Justine felt the heat squeeze as if it occupied a space all its own—all windows down, the Woody picking up speed, not even tenaclock. Turning onto Prosperity Avenue, Aaron used the heel of his right hand. The other slapped time to the radio.
“I can’t get no . . . ,”
Justine pulled her hair back to keep it from whipping into her face. Glad she took the ponytail out, she let if fly. Easy to pretend nothing mattered somehow.
No satisfaction anyway.
“You should be driving.”
“Why me? You’re the man, man.”
“Listen to you. What would Mom say?”
“I don’t want to drive with you,” she said, and just as soon regretted it. But it was true. Her big brother was pushy. Last spring, on leave from the Army, he’d made her drive all the way to Delano – on the freeway – to hear some speech. That had been her first time on the 99 outside of Driver’s Training. Not a pleasant time, either, with him pressuring her to speed up. Drive with confidence, he said.
How can I drive with something I don’t have?
“Where we going?” she said, changing the subject.
“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy, little missy. You’re driving me home,” he said. “The Woody’ll be all yours tomorrow.”
“I’ll manage,” she said.
It’s a lot easier driving by myself.
She’d overheard Dad say to Mom that Aaron ended up drafted because he was a radical. “Radical,” to Justine, meant “severely pushy.”
The alfalfa, vibrant green, and the cotton, dingy green, the orange trees – She liked watching out the window of a moving car. Aaron’s hand on the car beat to the distance in time between notes. The irrigation ditches between the rows of cotton, the rows of trees in the orchard, flicked to the distance in space, a visual beat.
Trippy.
They passed a dairy, preceded by its smell, the sour pile of silage made from ground up corn, stalks and all. She wanted to scratch her neck. Peach fuzz. She’d known the itching would come after eating that peach. It always did. She also knew not to scratch. Scratching only made it worse.
You should have washed your hands.
Justine’s uptight mother lived inside her head.
The voice that keeps on ticking.
The flickering slowed. Grape vines. She could taste the dust after Aaron stopped on the shoulder next to the vineyard.
“Ever heard of the grape strike?” he asked.
“Grandpa says they’re a bunch of communists.”
“Grandpa says they’re a bunch of communists.”
“Yeah. Well, we’re going to their rally today.”
Justine noticed the back of an old Chevy in front of them, the rows of cars in front of that one. The cars belonged to field workers.
“I’ll get my shoes dirty,” she said, looking down at her white Keds.
“That’s a risk we’ll have to take.”
“What about the dog?”
“Brought water for the dog.”
Justine stepped out of the car and into soft powder.
“My shoes.”
Aaron ignored her. She felt sweat under her arms, licked her lips, and tasted salt. Aaron poured water from her old thermos into the green biscuit bowl and some on Cooper’s head and back.
“Better put those back when you’re done,” she said.
"Look familiar?” He held up the red plaid thermos. “Lori said you have one, too.”
“That’s Lori’s?”
He nodded.
"Since when do you have Lori’s thermos?"
“Since we rescued Cooper.”
“You and Lori rescued him?”
Why would Lori rescue a dog that bites – with Aaron?
He tied Cooper’s leash to the steering wheel in the front seat and propped the door open with a rag he got out of the trunk. He made sure the leash gave the dog plenty of room to crawl under the car and into the shade next to the bowl of water. “How come you and Lori aren’t best friends anymore?”
“He looks like the Shaggy Dog.”
Cooper sat in the driver’s seat, his eyes on Aaron, his tongue wagging.
“Doesn’t look vicious at all.”
“He’s not vicious.” Aaron made dust clouds when he walked onto the shoulder. “Why would you say that?”
“What Grandpa said.”
And him growling at me.
“He’s a good dog, little missy, and don’t you forget it.” Aaron did his John Wayne walk. “What happened between you and Lori anyway?”
“Guess I could ask the same thing,” Justine said. “You two rescuing Cooper.”
“What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”
“Doesn’t seem so incongruous to me.”
“Big word for a little missy.”
“You don’t even know what it means,” she said.
“Could you drive home from here if you had to? Did you pay attention?”
"All roads lead to Rome,” she said, but Justine doubted she could through the quilt of crops, orchards, and dairies. The fuzzy, gilded foothills rose from behind the dusty grapevines, the Sierra’s behind them shrouded in haze. East. Kaweah and home, southwest.
He’s avoiding telling me about Lori.
“My brain,” Justine sang. “In all this haze, doesn’t seem the same.”
“All this smog, you mean.”
“Smog?”
“A neologism: smoke and fog together equal smog.”
“Squirrel, I know what smog is,” she said. “Smog’s in LA.”
“Smog is wherever the internal combustion engine operates.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Ecology class at Berkeley.”
“Okay. What do you call it when the mountains in front are clearly visible but the ones behind look purple and hazey? Atmospheric something?”
“Atmospheric perspective.” Aaron sighed. “Hey, you want my albums?”
“Even your Hendrix?”
“Yeah, Purple Haze, man.”
“I’ll take good care of them, Aaron,” she said.
“Just like Cooper.”
“Why can’t Lori take Cooper?”
All of a sudden Aaron grabbed her by the hand and pulled her across the road. He was looking ahead where she saw a crowd. They waved banners with the word “Huelga” painted on them.
“What’s hueyelga mean?”
Aaron laughed. “It’s pronounced ‘whellga’ and it means ‘strike’ in Spanish. Don’t you take Spanish?”
“What are they so mad about?” The crowd pulsed toward the vineyard where workers worked. There were officers, too, apparently keeping them out of the field.
“Scabs,” he said.
“What’s a scab?”
“Someone who takes jobs when workers are on strike.”
Justine felt scared. Aaron yanked her toward another group quite a ways down on the other side of the road gathered around a pick-up truck. A man separated from the crowd and walked toward them. He grabbed Aaron’s hand in a thumbs-up handshake—and the two of them hugged.
Hugging Grandma and Grandpa and now a stranger?
“Justine—Señor Trujillo.”
Horrified, Justine recognized her high school teacher towering over her in his white shirt and tie. She held her arms close to her sides, hopefully hiding the rings of sweat under her arms but still shook the hand he offered.
“I’m looking forward to having you in Government this year.”
“How do you do,” she said, her mouth dry as dirt. She remembered her latest nightmare—naked in Senior Court and bit into her lip but it was too late—Her face went hot which meant beat red.
“She’s my backup,” Aaron said. “While I’m gone.”
“Only with Cooper,” she said. “And the albums. Cooper’s his dog. He’s way back there in the Woody, looking like the Shaggy Dog.”
Mr. Trujillo laughed.
Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Señor Chávez is about to speak,” Mr. Trujillo said. “Vámanos.”
“The communist?”
Aaron grabbed Justine’s arm, gave her the evil eye, and directed her toward the pickup.
The man standing in the truck bed wore a long-sleeved, work shirt just like the men in the crowd. And like Grandpa did. She’d asked her grandfather years ago why he didn’t take his shirt off when it was so hot outside. He said sweat in a long-sleeved, cotton shirt was as close as you could get to air-conditioning. Justine felt the heat on the back of her neck and arms in her sleeveless shell. A traitor to Grandpa, who called this Chávez a “dirty Mexican communist.”
I shouldn’t be here. Why is Aaron making me do this?
“Por favor,” her pushy brother said to the crowd. She shook her arm loose from his grip and listened to his Spanish way beyond anything she could understand. Mr. Trujillo stepped in front of her, his arm outstretched as if inviting her into his parlor.
And the people stepped aside for Mr. Trujillo, too, all smiling at her, so she followed her brother. What else could she do?
“Buenos días,” a short woman in a skirt and long-sleeved cotton shirt said, her brown eyes finding Justine’s. Behind the woman – Jesse Flores?
I must be seeing things
Justine bumped into Aaron’s back as he came to a stop near the back of the old pick-up truck. The man began to speak – in Spanish. The crowd roared back – in Spanish. She recognized him. He was the man with Robert Kennedy when Aaron made her drive to Delano—the man fasting for non-violence.
A hero like Ghandi, not a communist. Robert Kennedy broke bread with him. Not a dirty Mexican. Hey, Jesse Flores is no ‘dirty Mexican,’ either.
Justine couldn’t understand the speech. Her mind’s eye pictured Jesse.
Could that be him?
Social Studies, 4th period, and he sat right behind her. He had a moustache – in the 8th grade. Thick, black, curly hair. Each time she passed a paper back, she swiveled in her desk all the way around. Each time, his dark eyes looked right into hers.
Justine felt chills at the memory of him. She peeked over her shoulder. Just like Social Studies, four years ago, Jesse Flores’s dark eyes looked right into hers as if he’d been waiting.
Justine snapped her head front and kept her eyes on Señor Chávez all the while imagining him and his eyes on her.
It had been a Friday. Jesse, through his friends to her friends, asked her to meet him at the show that night. She sent her “yes” back.
That afternoon, Aaron knocked on her bedroom door.
“Call for you,” he said. “Some Mexican.”
She ran down the hall, bumping into Aaron, and through the dining room to get to the phone in the kitchen.
“Who is he?” Aaron asked after she hung up.
“What do you care if he’s Mexican?”
“How old is he?”
“None of your beeswax,” Justine said.
“Older guys are bad news, Justine.”
“He’s my age.”
“What’d he say?”
“Talk about the third degree.”
What had he said? Justine wasn’t exactly sure.
“We’re going to meet at the show. Please don’t tell Mom or Dad.”
Aaron laughed. “You need a ride?”
Justine spent the rest of that afternoon preparing. She shaved her legs and washed, rolled, and ratted her hair up high. Then she sprayed and sprayed it with VO5 before smoothing it down. It curled up just the way she wanted right at her shoulders. More hairspray to save the curl. The clippie with the green velvet bow went right above her bangs, which she had straightened and placed with Dippity-Do. After that she changed clothes again, settling on a green plaid skirt with a white blouse, the green cardigan, and the dark green scarf with her brown coat, all to match the bow.
Godzilla and Mothra battled it out while Justine waited, her green knee socks drooping. Jesse Flores never came.
The man in the back of the truck shouted. The crowd forced Justine closer and closer to the truck. She made a dash away from the rush and watched the mob encircle the truck.
“Justine.”
Jesse Flores.
“You stood me up,” she said and immediately felt the rush of heat rise up and into her face. She bit into her cheek before any tears or, god forbid, more words could escape.
What is the matter with me?
“My family. We had to work that night.”
What was he talking about?
“The frost, it means extra work. I could not meet you. I had to work with my family. But you would never talk with me again.”
“Because you stood me up.”
Can I think before I speak? Do I even have that skill?
“I explained on the telephone.”
“Jesse!” Aaron and Mr. Trujillo took turns shaking his hand – that same handshake.
Aaron and Jesse knew each other?
They locked her out of the conversation. All she could do was notice the music of it still surprised her brother could speak Spanish so well but even more surprised that she’d found Jesse. The truth about what had happened began to sink in.
He didn’t stand me up after all.
Jesse and Mr. Trujillo walked Justine and Aaron all the way to their car.
“See you on the first day,” Mr. Trujillo said to her.
Will I see Jesse at high school? I’ve never seen him there before.
Mr. Trujillo took Aaron into his arms again.
“Come back to us, mi hermano,” Mr. Trujillo said. “We need you here at home.”
Jesse held back. Justine willed her mouth to speak. Call me, she wanted to say, but now that she wanted to speak, her lips seemed welded shut. All she did was watch as he and Mr. Trujillo walk back toward the crowd.
Aaron called Cooper out from under the car and offered him more water before putting him in the back.
“There,” he said, smiling at her over the top of the Woody.
“‘There what?” She opened the door and sat on the bench seat wishing she had something to wipe the sweat from her face, the backs of her knees. The salt from it stung her eyes.
Aaron started the car. “Still think he’s a communist?”
“I couldn’t understand a word he said.”
Why does Grandpa call them all “dirty Mexicans”?
Aaron slammed the Woody into gear. Justine closed her eyes to keep the dust out as he spun the car around and headed back to town.
He forgot to make me drive home.
Aaron sped down the Lindsey Highway.
Mom and Dad don’t say “dirty Mexicans.”
He drove into town and right past Blackstone, then Cherry Avenue, the usual ways home. They passed Kaweah Union High School, Sweet’s Drug, the park. The marquee on the theater read, Charly.
This Friday – next to Jesse. His arm around her.
Aaron pulled into A&W at the end of the cruise and parked. A carhop hurried out.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“Leaving tomorrow.” He ordered two root beer freezes.
“Coming right up.”
“Friend of yours?” Justine asked.
“Member of my fan club.”
“Groovy.”
Aaron had been silent the whole way so Justine started peppering him with questions. She knew from experience that questions worked on her dad when he was in a bad mood. Why not try it on Aaron?
“What does ‘me airmano’ mean? What Mr. Trujillo called you.”
“My brother.”
Mr. Trujillo thinks of Aaron as a brother.
“What did Chávez say?”
“What do you care? To you, he’s just a dirty Mexican.”
“Not to me, Aaron. To Grandpa. I know he’s a hero but I don’t understand why.”
“He talked about the symbol of the farm workers’ union, the Aztec eagle,” Aaron said. “He said when people see the symbol, they’ll know it means dignity. It gives the people back their pride.”
“That’s what they want? Pride?”
“They want a fair living wage. Fresh water. Toilets.”
“Toilets?”
“They work all day and no toilets.”
The carhop brought the tray with the freezes. Aaron rolled his window up a little so she could hook the tray onto it.
“Just holler if you need anything else,” she said.
“How do you know her?” Justine asked, taking her freeze from him. “Never mind that. How do you know Jesse?”
“He’s related to Mr. Trujillo’s family – a nephew, I think. Maybe a cousin.” Aaron told her that the grape strike had started years ago and he’d been helping Mr. Trujillo, driving him to Delano, taking food and supplies to farm workers.
“Doesn’t he have a car?”
“Sure but the Woody holds more stuff.”
“Since when do you speak such good Spanish?”
“We walked from Delano to Sacramento in ’66. I had to speak Spanish,” he said. “You just have to practice. Now, you can practice with Jesse.” He sucked on his straw.
“What happened to him? At school, I mean. I’ve never seen him at high school.”
“See very many Mexicans or Negroes at high school?”
Justine hadn’t ever thought about it but what had happened to all the kids she’d gone to junior high with?
“Lots of ‘em just stop going to school. Don’t see the point in it. The ones who can play sports, especially football, they want them around,” Aaron said, “but they put ‘em with the special ed kids in the Wig Wams.”
“Just ‘cause they’re Mexican?”
“’Cause they don’t speaka good English.”
“Does Dad know?”
“Dad knows,” Aaron said. He finished his freeze and put the empty glass on the tray.
“I thought he and Mom fought for civil rights.”
“They do.”
Justine’s head hurt.
“Listen, little missy – ”
“Not John Wayne again.”
“I need you to promise me something, in case I don’t come back.”
“Jeepers creepers, man.”
“People die, Justine. Martin Luther King. Then Bobby Kennedy. That’s how I got into the farm workers’ movement, and now Chavez isn’t doing that great. Promise me you’ll fight the good fight for me.”
“Aaron, I’m just a girl.”
Aaron slammed the steering wheel with his open palm.
“I quit school to work with Students for a Democratic Society, but I ended up getting drafted, man. I fucked up.”
“Aaron!”
“The least you can do is promise to check it out.”
He looked the other way. Sweat made the back of his neck and his nearly shaved head shine.
Justine felt the itch of the peach fuzz. She wanted to go home and wash the sticky off.
"Cooper needs to get out of this car," she said. "Listen to him pant."
“Tell you what.” Aaron turned and leaned toward her. The sweat beaded up above his upper lip. “I won’t tell Mom and Dad about Jesse if you promise to help out about the grape strike, just that one thing.”
That one thing plus the dog.
She scratched the itch on her neck, making the spot even bigger.
He’s blackmailing me. But tomorrow, he’ll be gone.
He’s blackmailing me. But tomorrow, he’ll be gone.
“I promise,” she said.
Aaron turned the Woody onto J Street and then a left onto Kaweah Avenue. He cranked up the radio with one hand and waved to a car full of cruisers with the other. They had the same Lovin’ Spoonful hit blaring.
“My last cruise,” he said to her.
“Man, you sound like you’re dead already.”
“That’s what I like about you, Justine. You’re not afraid of saying it like it is.”
When Aaron pulled the Woody into the driveway of their off-white stucco home, Mom and Dad spilled out from the French doors, each holding a glass of beer.
“Where’ve you been?” Mom asked. “Grandma said Justine let Cooper ruin her garden and that you two left hours ago.”
My fault.
“We were cruising, Mom, for old time’s sake.” Aaron walked past them on the side stoop and into the dining room. He turned to Justine, who was right behind him, winked, and messed up her hair.
“Don’t!” she whined, not without noting the ease with which the lie had rolled off his tongue. So much to learn from her big brother.
“We made your favorite!” Mom said. “Dagwoods.”
"And here’s a beer for you, too, son,” Dad said.
"I'll set the table," Justine said, heading for the kitchen.
“Not the kitchen, honey,” Mom said. “It’s his last lunch home.”
“Dagwoods in the dining room?”
“Use the good plates and the silver."
Justine stomped into the kitchen to wash the itch off her neck, the sweat off her face, at the kitchen sink. As usual, she was expected to oblige whenever Viola was not there. Justine wondered what her parents could have been doing while they waited for them to come home.
They can’t set a table?
She plunked the good china down, the silver place servings on linen napkins from the top right drawer in the buffet, and then she held the platters for them as – first her mother, then her father, and finally her brother – took what they wanted of the cheddar, Swiss, pastrami, ham, roast beef, lettuce, pickles, pepperoncinis. After, she took the dirty plates, empty platters, and gummy condiment containers back into the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth—the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen didn’t have time to rest.
The whole time she thought about Jesse's smile, not the dishes, Jesse’s eyes, not the dog or the fence she couldn’t build, Jesse’s moustache, not the family. While they sat in the cool of the dark dining room sipping their beers, the venetian blinds closed tight to keep the afternoon heat out, she daydreamed an exhilarating future. And even though she couldn’t hear their conversation from the kitchen, she knew her brother would not be talking about Jesse Flores.
But when she danced the wet dishtowels out to the laundry room, she saw his bowls and remembered Cooper. She’d let him out of the Woody, forgotten to make sure he had water, forgotten he was a dog that bites.
I know I can trust Aaron, but can he trust me?
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