How did a person tell children their father was dead? Now Rebekah knew how Mudder had felt six years ago when she had to tell not two but five kinner that Daed was gone. She peeked into the kitchen. Lupe sat at the table with Hazel and Diego. They were drawing with crayons. Hazel and Diego chattered and giggled as if something had happened too funny for words. Lupe might feel too old for such an activity, but it didn’t show. She had great patience, it seemed, for the younger children, praising Diego’s tree and helping Hazel with her kitty cat.
“You want me to tell them?” Tobias removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve had some experience with this.”
“I have more Spanish.” She inched into his space, longing for a touch that would soothe the pain she felt at being the bearer of this bad news. “I’ll start with Lupe. Diego is too young to remember his daed. It won’t mean much to him. Lupe remembers.”
“And she had hope of having a parent here, family, in this new country.”
“Now she’ll have no one.”
“She’ll have us.”
The promise in those words made her smile. “No sense in putting it off.”
“I’ll wait outside. Come find me when you’re done.” His gaze warmed her more than any fireplace blaze. “I have something to ask you.”
Again, a promise in the words.
“Until then.” With a quickly breathed prayer, she marched into the room. “Time for bed. Hazel, you and Diego run upstairs and get ready for prayers. I have to talk to Lupe.”
Lupe began to stack the papers. “See pretty pictures we make?”
“They’re very pretty.”
Lupe looked up, one hand suspended in air. “You have something to tell me.”
A perceptive child. “I do.”
“You find out something in San Antonio?”
“We did.”
“We have to go jail.”
“Nee, nee.” Rebekah slid into a chair across the table from her. “It’s about your daed.”
Lupe ducked her head and slipped the crayons into the box one by one. “You find him?”
“Jah.”
Lupe’s gaze darted around the room. “He didn’t come for us? He didn’t want to see us? Why you not tell Diego? I go get Diego.”
She popped from her chair. Rebekah grabbed her arm before she could slip by. A tear slid down Lupe’s cheek and teetered on her upper lip. “He not come.”
“He’s dead, Lupe. He’s gone.”
Lupe sank against Rebekah’s chest and buried her head in her shoulder. “No, no, he not dead. He here waiting for us. He take us to California. We live by ocean. We eat pescado and pick up shells.”
“Did he tell you that in a letter?”
“No, Abuela tell me that. She said find him and we go to California. We eat fish from the ocean. That’s what she said.”
The tears soaked Rebekah’s dress. She tightened her arms around Lupe and began to rock. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll stay with us and we’ll eat fish from Choke Canyon Lake and go swimming in the Gulf of Mexico. We’ll find shells there and glue them on wood in pretty patterns. We’ll eat deep-fried shrimp and fried pickles. You’ll see. You’ll like it.”
The tears subsided into an occasional hiccupping sob. Lupe raised her head. “What happened to Papa? He sick?”
If telling Lupe that her daed was dead had been hard, this was even harder. He risked everything to come to this land of opportunity, this land of plenty, only to suffer a terrible, painful death at the hands of criminals, the likes of which there were plenty back home. “They said some men where he was staying robbed him and beat him up. He died.”
“Bad men.”
“Jah, bad men, not the bad men you know, but bad men.”
Lupe grabbed a dish towel from the table and wiped her face. She sniffed. “We bury him?”
Another piece of information that would be like a knife in this young girl’s heart. “He’s already buried.” She didn’t need the details. Buried in a pauper’s grave because no one claimed the body. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I tell Abuela. I write letter.” Her face solemn, Lupe picked up a piece of paper and pushed away from Rebekah. “She should know her son dead.”
Yes, her son. “You want me to help you?”
Lupe shook her head. “I write. You read then.”
“I’ll make you some tea.”
As if tea could ease the aching heart of a child who now had no mother and no father. A child far from home and from the one family member on whom she’d always depended. Rebekah made the tea and sat with Lupe while she wrote, slowly, carefully, the tip of her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth, her cheeks wet with tears she didn’t pause to wipe away. Time passed but she didn’t stop and Rebekah didn’t dare interrupt. Mordecai came to the door. She shook her head and he slipped away.
The clock read after ten when Lupe finally looked up, dropped the pen on the table, and shoved the paper toward Rebekah. “You read.”
“Are you sure? It’s private.”
Lupe cocked her head, her expression puzzled. “You family.”
“I’ll read and then I’ll put it in an envelope for you. Come here.” She hugged Lupe hard, patted her back, and let her hand slide down the child’s soft hair. “You and Diego will be fine. I promise.” She whispered the words into her ear. “We’ll tell him tomorrow, okay?”
Lupe leaned back so Rebekah could see her face. “We fine with you. We stay with you and Tobias.”
Rebekah nodded and said a silent prayer that Gott would help her keep that promise. “Get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute and we’ll say prayers.”
“I pray to stay with you and Tobias. Tobias is hombre bueno.”
“He is hombre bueno. That’s a good prayer.”
There were so many bad men in the world, it seemed. To cling to one of the good ones was a special blessing. Looking much older than her twelve years, Lupe patted Rebekah’s face. “Buenas noches. Díos te bendiga.”
Good night and God bless you.
Rebekah waited until Lupe left the kitchen, shuffling her feet like an old lady, to pick up the letter. It was written in such simple Spanish, she was able to understand most of it. Tear splotches ran some of the ink, making it hard to decipher in a few places. She picked up the towel Lupe had used so she wouldn’t add to the mess.
Dear Abuela,
Here we are in America. We are safe with a family that is Amish. They take care of us. They try to help us. They try to find Papa. I’m sad to tell you that Papa is dead. I know this makes you sad and I’m sorry I am not there to give you a hug and cry with you. I think he is in heaven. Bad men killed him. They will not go to heaven, I think. He is buried in a nice place with pretty flowers and shade trees. Please don’t be sad for me and Diego. We will be good here with Rebekah and Tobias. They will take care of us. They won’t let the bad men get us. They let us make pupusas and curtido. Rebekah teaches me to bake bread and plant tomatoes. We will learn English and go to school. Diego had a mouse named Pedro for a pet but he ran away. Now he has a turtle named Tomas. Turtles can’t run away. Little boys need pets. I don’t need a pet. I wish for us to be together, but I know we can’t. Don’t worry. We will make our way here like you wanted us to do. We will have the good life you wanted us to have. I will write again when I have better news.
Besos y abrazos,
Guadalupe
Kisses and hugs. Lupe had embellished her father’s burial place with flowers and shade trees, but Rebekah didn’t begrudge her this. Or her grandmother. She folded the letter in thirds with shaking fingers and slid it into the envelope. Tomorrow Lupe could address it and together they would go to the post office and mail it.
Then Lupe and Diego would start their new life. Whatever it took, Rebekah would make sure they had that. She and Tobias together would make it possible.
Time to go see what Tobias wanted to ask her. Time to see about her own new life.