The Lemon Orchard Read online

  “Yes,” Julia said. “Thanksgiving.”

  Thanksgiving morning was sunny and warm, as far from New England weather as possible. Julia felt glad for that. Holidays without Jenny had been excruciating. Everything—the weather, the quality of Black Hall’s November light, the silken darkness of Long Island Sound—had reminded her of the sixteen Thanksgivings she’d spent with her daughter.

  In the Casa Riley kitchen, she sliced the rest of the apples Lion had brought. She made piecrust and saved a few scraps to make maple leaves to press on top, just as Jenny used to do. Roberto always left a bowl of lemons at her door, so she used one of her grandmother’s recipe books to make two loaves of lemon bread.

  By the time Roberto arrived to pick her up at three o’clock, she was ready to go. Not sure of what he would wear, she wore black pants and a white silk shirt.

  He looked great in black jeans, a white shirt, and a well-worn and rugged leather jacket. They hugged and walked toward his vehicle—an old but obviously recently waxed gray Honda Civic.

  “Where’s your truck?” she asked.

  “I borrowed Serapio’s wife’s car,” he said. “To drive you to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Thank you,” she said, getting in.

  The trip was short—down one canyon, along the coast highway, up Topanga Canyon and along the steep, twisting road that led to Lion’s house. People were arriving all at once. Roberto started to park on the roadside, but a man in a black uniform waved him ahead.

  “Looks like valet parking,” Julia said. “That’s very Lion.”

  “Mande?” Roberto asked, not understanding.

  “Extravagant,” Julia said.

  One parking attendant opened Julia’s door while the other opened Roberto’s, speaking to him in Spanish. They seemed friendly, had a short conversation, and Roberto caught up with Julia, smiling.

  “They are both Mexican,” he said. “This is a good job for them.”

  “Are they friends of yours?”

  “No, Julia,” he said. “Just Mexican workers like me.”

  They walked up the curving stone steps in a steady stream of people. Roberto carried the apple pie and held Julia’s arm. She’d wrapped the lemon bread in tinfoil and packed it in a canvas bag embroidered with Graciela’s family crest—she knew Lion would enjoy that.

  Inside the castle Lion called home, Julia saw half a dozen young actors she recognized, several of John and Graciela and Lion’s dearest Malibu friends, and twenty or so people she’d never seen in her life. Roberto seemed relaxed, but tense like a cat: ready to spring if necessary.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “All these famous people,” he said.

  “Most of them aren’t,” she said.

  Lion burst forth from a cluster of tall, skinny young women with asymmetrical haircuts and embraced Julia. Then he shook Roberto’s hand.

  “What a pleasure, Roberto. So glad you could join us,” Lion said.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” he said.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Lion said. “Let’s get drinks.”

  They went to the bar, tended by two Latino men. Roberto spoke to them in a friendly way. Lion ordered martinis for him and Julia and cocked an eyebrow at Roberto. “Martini?” he asked.

  “Cerveza,” Roberto said, and accepted a beer from the bartender.

  “What shall we drink to?” Lion asked, raising his glass.

  “Things we’re thankful for,” Julia began, but just then an actor known for playing James Bond wrapped Lion in a bear hug, and Julia and Roberto found themselves clinking glasses alone.

  “Salud,” he said.

  “Salud,” she replied.

  The house smelled of turkey, stuffing, and all the delicacies of a New England Thanksgiving. Julia and Roberto began to walk through the rooms, and she showed him all the things she’d loved as a child: the suits of armor, the chariot wheels, the stone and bronze Buddhas, the Tang dynasty gong, the fountains in almost every room, the fireplaces large enough to roast oxen, the gallery of still photographs from Lion’s films, including many with Graciela.

  “Doña Graciela,” Roberto said, leaning closer to see Graciela and Lion in a shot from The King Goes Rowing.

  “They were young there,” she said. “They filmed it in Cambridge, and he was the king of England, in disguise, in love with a student. Have you seen any of Graciela and Lion’s movies?”

  “No,” he said.

  “We’ll have to watch one,” she said.

  “Claro,” he said. “They were in many together?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They were known for their work, and also being friends off screen.”

  Just then she felt an embrace from behind. Turning to see, she found herself surrounded with people she vaguely knew from many visits here. Doug Longwood, the man who had hugged her, was a British film producer who lived in the Colony.

  “Well, what a lovely surprise to find you here, Julia!” he said.

  He introduced her to his date, Melinda, and a tall dark-haired boy named Magnus, and refreshed her memory on the others.

  “Good to see you all,” she said. “This is my friend Roberto.”

  A few of them said hello and shook his hand, but Doug looked right past him as if he hadn’t even heard his name. Julia glanced at Roberto, but he was back to looking at the photos.

  “I was just saying to Roberto,” she said, “that Lion and Graciela made many films together.”

  “Which is your favorite?” Doug asked.

  “Oh, Roberto hasn’t seen them yet, but we’re going to watch—”

  “I meant you,” Doug said.

  “All of them, I don’t know.”

  “This one looks good,” Roberto said, pointing to a still of The Washington Affair. Graciela and Lion had played American spies who’d discovered that a group of White House aides had kidnapped the First Lady. The shot showed the pair with machine guns blasting, a bloody scar on Lion’s face from where one of the kidnappers had slashed him.

  “He likes shoot-’em-ups,” Doug said in his East London accent, and laughed. He spoke about Roberto without looking at him, as if he were not right there.

  “What is that?” Roberto asked.

  “Bang-bang,” Doug said.

  “Do you work in the movies?” Roberto asked.

  Doug kissed Julia on both cheeks, then he and his friends drifted away without responding to Roberto. To Julia it felt like a punch in the stomach. She started after him, but Roberto held her arm.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” she said. “He was so fucking rude!”

  “Julia,” Roberto said. “It’s fine.”

  “Do you want to go?” she asked.

  “I’ll stay for you,” he said.

  “No, I want to leave,” she said.

  Roberto acted as if he wasn’t hurt, but she knew he had to be. Hurrying through the house, Julia didn’t even stop to find Lion. He caught up with her and Roberto at the door, looking stricken.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Roberto said quickly.

  “How did you know something happened?” Julia asked.

  “Doug Longwood made a comment. Roberto, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Roberto said.

  “Class still means something to him,” Lion said. “He’s a very arrogant, ignorant Englishman who hasn’t had a hit movie in decades. I’ll leave it to you to figure out why he behaves the way he does.”

  “He’s insecure,” Julia said. “But he’s still a fucking asshole.”

  The ice was broken; all was well, except it wasn’t. The valet brought the Honda and Roberto drove Julia home. She felt so sad, defeated somehow; the fact t
hat he had dressed up and borrowed a car for the occasion made her want to cry. She reached across the seat and held his hand. He squeezed hers.

  “I wasn’t really in the mood for a big party,” she said. “Holidays are hard for me.”

  “You miss Jenny.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And you miss Rosa.”

  “Sí. Not so much for Thanksgiving, it’s an American holiday and she never knew it. But Navidad is coming, and Three Kings Day . . .”

  “Roberto,” she said, still holding his hand when they pulled up in front of Casa Riley. “I’ve been working on something and I’ve wanted to tell you about it. Can you come in, or do you have to get to your family’s house?”

  “I can come in,” he said.

  When they entered the house, Julia turned on lots of lights. She wanted the house illuminated for what they were about to discuss. They went into the living room, and she lit the table lamps, the wall sconces above the fireplace, and the small brass lights John had installed above every painting.

  They sat on a small sofa, at either end. Julia kicked off her shoes and drew her legs up so she could face him directly. The seaward windows were open, and a warm salt breeze blew off the ocean.

  “Weeks ago, you started telling me about when you and Rosa crossed the border.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it was hard for you to hear.”

  “It was,” she said. “Because I can’t imagine what you went through.”

  “Gracias, Julia,” he said.

  “And I want to help.”

  He gave her a sad smile that barely touched his eyes. “I know,” he said. “But there is no help.”

  “I think there is,” she said. Her heart was beating fast, and she walked over to the writing desk and brought back a pile of papers. “I’ve been researching. Being an anthropologist has some advantages. I know people who can get information for us.”

  “What good is information?” he asked. “Rosa is gone!”

  “I reached out to a colleague, Chris Barton,” she said. “And he put me in touch with Dr. Juan Rios, who runs something called the Reunion Project. Also, I remembered the name you mentioned—Jack Leary. He’s retired, but there’s a way to look him up.”

  Roberto had stiffened, his jaw set and his back straight—as if he wanted to bolt out of the room.

  “For what?” he asked finally. “Why would you talk to him? Or any of them?”

  “To find Rosa,” she said.

  He looked at her with what seemed to her to be a mixture of despair and fury. “Find her? I couldn’t, how could you?”

  “I want to go there.”

  “Go there? The desert, where we were—you have no idea. It’s not like your expedición antropológica, Julia. Nothing will help. Thank you for asking, but no, Julia.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You don’t even know the full story,” he said. “I’ve told you the smallest part. If you heard the rest, you would never think of going there.”

  “Then tell me,” she said as the sea breeze rustled the curtains. “And let me decide.”

  chapter five

  Roberto

  How to explain to Julia? The feelings were as strong as if he were still riding in the truck, back breaking every time the wheels hit a rut. He cushioned Rosa against his chest, fed her sips of water, cursing the coyotes Alberto and Benito Rodriguez for setting out during the hottest part of the day.

  The desert was flat and endless. He couldn’t believe any land could be so vast—it made the fields of home, ringed by hills and trees, seem small. Heat shimmered over the ground in all directions.

  Rosa got sick and he didn’t know what to do. Hold back the water and she’d dehydrate; give it to her and she’d throw it up. She clutched Maria, begging the doll to spread her wings, use her great-grandmother’s magic, get them there safely. Which “there” was she wishing for, Roberto wondered—his papá’s house or his grandmother’s shack back in Mexico? The truck just kept rumbling, on and on for miles. Roberto began to feel náuseas and sleepy himself, but he fought the feeling.

  Some of the other migrants slept or passed out, collapsed in a heap against one another. He reached over and shook one who looked particularly pale. The man woke up, vomited off the back of the truck. Exhaust fumes were making everyone dizzy. The sun finally started to go down, a red ball in the west.

  Rosa whimpered while Roberto rocked her. “There,” he said, pointing at the sun. “That’s where we are going. Los Angeles, as far west in El Norte as we can get, at the edge of the Pacific Ocean.”

  “I want the water!” Rosa cried.

  “Here, niña,” he said, pouring a capful into his hand, letting her lap it like a cat. When the sun disappeared below the horizon, the desert glowed rose, purple, and amber. His grandmother had amber earrings and a pendant. A blue mariposa—butterfly—frozen in time in the pendant, and staring across the wide Sonoran landscape. Roberto was awake, but he dreamed he saw thousands, millions of blue butterflies migrating north like them.

  Suddenly, the truck stopped. Without being told, Roberto knew the border was near. Anxiety rippled through the group, everyone rousing one another, gathering their belongings.

  The coyotes climbed out of the cab. Now Roberto saw their weapons—pistols in holsters on their hips, automatic rifles strapped across their chests. Alberto, the father, barked out directions.

  “Stay close, don’t trail behind, drink your water,” he said. Benito and the third coyote, Pedro, would lead the pollos north while Alberto drove back to Altar. “La Migra has night goggles and they can see better than God, and you’ll hear and then see the airships, big lights all over. When you hear that noise, duck under bushes, tumbleweed, any rock you find. Each person for himself. Once they see us from the air, they send trucks. And keep in mind—there are always vehicles on patrol.”

  “Here’s what else you have to worry about,” Benito said. “Rattlesnakes, scorpions, coyotes—the other kind, with teeth—bats, rats, ring-tailed cats. Those cats look cute but they fucking bite. Spiders and Gila monsters, more venomous than cascabeles.” Rattlesnakes.

  “You might not see the border. La Migra built a fence, but that’s east of here. They make their fence strong around the cities, make it look good, but that’s why we’re in the desert. We’re smart.” He touched his head. “We go to the more rural places to cross, where there aren’t so many roads. Now listen. We’re walking next to Tohono O’odham land. Don’t think the tribe wants us here any more than the border agents. Someone looks your direction, hide. Otherwise they make a call, we get picked up by ICE in less than an hour. Suerte.”

  They started walking. Roberto carried Rosa and she held him even more tightly. Everyone went single file or two by two. Roberto felt strong; his legs had cramped up during the long truck ride, and it was good to stretch out his muscles, take long strides.

  The group came upon a drag—a wide, smooth swath made by La Migra trucks pulling chains behind them to create an even surface. Every footprint, even those made by mice and roadrunners, showed up clearly.

  Benito walked behind, sweeping away tracks with a broom made of twigs. Everyone knew La Migra were expert at “cutting sign,” a method of tracking they’d learned from the Sioux and Tohono O’odham tribes. They even employed Shadow Wolves, a unit of the Customs Patrol made up of Native Americans.

  Once the sunset’s unearthly glow disappeared, they walked in pure darkness, one foot in front of the other, trusting the desert’s flatness. The ground began losing heat, and Roberto pulled his fleece and Rosa’s from his pack, zipped them on. Then the moon rose: pure white light, softer than daylight but illuminating every footstep, person, and rock. Rosa walked beside him, holding his hand. He figured it would be better for her to walk now than in tomorrow’s heat. But as the night grew late she
began to stumble. She tried to be brave and strong, but she was exhausted. He lifted her up.

  In the moonlight Rosa’s black hair gleamed against Roberto’s shoulder. He shifted her from one hip to the other. The longer he walked, the heavier the water jugs became. Rosa had fallen asleep. Walking on hard earth, he heard sounds: an almost constant buzzing, as if rattlesnakes were everywhere. He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes, watched the sweeping S movement of a sidewinder slithering away into the silvery darkness.

  Bats circled his head. He waved them away from Rosa’s hair. The temperature dropped. While the day’s temperatures had risen over one hundred degrees, now the air felt frigid. Rosa shivered in his arms. Roberto dug into his pack, removed the denim sleeves the other migrant had cut off, and slid them onto his daughter’s arms, over her fleece jacket.

  The group walked for hours. Eventually the guide said it was time to rest. They found a spot near a dry creek bed that seemed to offer some cover: there were boulders and tufts of brush. The coyote said to stay away from the brush, it was where snakes preferred to gather, but that if ICE or the Shadow Wolves were to approach, then take cover and forget the sidewinders.

  Roberto lay beside Rosa. The night was so cold their teeth were chattering. Her upper body was warmed by the fleece and the extra sleeves, but he hadn’t prepared for her bare legs. Even his own ankles stung in the cold. He took off his jacket and covered their feet.

  Twenty feet away the man who’d sliced off his sleeves was shivering so loudly he sounded like a stampede. Roberto felt bad, but he couldn’t offer the man any help. All his resources had to go to Rosa.

  Trying to sleep, he thought of his father, who had made this journey—alone, without a child in tow—and tried to imagine how it had felt to leave his son behind. Roberto knew how much his father loved him—loved the whole family—and knew he would never have done this unless he believed with all his heart he was creating a better life for all of them.

  And now his father had a green card, giving this journey hope and meaning, and he lived around the corner from Mariachi Square. To comfort himself as much as his sleeping daughter, Roberto hummed “Contigo” in a low voice, imagined sitting on his father’s porch in East L.A., listening to the mariachi horns play their passionate and melancholy music; and holding Rosa, he finally drifted off to sleep under the bright moon.