Return to Sender

“If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them we’ve got us some Martians […] We hired extraterrestrials […] Excellent help. You don’t have to pay them. You don’t have to feed them. All you do is reboot them at night and they’re ready to go in the morning.”

It’s only as he’s headed upstairs again that it hits him. If the girls are going to be attending Bridgeport, how can they be a secret? He’s about to go back downstairs and confront his parents, but then he remembers the promise he made to himself. No questions. No worries. Let those girls come up with their own explanation. It should be easier being Mexican than being an alien from outer space.

But remembering his mom’s worried look at his dad’s bowed head, Tyler wonders if maybe being Martian is a lot easier to explain than being Mexican in Vermont.

“I meant to say hi to the girls,” Mom explains.

Tyler puts his head in his hands so he doesn’t have to see anything but his bowl of cereal. Too late he remembers his mother has told him this is rude. Horses have blinkers, not humans. But sometimes, Tyler hates to tell her, sometimes he would just as soon see less, not more, of the world around him, a world full of accidents, bad luck, and Mom’s good ideas.

But maybe because he just got home yesterday, his mom doesn’t say anything about his blinkers. Instead she starts in on the sappy stuff that always makes Tyler cave in to her good ideas. “They don’t seem to have a mother and they’re just cooped up in that trailer. It’d be really nice if you maybe just popped in and made them feel welcome.”

But Tyler has to admit that watching the stars by himself makes him miss Gramps even more. Especially now that Tyler feels so confused about how his parents are maybe breaking the law. He can’t talk to Mom, who would just lecture about freedom and justice and liberty for all, and Dad would feel bad that he can’t do all the work himself, and Ben is never around anymore, and Sara is a blabbermouth, and Grandma would get upset that Gramps can’t help out because he’s dead. That covers all the adults in his family, and Tyler wouldn’t dare mention what’s going on to anyone who isn’t related. As it is, he thinks the farm is already being watched by Homeland Security.

[Tyler’s] parents return, long-faced from the confrontation at Grandma’s house. Grandma has told her children that if they try to move her out of her house, she’ll run away, which is kind of funny, Grandma running away from home to protest being forced to leave her home.

Except that it’s not funny, Tyler thinks, wishing he could travel to another galaxy. He’d pick a planet with lots of farms and no borders or bullies bossing you around. His grandmother has told him that’s what heaven is like. But Tyler doesn’t want to have to die to go there, although it might be nice to join his grandfather and get to eavesdrop on the rest of the family plotting and planning on the earth below—without getting in trouble with his mother.

They already have a real grandmother back in Mexico […] And yet, all three girls still call Tyler’s grandmother Grandma, and they love visiting her. A lot of times, when Grandma picks up Tyler from work, she brings the girls along. Grandpa, they’ve started calling Mr. Rossetti.

Talk about surprises: Mr. Rossetti with Mexican granddaughters!

“They aren’t Mexican. They were born here, fair and square!” Mr. Rossetti will correct anyone who gets it wrong. No one has corrected him on this point. Ofie and Luby are under strict instructions not to let on that Mari was born in Mexico. For that matter, they’re not supposed to admit that their father and uncle don’t have the permission papers they need to be here legally. “The least said the better,” Mom has instructed Grandma and the girls.

I meant to do it on Sunday, but my sisters called me down for a special program about swallows on TV. They know swallows are my favorite animal because of the song “La Golondrina.”

I didn’t realize there was so much to know about them! How they fly for days and days, eating and even making babies as they fly, so desperate are they to get where they are going. How they bring good luck to farmers when they nest in their barns (Tyler says his grandfather would never let anyone disturb a swallow’s nest, even when the milk inspector said there was too much of their poop around.) Best of all is how, like my own family, swallows have two homes, one in North America and one in South America.

What’s funny, well, not so funny, is that a yar ago, I just wouldn’t have accepted the idea of not living here. It kind of drove me crazy, if you want to know the truth. My parents had to ship me off to my aunt and uncle’s just to get my mind off the worry.

But now, I don’t know. I still think this has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth—like you yourself said. But somehow, though the idea of not farming still makes me real sad, I can accept it a lot better. Maybe losing Gramps helped me practice losing? Or just knowing what you and your family have gone through makes me feel like it could be a lot worse. Also, I guess I’m seeing other sides that might be fun, like having more time for things I love besides farming.