Read Online 72 Hours till Doomsday by Melani Schweder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melani Schweder
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hard down upon their backs, their fingers gnarled from the picking; days when his back groaned, each muscle shouting at him, begging for rest, to lay on something soft and cool. When he could feel the ache deep in his bones, and hear the sighs of his children echo from the row over. Yes. Our Lady was there, listening to their prayers. Our Lady was always there.
A woman’s voice rose, low and mournful, above the dirt. Her song floated through the field, too early to be beaten down by the day, her hope too fresh to be dried up under the California sun. There were only twenty of them in the field that morning—many of their fellow migrants had fled, seeking more stable work. The agitated chatter of the foremen must have scared them off, their worried faces, with their tightly joined and hushed conversations.
Matias knew there was something brewing, but he couldn’t afford to move his family again. His wife was sick, couldn’t pick the berries anymore. His two children had left school to help with their income, but it was just barely enough. They’d sold their extra truck to another man, planted their own modest garden, and bartered with their neighbors for corn and flour, but despite all of this, they were happy.
He knew that when his boots scuffed across those planks of wood and crossed into their tiny stucco house, there would be warm tortillas waiting for him in soft and fragrant stacks. Teresa said even though she was ill, the least she could do was cook for her hard-working family. Sometimes there were even clean jeans on the clothesline, the grass and strawberry stains only somewhat visible from the road.
Their daughters, Maria Elena and Gabriela, would always sing after supper, washing their chipped plates and sweeping the dirt from the living area. Then, as the light was washed from the sky, they would kneel on the plywood floor in front of their altar, light a candle, and offer their prayers and thanks. Our Lady would always smile down upon them, her hand held out in benevolent love.
That afternoon, just after finishing a Coke in the shade of the distribution truck, the air was punctured by the sounds of rapid gunfire. A girl screamed. The ones in the field dropped onto their bellies, the ones on the roads crouched and turned their heads, seeking loved ones. Violence wasn’t uncommon around those parts, but it was unusual in the middle of a working day way out in the farms. The two white foremen looked more worried than usual, hopping side by side into a big Ford truck, barreling down the gravel roads towards a neighboring farm. As they disappeared, Matias waved for his girls.
“Esta bien. It’s okay. Shh shh.” He held them tightly, like he’d done when they were young.
“Papa, that was close by here,” Gabriela said.
“Si. But we are safe. Let’s get back to work.”
“But the foremen are gone. Nobody’s here to see if we don’t.” She fingered a hole in her t-shirt.
“Maria Elena! What kind of woman are you becoming? Lazy? Eh?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but then thought the better of it. She always had a lecture waiting from her mother if she ever talked back. She couldn’t face another one of those right now.
“Right. We work!”
They allowed their father to lead them back among the strawberries, adding a fresh layer of stain to their fingers as the day progressed. The heat was oppressive, fueled by the unforgiving breeze, and they all took turns rewetting the bandanas on their necks, desperate for relief. So as the sun began settling down, a chorus of sighs filled the air. Lungs were filled. Backs were stretched. Matias caught glimpse of three men running towards them, could see the sweat shining on their brown faces, and watched as they stopped at the edge of the field, gesticulating wildly to the man working near there. Mere seconds later, the field was ablaze with voices, some shouting, some crying, some praying.
“They’ve been shot! They’ve been
A woman’s voice rose, low and mournful, above the dirt. Her song floated through the field, too early to be beaten down by the day, her hope too fresh to be dried up under the California sun. There were only twenty of them in the field that morning—many of their fellow migrants had fled, seeking more stable work. The agitated chatter of the foremen must have scared them off, their worried faces, with their tightly joined and hushed conversations.
Matias knew there was something brewing, but he couldn’t afford to move his family again. His wife was sick, couldn’t pick the berries anymore. His two children had left school to help with their income, but it was just barely enough. They’d sold their extra truck to another man, planted their own modest garden, and bartered with their neighbors for corn and flour, but despite all of this, they were happy.
He knew that when his boots scuffed across those planks of wood and crossed into their tiny stucco house, there would be warm tortillas waiting for him in soft and fragrant stacks. Teresa said even though she was ill, the least she could do was cook for her hard-working family. Sometimes there were even clean jeans on the clothesline, the grass and strawberry stains only somewhat visible from the road.
Their daughters, Maria Elena and Gabriela, would always sing after supper, washing their chipped plates and sweeping the dirt from the living area. Then, as the light was washed from the sky, they would kneel on the plywood floor in front of their altar, light a candle, and offer their prayers and thanks. Our Lady would always smile down upon them, her hand held out in benevolent love.
That afternoon, just after finishing a Coke in the shade of the distribution truck, the air was punctured by the sounds of rapid gunfire. A girl screamed. The ones in the field dropped onto their bellies, the ones on the roads crouched and turned their heads, seeking loved ones. Violence wasn’t uncommon around those parts, but it was unusual in the middle of a working day way out in the farms. The two white foremen looked more worried than usual, hopping side by side into a big Ford truck, barreling down the gravel roads towards a neighboring farm. As they disappeared, Matias waved for his girls.
“Esta bien. It’s okay. Shh shh.” He held them tightly, like he’d done when they were young.
“Papa, that was close by here,” Gabriela said.
“Si. But we are safe. Let’s get back to work.”
“But the foremen are gone. Nobody’s here to see if we don’t.” She fingered a hole in her t-shirt.
“Maria Elena! What kind of woman are you becoming? Lazy? Eh?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but then thought the better of it. She always had a lecture waiting from her mother if she ever talked back. She couldn’t face another one of those right now.
“Right. We work!”
They allowed their father to lead them back among the strawberries, adding a fresh layer of stain to their fingers as the day progressed. The heat was oppressive, fueled by the unforgiving breeze, and they all took turns rewetting the bandanas on their necks, desperate for relief. So as the sun began settling down, a chorus of sighs filled the air. Lungs were filled. Backs were stretched. Matias caught glimpse of three men running towards them, could see the sweat shining on their brown faces, and watched as they stopped at the edge of the field, gesticulating wildly to the man working near there. Mere seconds later, the field was ablaze with voices, some shouting, some crying, some praying.
“They’ve been shot! They’ve been
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