American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [85]
BY THE END of our first week in Rawlins, our parents had found a house with a comfortable ground-floor apartment on West Buffalo Street. It was small and furnished, less than three blocks from the Ferguson Building, between the penitentiary and the railroad track. It was a cheerful little place, a two-story structure raised high off the street, green and white, with a double-A roof and small windows. There was a kitchen that opened to a dining area, something we’d never seen before. A pullout couch in the living room, which Georgie immediately claimed. The two bedrooms, allocated to my parents and to Vicki and me, were joined by a common bathroom. The best thing about it was that there was no fence, no wall, nothing to keep us from exiting that front door and running down the street on our own. There were no servants to stop us, and Mother didn’t seem to mind.
George was increasingly nervous. It was almost as if he were a mirror of our father’s disorientation, our mother’s jitteriness. He seemed delicately strung, too easily affected by noises, too cringing in public spaces. He preferred to play inside. Mother was consumed by Grandma Lo’s illness, constantly at Grandma Lo’s bedside, but George’s condition did not elude her. I could see that she was watching him, and I noticed that they’d both begun to chew their nails.
The day we moved into the house, I felt a new life had started for us. Vicki was enrolled in an elementary school down the street. Papi wandered down West Buffalo to look at cars, inspect new machines, figure out Rawlins, look at the oil refinery in Sinclair. “Hey, you!” a butter-haired boy yelled at me. He was hanging off the porch next door as I trudged up the walk with my suitcase. “Jist who do yew think yew are?”
There was a five-and-ten-cent on the corner. George and I begged Papi for a dime, ran to the store, wandered through rows and rows of knickknacks and candy, and settled on a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. We crossed the street, sat in front of the school, and shoved the sweet sticks in our mouths. The children we saw through the school windows were about our age. They were pasty, nondescript, fading into their flannel clothes.
“Extrañas a tus amigos?” I asked George, searching his twitchy face. Do you miss your friends?
“Nah,” he replied. “Te tengo a ti, no?” I have you, don’t I?
An old man hobbled up the street and turned to look at us. He was grizzled and gaunt, with a long, beaked nose and a crumpled hat. He crossed to where we sat and stood awhile, listening to our chatter.
“What you yunguns doin’ sitting there?” he said finally, drawing himself up by his bony shoulders. “You spick-a-da Spanish? You Mexican or what?”
We stared back at him, speechless.
“On the wrong side-a town, ain’tcha?” he continued. “Suppose-ta be across those tracks over there on the niggah side, ain’tcha, now?” Spittle was gathering in the corners of his mouth, and his stubbled chin was trembling.
“Cat got yer tongues?” he said. He took his hands from his pockets and wiped them against his little protuberance of a gut. Then he stamped on the grass and clapped his hands at us, but the sound was little more than a pathetic thwap. A bird scooted across and flitted into a tree.
“Well, go on, git!” he screamed. “Git!” His tiny eyes were burning and red. “You deaf’r sumpin? You li’l chiggers don’t belong here and yew know it! Whole damn Mexico gonna come up here and take over uf we don’t watch out!”
“Hey, Pop! Pop!” a large woman called out, waving her arms and waddling toward us quickly.
“This man is a loco,” George whispered to me, his eyes