I sat down next to her. “Gram, everything will be fine.”
“Now let me talk. Lately . . . practical matters seem to be closing in on me.”
“Like what?”
“Skyla might be right about a judge not wanting to separate a natural mother and her child, even after all the bad she’s done. While I’ve been here, I have come to the conclusion that maybe I should be preparing you for that situation . . . just on the slim notion it might happen. I don’t know how I would ever get along without you, but I’m more concerned with how you would get on without Owen and me.”
“But it will not come to that,” I said firmly. “Let’s just plant that in our brains.”
Gram laughed. “I am pleased you have adopted my positive attitudes, but even if we do find your father, I’m just not sure what kind of cake this mess will turn out to be. What if he wants you and Owen for himself? What if he wants you children to stay here with him? Then what?”
“Then you’ll have to stay with us,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “And you’ll have to learn some more Spanish.”
After lunch, with Pedro, Bernardo, and Beni in the front seat and Owen, Rubén, and me crowded into the back, we rode in the truck to the center of Oaxaca City. Behind us in the truck bed, the coolers held the mysterious radishes. We unloaded the coolers and tubs of supplies on a corner, and Bernardo drove the truck back to Barrio Jalatlaco. He would walk the thirteen blocks back to the town square with the women.
We looked like a caravan of horses plowing through a field of tourists, our arms full of supplies: coolers, a metal washtub filled with radish leaves, bags with extra knives for last-minute tweaks, a big plastic bowl filled with moss, which we could use as a carpet for the scene. After finding our assigned table, the boys and I waited while the men checked in with the officials.
El zócalo was a square park bordered with large trees. Corralled in fancy black-iron fences, their wide branches created deep shade. In the middle of the park a fountain bubbled, and manicured hedges protected the flowerbeds dotted with blooms: yellow, red, orange, and white, like the rainbow of colors in the fruit vendor’s stall at el mercado.
Next to the street, long tables had been set up for the festivities, surrounding the entire park for a block in each direction. In front of the tables a raised wooden viewing platform ran alongside, with a metal railing to keep those Gram called “the lookie-loos” a reasonable distance back. Like a frame inside a frame inside a frame, the trees, tables, and viewing platforms boxed the entire park, with openings now and then through which people could pass. El zócalo blazed with colorful paper flags and giant balloon bouquets.
I looked at every man who passed on the street. Our father could be any of them. He could even be a man pretending to be our father and I wouldn’t know the difference. Would I?
Beni, Pedro, and I spread the moss on the table. Owen and Rubén took their posts with the water bottles, waiting to spray something, anything. It wasn’t long before Graciela, Flora, Fabiola, Gram, and Bernardo arrived.
I looked up at Bernardo. “I want to stay and help set up.”
“It is more important that you are with Fabiola and the others to ask about your father,” said Bernardo. “All of the carving is done. I promise we will make it look beautiful, and then you will be surprised like all the other turistas. There is much for you to see, as well.”
The judging wasn’t until five o’clock so we had time to start at the stall next to ours and walk slowly on the viewing platform around the entire park, along with hundreds of other people. The carvers added their final touches to their scenes and began to put out their secret best that they had held back until the last minute.
“I just can’t believe that every detail of every figure has been made from a radish or some part of it,” said Gram.
“It is true,” said Fabiola. “It is forbidden to use anything else. One year someone used a carrot to carve a figure, for color, and they were eliminated from the competition.”
I could hear the comments of the tourists as they stood near us.
“Remarkable.”
“Magnificent.”
“Unbelievable.”
And it was all those things. Dolls dressed in elaborate gowns, musicians with trumpets, Nativity scenes with Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus plus the sheep and camels and wise men. Bandits riding wild, rearing horses. Tall angels holding harps. Christ dying on a cross. School buses with children waving from the windows. A five-foot cathedral with the saints carved into the walls, just like the giant cathedral nearby. All made from giant radishes.
Fabiola or Graciela asked at each booth about our father. They found many who knew him well, but none who had seen him recently.
With every person who shook their head, Gram’s face nodded politely, as if to say, “That’s okay.” But her eyes were telling me a different story. As we slowly inched closer to our own booth, I took Gram’s hand and squeezed it.
She looked at me, downhearted. “We’re running out of time, Naomi.”
“Look!” said Graciela. “Everyone is crowding around our table.”
It was true. We were almost back to our starting point, but we could hardly nudge our way to the front.
One lady even turned around and said, “Wait your turn.”
I could see Bernardo, Pedro, and Beni’s heads through the crowd, nodding and smiling.
Finally several people near the table moved, and I slipped through to the railing.
I had seen the individual pieces, but I never could have imagined how it all connected. Radish upon radish upon radish had been bound together with thin roots to create the giant trunk and sprawling branches. Radish leaves burst from the top. Fish of every size and shape appeared to swim up the trunk. Panthers prowled across a limb. Crocodiles and lizards lounged on the lower branches. A tiny row of elephants walked tails in trunks above them. Deer and sheep and cows snuggled together in the saddles where the branches met. Beetles and butterflies attached to the leaves. Tiny birds poked through holes, their beaks open as if they were singing. And at the very top, my lion, the mane like a majestic sunburst.
The Complete and Unabridged Animal Kingdom with over 200 Photographs had come to roost in our tree.
“¡Ay, qué hermoso!” said Flora.
“Yes, beautiful,” said Fabiola.
“It looks as if Noah chose this tree instead of an ark,” said Gram.
Rubén and Owen gave an occasional dramatic squirt from their water bottles to keep the radishes moist.
“The judges, they are coming. Make room for them,” said Fabiola.
We moved off to one side as a group of men and women with clipboards studied the presentation and made important marks on their papers. Soon they moved to the next stall farther down, and the entire crowd shifted with them.
“Now what?” I asked.
“We relax,” said Beni. “We have fun at the festival. It is a big party, no? We give away some of the figures to people who admire them. And we wait for the announcements.”
The band concert lasted until well after dark, and then came the results of the judging. We all crowded together. A man at a microphone began announcing the different categories. The first was categoría tradicional, meaning Nativities, cathedrals, and religious carvings. The speaker called the names for third, second, and first place, followed by cheers and applause from the crowd.
We waited through four more announcements.
Fabiola translated. “Next is our division, categoría libre, Free Design, meaning carvings of any imagination. This year the carvings have been extraordinary and compelling. Starting with third place . . . and receiving a cash award . . . and a commemorative certificate . . . are the Pérez brothers.”
We clapped politely and knew exactly where the Pérez brothers were standing due to the rousing shouts on the other side of el zócalo.
“And in second place . . . and receiving a cash award and a commemorative certificate . . .” continued Fabio
la, but she didn’t need to continue because we heard the names.
“Bernardo Morales, Beni Morales, and Pedro Martínez!”
“Second place!” squealed Graciela. “We have never, ever been so honored!”
The men raised their arms in the air, jumped up and down, and clapped one another on the back, and we all cheered as loud as the Pérez brothers. Beni picked me up and swirled me around, and when Pedro and Bernardo hugged me, I laughed. We heard the results for first place, but it didn’t matter. Gram got a bee in her bonnet because she thought the winner didn’t hold a candle to our entry. Fabiola reassured her that there were always politics involved and that second place was magnifico.
Fireworks filled the sky with bright bursting spirals. After watching them, we all walked slowly toward the corner of el zócalo.
“Bernardo,” called a voice. We all turned around. “I heard your name. . . .”A man stood in front of us wearing white sports shoes and a red baseball cap.
Bernardo’s face lit up. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could, the man looked from Bernardo to Gram to Owen to me. He seemed startled. Suddenly he turned and ran into the crowd.
I looked at Gram.
“It was him, Naomi,” she said, her eyes still looking in the direction he had run.
Before I knew it, I was running after him, following the red cap as it bobbed through the crowds. I heard Owen calling my name behind me. I dodged a hive of tourists. I bumped into a man selling balloons. “Perdóneme,” I said, watching the red cap. Another man held out a plastic sandwich bag in front of me, filled with cucumbers salted with red pepper. I pushed his arm aside. I could see the red cap up ahead, going toward the square in front of the cathedral. I skirted blankets displaying hundreds of alebrijes, ran through rows of tents selling rugs and shawls, black pottery, painted plates, knives, and leather purses. I followed the red baseball cap all the way to the corner where a woman sat under an umbrella selling fried grasshoppers. Then the cap disappeared down a side street jammed with stalls. He never looked back, not once.
I stopped, breathing heavily. Why had he run? I had wanted to yell out to him, but what would I call him? Father? Santiago? I turned in a circle for one last look around. The band began to play a loud march in the gazebo in the middle of the park. The colors and sounds blurred as if the world was spinning. When it all stopped, I was alone with the fried grasshopper lady.
“Naomi Outlaw, you scared me to death running off like that,” said Gram when I worked my way back to her. “Don’t you ever do that again!”
“I . . . I didn’t want him to get away. Where did he go? Why didn’t he stay?” Every question that came to my mind seemed to put me into a deeper stew of confusion.
Graciela tried to calm me down. “He was surprised. That is all. I am sure he does not know why you are here. He could be frightened that you think bad of him for not coming back to get you when you were a little girl. We know now he is in town, and we can call your aunt Teresa in the morning.”
“What if he didn’t go to Aunt Teresa’s? What if he ran away for good?” I said.
“There is nothing to be done tonight. Tomorrow, okay?” said Graciela, reaching out for my hand.
As we passed in front of the cathedral, Rubén ran ahead and Owen followed. We caught up with them in front of a street vendor selling buñuelos, fried tortillas with a syrupy glaze, served in a shallow terra-cotta bowl. Bernardo bought one for each of us, and we sat on the curb, eating the crunchy sweet.
But I could hardly eat. I only finished half and asked Graciela where I should put the bowl.
“You must throw your bowl in the courtyard near the side of the church. Look. Over there.”
We turned to see a man and a woman facing away from the church and throwing their bowls back over their shoulders toward a courtyard The bowls shattered on the cobblestones and landed among thousands of pottery pieces.
“It is tradition so that good luck will follow you into the New Year,” said Fabiola. “You must do the same.”
“Well, we could use a little more luck,” said Gram. “And I know it will be right up Owen’s alley. Come on, everybody.”
I hesitated.
“Naomi, come on,” called Owen, his eyes pleading.
I got up and followed them to the spot on the street. We flung our bowls, like brides tossing bouquets, then turned to see them break in a shower of clattering shards. Owen rocked around in a crooked circle and Rubén jumped up and down, clapping and cheering.
“See, Naomi,” said Owen. “Now, we’ll be lucky.”
I was too worn out to argue.
We finally started home to Barrio Jalatlaco, except for the men who were headed off to celebrate their victory. Owen and Rubén pleaded to go with them, but Gram said it was no place for young boys. Before we separated, Bernardo handed me a small shopping bag. “The lion, Naomi. It’s for you. Spray it as soon as you get home.”
I smiled and took it from him, knowing he was trying to cheer me.
As we walked through the streets carrying the empty coolers, the sounds of the festival quieted behind us. The talk was about the contest. Graciela told us that the entire barrio would talk of nothing else for months.
As we turned down our street, we heard the distant barking of a frantic dog.
“That’s Lulu,” said Owen.
“Los vecinos,” said Flora, shaking her head and clicking her tongue.
“The poor neighbors,” said Fabiola. “I hope she did not bark all night. Sometimes she does not like to be left alone.”
We hurried down the block and into the yard, lit only by the moon. Flora struggled to unlock the door, to release the whining Lulu, but before she could get it open, suddenly the jacaranda tree rustled, startling us. We all turned toward it, but it was just a spray of blossoms sprinkling down. Something didn’t seem right, though, and a shiver raced up my spine. As the last jacaranda bloom drifted to the ground, I realized there wasn’t a whisper of wind.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
Gram put her hand on her heart. Fabiola instinctively pulled me close to her.
“Who’s there?!” demanded Graciela.
“It . . . it is me . . . Santiago.”
“Gracias a Diós,” said Flora, making the sign of the cross and hurrying into the house to turn on the porch light, which flooded the yard.
Gram and Fabiola reached Santiago first. Gram grabbed both of his hands and said, “Santiago, we’ve been looking for you!” He hung his head and said something that I couldn’t hear, and Gram shook her head and said, “No, no . . . don’t say that. We’re just happy we found you.” Then she hugged him.
I froze. I might as well have been back on the playground with a bunch of kids calling Owen names and me watching it all like a movie. Was this really happening?
Owen ran forward. Santiago put his hands on Owen’s arms. I could hear bits and pieces of Owen’s nonstop jabbering.
“. . . looking and looking for you. . . . It took a long, long time in Baby Beluga . . . to Mexico . . . and Barrio Jalatlaco . . .”
Santiago touched Owen’s head and stroked his hair.
What did that feel like?
Owen wouldn’t stop talking. “. . . and we came with Bernardo and Fabiola and Lulu. . . . Rubén is my best friend. . . . firecrackers and candy . . . Naomi ran after you. . . . thought you were lost. . . .”
When Owen said my name, Santiago looked up. His forehead wrinkled, and he ran a hand through his rumpled brown hair. He swallowed, and I saw the gulp ride down his throat. He reached an arm toward me.
Graciela took the bag from my hand and gently tried to push me forward.
I wanted to go to him but I felt as if I was knee-deep in wet cement. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but only tears came out.
Santiago scooped Owen up with one arm and walked to me. Then he knelt down on one knee, reached out, and pulled me into his arms. At first he rocked us back and forth like people do
when they’re just plain happy to see a friend, but then he became stil and pulled us even closer. I knew he was crying by the way his chest was sputtering up and down and by the sounds of his sniffling. I clung on tight to him and he squeezed back over and over, his arms strong and protective. When I pressed my face into his shirt, I smelled sea salt and . . . was I dreaming? A whiff of soap.
“Mis niños. Mis niños,” he said, burying his face in our hair.
When we stood up, there wasn’t a dry eye in heaven. Fabiola started talking in Spanish and introduced everyone. We all went inside and, even though it was late, we crowded around the kitchen table.
“We look for you,” said Rubén.
“I did not arrive until tonight,” explained Santiago, reaching over and ruffling Rubén’s hair. “My car was not working and I had to take a bus, but the drivers are on strike so I waited in the bus station for three days. I knew I would not arrive in time to carve in the festival. For that, I was very sad. I almost did not come, but something . . . something told me I must come.”
“It was all of our positive thinking,” I said quietly.
“Yes, maybe,” said Santiago, smiling. “I went straight to el zócalo to hear the announcements and when I heard Bernardo’s name, I could not believe it. I went to find him and then, when I saw María and Naomi and Owen . . . I wondered if it could be true. My children? But I wanted to think, to prepare . . . so I ran.”
“I chased you,” I said.
“I did not know. I took a taxi to the house of Teresa. She told me you came to see her and where you were staying. Then I could not stop thinking about you. I knew I had to come.” Santiago seemed shy, but maybe that was because we had all seen him crying earlier, or maybe he was just quiet, like me.
I related the whole story of what happened and how we got here, with a little help from Graciela because Santiago’s English wasn’t what it used to be. I sat beside him and as he listened and nodded with a sad, tired face, he reached down and stroked my hair.
“Tell us what you have been doing,” said Fabiola.