When Father returned home early from his annual contracting trip to Mississippi that summer of 1948, I knew something was wrong. He had come home early before, sometimes
even at the end of August if the cotton season was poor, a result of weather or pest infestation or competition from other crews. That summer, he returned home at the peak of cotton season, the beginning of July, a full three months before we expected him.
I was lounging on the front porch swing noisily fanning myself with my
True Confession magazine, peeved at Terre's comment that I shouldn't be reading such trash, when I heard the squeal of tires. I saw a cloud of dust following Father's green Ford pickup as it rolled down the bumpy street toward our house.
"Really, Isa," my sister lectured, "if you must read someone's confession, read St. Augustine and edify your spirit." She lifted the college theology textbook from her lap pointing at the chapter on St. Augustine's
Confessions.
I scowled at her, ignoring her ridiculous comment. "It's Papá," I said, setting my magazine down. I reached for my flats and slipped them on.
My sister, who was sitting on one of our two white Adirondack chairs, glanced at the street. "I wonder what he's doing here," she said, her face scrunched in a mixture of disdain and curiosity. "I'll go get Mamá." She set the bulky textbook on the arm of her chair, then rose, smoothed out the skirt of her red polka dot dress, and promptly disappeared into the house.
As the screen door slammed, Father pulled into our earthen driveway, the ground packed smooth under the tires, a knoll of grass swiping up the middle of the drive. I rearranged my sundress straps and rushed down the porch steps to greet him just as the five o'clock train whistle sounded at the Vanburg Packing Shed. The rumble of iron against iron began to grow until I could feel the earth tremble. We lived on the north side of the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, the Mexican side of Ruby, a small town in the lower Río Grande Valley of Texas, and though the clamor of trains was as familiar to me as my mother's voice, that day I felt as if it were heralding a warning.
