Across the Great River by Irene Beltrán Hernández Page B

a tall slender man with a thick mustache hurrying by. I follow him, hoping he might be Papa. He stops at several stands down the row. “Papa!” I shout, but when he turns it is not my Papa.
    â€œKata!” yells Mama. “Katarina! Where are you?”
    I turn and hurry back to the fabric stand.
    â€œKata, don’t leave like that, you might get lost,” scolds Mama.
    â€œI just thought I saw Papa, but it wasn’t him.”
    She puts down the bolt and looks at me. “I know how you feel child, but stay close to me. I’d hate to lose you, too.”
    â€œYes, Mama,” I answer, looking up into the faces of each tall man that passes.
    That afternoon we are walking back to our room, seeking shelter from the scorching sun. Anita and I walk ahead, holding hands. Mama and Pablito follow at a snail’s pace.
    â€œThis has been a very good day!” I declare.
    Anita smiles, then answers, “Well, I wish you many more such good days.”
    â€œAnita, there are still many things I wish to do and to see. Most of all, I want Papa to come back. I want to learn how to read and write and how to sing!”
    â€œMy! What a long list!”
    â€œThere’s more … like being a healer like you. Perhaps a nurse or maybe a teacher. Would you like that?”
    â€œYes, but I’m afraid those wishes will take a little doing. Yet, with lots of patience and determination, who knows what can happen.” She reaches over and pinches my cheek.
    â€œAnita, do you think that they are all dreams like Papa’s?”
    â€œKata, any thing is possible if one so wills it. But, you are the one that will have to work hard at it.”
    â€œYes, it is so. I have lots to learn about this strange land.” I take her hand. “Sometimes I forget that I’m no longer in Mexico.”
    Anita chuckles, “That’s very easy to do in this little town with its plaza and market which are so much like the ones in Mexico. You see, the people here are mostly Mexicans, but they are born on this side of the river and that makes them Mexican-Americans. You were born on the other side of the river and that makes you a native Mexican.
    â€œBut Anita,” I argue, “everyone speaks Spanish.”
    â€œLanguage has nothing to do with it. There is a government that runs Mexico and there is a different government that runs the United States.” Anita chuckles on seeing me frown. “But, you will learn all about that in school.”
    â€œAnd when shall that be, Anita?”
    She shrugs, “That I cannot say.”
    â€œIn my old village we have to pay money to go to school.”
    â€œYes, I know that is so, but here school is free.”
    â€œHow lucky for the children,” I add.
    â€œStill, in this country there are many children that do not attend school.”
    â€œI would gladly go, Anita, even if I had to walk miles.”
    â€œYes, I know you would. Look, we are almost home.”
    We flop down on the steps to wait for Mama and Pablito to catch up. It feels good to sit in the shade, relieved of all our packages. Anita sits with her eyes closed, and I watch the wrinkled circles around her eyes wiggle like when a rock is thrown into a pond. Her nose moves back and forth like a rabbit’s.
    I hear boots stomp at the top of the stairs. I look up to see the tattoed man staring down upon me. I wince as I feel the evil from those eyes enter my body as chills crawl up my scalp. I throw myself against Anita, who has awakened. She stands quickly and stares up at the man. A hissing sound grows on her lips as she points her clawed fingers at him. He rapidly disappears into one of the rooms upstairs.
    Mama finds us wrapped around each other and staring at the top of the stairs. “What goes on here?” she asks.
    â€œPerhaps it is best if you move from this place,” warns Anita.
    â€œBut why?” she asks.
    â€œAs long as I am with you, you are