Betsy and Bella
By
Armando Ortiz
“Betsy, it’s time to say your prayers
and go to sleep,” said Bella, who’d been in the kitchen washing a stack of
dirty dishes that had piled up the last few days. Betsy
was in the living room reading, directly under a light that emanated from the
ceiling. She was engrossed with a Curious George book. Bella walked towards
her, wiping her hands with a towel. Her smooth tanned arms shone under the
light. Their niche was directly across the light. Betsy was always under the
watchful eye of her mom and the Virgin of Guadalupe. They knelt before her and
prayed. The image of St Christopher was on the foreground of the Virgin Mary,
to the right. Another little statuette was on the left side, that of St Jude.
In between these was a candle, a little flower vase and a plaster cast image of
Jesus Christ. The Virgin’s eyes always caught Betsy’s attention, since it
seemed to be looking down at her, with ancient Buddha eyes, had an aura of love
and serenity. They always followed the routine right before going to sleep. Her
mom mostly did the talking. She begged the Virgensita,
the beloved virgin, for patience and
strength, thanked her for life and having food that day. Following this brief
ceremony Bella would tuck Betsy in her own small Hello Kitty bed and kiss her
goodnight.
She was always in prayer, a
relentless woman of prayer, and earnestly felt that the Virgin was taking care
of them. The same part of the couch where her daughter had been studying was
now being used by her. Now it was Bella that was directly across from the image
of the Lady of Mercy. Now it was her turn to be under those watchful eyes and
commence the two hour study session. She was an autodidact, but simply gave
thanks to the heavens above and always brought flowers she’d cut on the way
back home from work; yellow daisies, red roses and occasionally magenta baby
bottle scrubbers. Bella would stay up a few hours past bed time, studying and
reviewing for the Dental Assistant course that she was taking at the local
vocational school.
Bella worked as a housekeeper at one
of the old hotels in downtown Los Angeles. She’d been given the job after a
neighbor who’d worked there for 15 years had finally found a man and married.
The newlywed couple decided to head north and start a new life somewhere in
Salem, Oregon. Bella gave thanks to the Virgin for the job, and used some of
the money from that first pay check to buy a bouquet of roses, and went to the
church she attended and placed them on the altar.
Life was certainly not easy,
especially housekeeping. She had to clean thirteen rooms in eight hours. She
had some help, but it was always frowned upon to call for assistance. Towards
the end of the day her back ached from all the bending, leaning and pulling..
As soon as she clocked out, the bus would take her back home, where she would
pick up her daughter from the next door neighbor, who watched over Betsy for
two hours after school. The pain and tiredness was relentless, but she always
thanked people and thanked the image that watched over them. Betsy would have
her homework done by the time she was picked up, but she knew that her mom
expected nothing but reading and writing at the house. Though it was routine,
she found it easy to write in her diary and write on what she’d done that day
or write down her dreams and the things that she wanted. She knew that her mom
also had a diary, because sometimes her mom would sit on the kitchenette table
and write down her own thoughts, her own hopes in a leather bound diary that
she’d picked up while passing through Mexico.
Her family wasn’t particularly
religious, occasionally going to Sunday mass to pray and every so often go to
confession. Nevertheless, for Bella, her trip through Mexico made her a
believer. Her hazel eyes had seen people walking on their knees, and crawling
towards sanctuaries where the Virgin was housed. Every house that gave shelter
and a plate of food had a little sanctuary that honored the Mother of Jesus.
The people she crossed paths with gave her a deep impression, helping her along
and showing extreme generosity in opening their homes. A sense of spiritual
debt to them and to the image of the Eternal Grandmother would weigh on her for
a very long time.
When Betsy thought about her mom, she
imagined her writing notes to people, a habit that had been acquired by her as
well. She’d sneak notes for her teacher to read after lunch, give friends notes
of friendship or make drawings, like two kids playing handball. The person who
got the onslaught of notes wasn’t her mom though; instead it was the neighbor
Margarita, whose refrigerator was riddled with notes that Bella had given her
making it look like a multi-colored bird that’d lived ages ago.
When they weren’t studying they’d be
praying, constantly petitioning the Virgin for grace. If it was not thanking
something and looking up to heaven, Betsy found that her mom, practically
thanked all kinds of people, all the time. Margarita, the neighbor that watched
over her, the vato that stood outside the building all day with his hands in
his pocket, shaking hands with strangers all day, and the lady that sold
tamales in the morning. As if the powers that be had set everything up so that
she would be grateful for her lot in life. In the weekends they went to a
vocational school for four hours. Betsy would take her journal or a coloring
book and get lost in her imagination. Her mom on the other hand, sat, took
notes, turned in assignments, and asked the instructor a multitude of
questions. Mr. Ofoma knew she was a single mother working to get bye, so he’d
given her permission to have her daughter in the class. Betsy just sat there
working on binders that contained her drawings. At times she’d just sit there
and listen to Mr. Ofoma’s lecture. He, along with the other instructors saw
that Bella was different. She had gumption. She had the heart and commitment of
a marathon athlete. She wouldn’t stop, instead just kept going. At bed time
Bella would think of her parents back home. She wondered how they were doing.
She’d left her home at sixteen and had taken the trip north a few years back. They
would receive money from her at least once every two months.
-Break-
Her brother, Santos, had recently
arrived. He’d taken the train over here and spent a few months wandering around
to get to the US. She found it odd that along the way he’d been stranded by
several coyotes. Usually a coyote, a human trafficker, committed himself to
taking the person the whole trip till they reached a destination where a known
business associate would complete the adventure for them. His journey had been
different though, because after he managed to get to Guadalajara, he apparently
got stranded, and turned up in Mexico DF a few months later. All along he’d
call his loving sister and beg for money. Bella didn’t have much, but would
figure things out, like find a cleaning gig in West Los Angeles or help clean
the Laundromat that was two blocks away from her house on 3rd street.
Every ounce of sweat that came out of that 5 foot figure was worth more than
gold to her, since it was family that was being helped.
For Santos, it seemed that Bella had
made it in the U.S., since every time he found himself in a bind he’d just dial
the numbers and in a few days money filled both pockets. Santos was escaping
Honduras. His parents thought he’d moved out and had been working at a tobacco
company, which he had for a while, but he’d really started to gamble, drink and
hang out with the wrong crowd. Circumstances made it necessary for him to
relocate somewhere far, as soon as possible, hence his abrupt decision to head
north. It seemed that kind eyes were looking after him from above.
When Santos arrived in LA he was
sent to MacArthur Park to get his papers in order. Any person who had recently
crossed the border and need a fake identification card or green card went to
the park to get them- a bazar of illegal activities. He’d been walking north
along Alvarado Blvd. when suddenly he saw his elementary school friend, Jose,
who was standing by the corner of the Pharmacia Del Pueblo. He looked
different, but his facial features were distinguishable. He wasn’t wearing
shorts or was barefoot. Instead Nike Cortez protected those running feet, and
for some reason his hair was slicked back, like a cow lick. His brown slacks
were ironed clean as if a black pin stripe ran along the front and back of his
legs.
“Jose,
is that you? It’s me Santos from La Colonia Diego Garcia. We used to play ball.” Jose at first gave him a dirty look,
which turned into astonishment, which then transformed into familiarity.
“Santos,
wassup foo, wachu doin around here?”
“You
know, work,” replied Santos.
Occasionally going to buy toiletries at El
Piojito made Betsy familiar with the area, but she never really stuck around
the area since she was too busy with work. She had given Santos a small map
that she drew on a piece of paper. He knew he was near. Only a few more blocks
to go before reaching the place his sister said reliable green cards were sold.
He showed the sketch to Jose telling him he was sent to that location. Jose
looked at the paper and spat on the ground and his face had suddenly became
more wrinkled and his cold stare returned.
“Who
the fuck sent you there, ese?,” inquired Jose, with a hard nod to the skies
while keeping eye contact.
“My
sister said that’s where she got her papers,” replied Santos.
“Well your sister is wrong ese. No seas bayunco, si tienes pedo ponte listo cabron” Jose sounded
angry.
“Calmado, calmado,” said Santos slightly
raising his arms and showing Jose his palms. “Mira loco, I just got here and
all I am trying to do is get my papers to get a job. If you can help me with
that then I’ll be grateful.”
“How
much you got?,” he was asked.
“Pues,
this is what my sister gave me. She said I could get a mica,” he replied.
“Aver,”
there was a moment of pause before his voice broke through the sound of passing
cars, “esos cabrones te estan robaaando.
I sell papers much cheaper than that, vente
conmigo,” he swung his arm forward signaling Santos to follow him. Like a
blind man following another blind man, he followed.
-Break-
Santos returned home in the evening
and was unusually chatty, he kept talking about all sorts of things. Bella
already had dinner cooked for the three of them. It had been a long time since
he’d had yucca frita with chicharon, fried cassava with fried
pork, a common staple back in many Central American countries, and this for him
was a reminder that now he was with family. He ate his dinner and kept talking
about his adventure earlier that day. Bella ate her food and listened to
everything he was sharing. She found it odd that he just kept talking and
talking about how good the food was, but only once mentioned getting his
papers.
“Y la mica?,”she finally interjected.
He
paused for a moment and pulled out his green card. He was no longer Santos,
instead he was Arnoldo Toledo.
Every morning everyone seemed to
wake up after Bella took a shower, soon afterward Betsy would go into the
shower, where mom would scrub her down. Then it was Santos, who always woke up
last. He seemed to relish the extra hour from when Bella awoke. He knew he’d
have to cook his own breakfast. He’d been in LA two weeks and had yet to find a
job. He’d tell Bella that he was going out and meeting with old friends who
worked in factories, hotels and other odd places. Once he was outside, he’d
just disappear and merge with the crowds of people and the mid-day traffic,
everything being flooded by that bright Southern California light, and come
back home late in the evenings.
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