle of an old TV western, with the bad guys closing in on me and my unarmed companions.

But the border patrol weren't the bad guys, they were the law! And the law meant the good guys, right? I couldn't think straight, I felt so confused and scared. The tension seemed unbearable as we waited in silence for the men to get close enough to speak.

“Hello,” one called out as they approached. He seemed to be the leader. His voice was calm and neutral sounding, but I noticed that the other three had their hands right on the grips of their pistols.

“I.N.S. officers,” the man said. “Here to check your papers. Speak English, anybody?” Then his eyes landed on me. “Who are you?”

“Joe Pedersen,” I managed to say. “My dad owns the farm. I'll go get him.”

“No need, son,” the man said. “This here's federal business. It's got nothing to do with you or your father.”

What the heck did he mean, nothing to do with us? “But this is our farm,” I protested.

“It's U.S. soil, and these people need papers to be here. So if you'll just step aside…”

Would Dad stand there and let these guys bully the crew? I didn't think so. “They've got papers,” I said. Then I blurted, “Have you got a warrant?” It was what people always said on TV.

The man looked at me impatiently. “I don't need one. Now, listen, we've got a job to do, and we don't need you interfering.” His hand was inching toward his holster.

I glanced at Manuel, who hardened his eyes and moved his head ever so slightly, as if to say, “Back off!”

I stepped aside.

To the crew the man said, “We need to see your papers.” He spoke really loud, exaggerating every syllable, as if that would help them understand.

They're Mexican, not deaf or stupid
, I thought sourly. It was obvious to me that the crew knew exactly what was happening. But the next thing he said seemed to take them by surprise. It sure surprised me.

“Listen up,” the man said. “If your papers are good, get them out. If you've got fakes, don't even show them to me. I don't want to see them. And I don't want to see you again, either,
comprende?
I'm not going to arrest you today. But we'll be back. And anybody who's not legal had better be gone. You got a minute to think about it.”

Luisa, Frank, and Rafael turned to Manuel, all speaking at once, concern and confusion creasing their faces.

Manuel looked just as bewildered as everybody else. There was a hurried, frantic discussion in Spanish. Then Manuel, Antonio, Carlos, Gilberto, David, and Jorge all stepped forward and lined up, reaching into their pockets. They removed papers from wallets or from plastic baggies, which they unwrapped and presented, one by one, to the officer. He stared intently at them for a long time, as if he had X-ray vision for spotting phonies, before handing them back.

The others—Luisa, Rafael, and Frank—stayed where they were, shuffling their feet and looking at the ground with frightened expressions on their faces. I was frightened, too. What was going to happen next? Had the I.N.S. officer told the truth? Or was this some kind of trick? Would he draw the gun now and arrest Luisa and the two men who hadn't shown papers?

I felt as if I should be
doing
something. But what? Could I stop the officers if they tried to arrest the crew? It didn't seem so. “This is federal business,” the guy had said. I didn't know anything—except that I was in the middle of something way over my head.

After the officer had examined the six sets of papers, he handed them back, then spoke to the three people who hadn't moved. “We'll be coming around again. And, like I said, we better not find you here. You were lucky today. You won't be lucky again. Take my advice and go home.”

With that, he turned and nodded to the three guys who'd come with him, and they all began walking back toward the road.

We watched the men's figures grow smaller and smaller. No one spoke until after they had climbed into the vans and disappeared.

Luisa broke the silence. “What do we do now?” Her voice was filled with despair, and I could see the trails of tears on her cheeks.

For once, Manuel didn't seem to know the answer. It was clear, though, that everyone was too freaked out to go back to work. “We go tell Señor Jim,” Manuel said finally. Then softly he added, “But even the boss can't fix this.”

We rode back to the barn in silence. When we got there, Dad and Uncle Bud were working on the engine of the big tractor. Dad looked up with concern as we climbed glumly out of the truck. He stood and came to meet us, Uncle Bud following right behind him.

“What's the matter?”

Manuel and I both started talking at once. Then we both stopped, each gesturing for the other to go on. Finally Luisa said, “The I.N.S., Señor Jim. They had guns!” before bursting into tears.

Manuel stepped over to place his arms around her heaving shoulders, so I began to explain. “They came right out in the field, Dad. I was going to come get you, but they said it wasn't any of our business! Then they said if people had legal papers, to take them out, so Manuel, Antonio, Carlos, Gilberto, David, and Jorge did. They said they didn't even want to see papers if they weren't legal, so—”

I faltered, not sure how much to say. I didn't want to get anyone in trouble. How much of all this stuff did Dad know about?

He was nodding, looking grim. I thought,
Uh oh. I wouldn't want to be in Luisa's shoes, or Rafael's or Frank's. Facing Señor Straight-as-an-Arrow Pedersen with illegal work papers
.

To my surprise Dad said, “They let you off with just a warning? That was lucky. They could have arrested you.”

“They say they will come back,” said Manuel. “And if they see these three, they will arrest them then.”

Dad thought for a moment. “Manuel, I'm going to try to explain something. If I don't make myself clear, help me out.” To Luisa, Frank, and Rafael, he said, “As far as I'm concerned, you always have work here. But I can't protect you from the border patrol. If they come back, you could be arrested, and there's nothing I can do to help you. I'd hate to see that happen. If you want to stay and hope they don't return, that's up to you. If you want to leave—go back home or go somewhere else—I understand. We'd hate to lose you, but we'll manage somehow.”

I listened in amazement.

Uncle Bud spoke up then. “I heard that the other day a crew on the Davis farm saw a patrol van coming and hid in some heavy brush until they went away. Could be the feds are just trying to show their presence, make a statement, scare people into leaving, without having to make a lot of arrests.” Then he shrugged. “But who knows? Some workers in Brockport got arrested the other day and taken to Buffalo.”

Manuel translated this to the group, who listened gravely, still looking very scared.

Meanwhile, I was trying to take in the spectacle of my father and uncle talking openly about hiring illegal workers, or harboring criminals, or aiding fugitives, or
whatever
this was called. I was trying to comprehend that Luisa could have been arrested right in front of my eyes. I felt as if I had stepped into a world where everything was backward.