The Circuit

“I wonder where the train comes from,” I said. […]

“I think it comes from California.”

“California!” I exclaimed. “This is California!”

“I am not so sure,” he said. “Remember what…”

The familiar Noon Train whistle interrupted him. […] The conductor slowed the train to a crawl, waved, and gently dropped a large brown bag in front of us as he went by. We picked it up and looked inside. It was full of oranges, apples, and candy.

“See, it does come from California!” Roberto exclaimed.

As usual, they left me alone in the car to take care of Trampita, my little brother, who was six months old. I hated being left by myself with him while they went off to pick cotton. As they walked further into the field, I climbed
onto the roof of the car, stood on tiptoes, and watched them until I could no longer tell them apart from the other pickers. Once I lost sight of them, I felt pain in my chest, that same pain I always felt whenever they left Trampita and me alone. Sobbing, I climbed into the car and wrapped my arms around Trampita, who slept in the back seat.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. We could be fired for this,” he said. “Besides, your job is to take care of Trampita. Is that clear?” he continued, placing both hands on his belt buckle.

“Si, Papa,” I answered timidly. I was hurt and confused.

[Papa] had been in a terrible mood the last few days because he was not sure where we would work now that the grape season was almost over. Covering his ears with his hands, he bolted to the corner of the garage, grabbed the broom, and swung with all his might at my friend who was perched on the wire. Red, green, and yellow feathers scattered everywhere. El Perico hit the dirt floor like a wet rag. Instantly Roberto, Mama, and I started wailing. My
father shouted at all of us to stop.

I could not go on. Frustrated and disappointed, I walked over to Papa. He straightened up and looked down at me. His eyes were red and watery from the cold. Before I said anything, he looked at Roberto, who bravely kept on picking, and told me to go over to the fire. I knew then I had not yet earned my own cotton sack.

As we drove home Papa did not say a word. With both hands on the wheel, he stared at the dirt road. My older brother, Roberto, was also silent. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. […]

Yes, it was that time of year. When I opened the front door to the shack, I stopped. Everything we owned was neatly packed in cardboard boxes. Suddenly I felt even more the weight of hours, days, weeks, and months of work. I sat down on a box.

It was Monday, the first week of November. The grape season was over and I could now go to school. I woke up early that morning and lay in bed, looking
at the stars and savoring the thought of not going to work and of starting sixth grade for the first time that year. […] I sat at the table across from Roberto, but I kept my head down. I did not want to look up and face him. I knew he was sad. He was not going to school today. He was not going tomorrow, or next week, or next month. He would not go until the cotton season was over, and that was sometime in February. I rubbed my hands together and watched the dry, acid stained skin fall to the floor in little rolls.

“Mr. Sims offered me the janitorial job at Main Street School,” [Roberto] answered, grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s a year-round job,” Mama said, looking at Papa.

Being careful with his back, Papa stood up slowly and hugged her gently. He then turned to Roberto and said, “Education pays off, mi’jo. I am proud of you. Too bad your Mama and I didn’t have the opportunity to go to school.”

“But you’ve taught us a lot, Papa,” I answered. I had not seen Papa that happy for weeks.