A SOILED YELLOWED ENVELOPE
The next morning, when they were at the breakfast table, Jo Ann suggested
that they go down to the goat ranch to see if they could get some milk to
take to Pepito. “Do you want to go this time, Peg?”
“We-ell, if I thought I’d get to see your mysterious boy, I’d go.”
“I don’t think you’d see him, because he and the father are going back up
the mountain to finish making their charcoal.”
“Well, I’ll stay here, then. You two go on.”
After they had washed the dishes and finished their other tasks, Florence
and Jo Ann set out toward the goat ranch, Jo Ann swinging a bucket on her
arm.
When they came in sight of the little pink adobe house, Florence
remarked, “While we’re here getting the milk, I believe I’ll see if I can
buy some corn to take to the cave family for their _tortillas_.”
“Good idea,” approved Jo Ann.
After they had exchanged greetings with the woman at the house, Florence
asked about the milk and corn, explaining their reason for wanting them.
“Poor little boy,” the woman exclaimed. “I give you some milk to take to
him. It is not the kind of milk you get—it’s goat’s milk.”
Florence explained her answers to Jo Ann, adding, “That’ll suit Pepito
better, anyway. He’s probably never tasted cow’s milk.”
After the woman had filled the bucket and had given them several ears of
corn, they started off toward the cave.
As they neared the cave opening, Florence remarked, “The family’s here
this time. I smell food cooking. I’m glad we brought that down last
night, aren’t you?”
Jo Ann nodded an emphatic assent.
In a few more moments they stepped into the entrance of the cave.
The mother looked up quickly, then smiled broadly as she recognized the
girls. “Ah, good morning, friends.”
“How’s Pepito this morning?” Florence asked a moment later.
“Much better.” Her face was beaming. “He ate much of the food that you
brought.”
“That’s fine. We brought you some corn for your _tortillas_ and some milk
for Pepito. He must eat lots and drink much milk, then he will get
strong.”
The mother caught hold of Florence’s hand, saying, “A thousand thanks,
señorita.”
With a smile of greeting to the family, Jo Ann crossed over to Pepito,
who was lying on the _petate_ beside the baby watching his grandmother
knot a long slender fiber rope.
“What are you doing?” Jo Ann asked the grandmother curiously, after she
had talked a moment.
“Making bags for the charcoal,” she replied.
“But how can you——” she began, then, not knowing the word for carry, she
called over to Florence, “Does she mean they’re going to carry charcoal
in that thing? I should think it’d fall through such big holes.”
Florence came over beside Jo Ann and smilingly translated her question
into Spanish.
“No, it won’t fall through,” Pepito replied earnestly. He raised up and
took the partly finished bag from his grandmother and held it up for Jo
Ann to see. “The charcoal is big. We pack it with much care, and it no
fall through these holes,” he added, shaking his head.
“They fasten a large bag of charcoal on each side of the burro so that
all you can see is his long ears sticking out between the bags,” Florence
explained. “It looks as if the bags of charcoal were walking down the
road.”
After watching how deftly the grandmother’s gnarled old hands tied the
knots in the wiry rope, Jo Ann said, “I’d like to have a hammock made
like that. Ask her, Florence, if she could make me a long strip that I
could use for a hammock. Tell her I’ll buy it from her.”
“All right. You catch hold of one end of the strip and I the other, and
we’ll show her exactly what you mean.”
After Florence had translated Jo Ann’s request and the two girls had
demonstrated their meaning by gestures, the grandmother’s brown wrinkled
face began to beam. She took the strip from them, saying, “_Sí, sí._ I
understand. I finish this one for you. You have been so good—you give us
back our Pepito.”
“Oh, but you need these bags for the charcoal right away,” put in Jo Ann,
who had caught the meaning of the grandmother’s words. “Tell her I’m not
in a hurry for the hammock. I can wait till after they sell the
charcoal.”
After Florence had passed this remark on, the grandmother replied, “I
make you one. When my son sell the charcoal, he will bring me more rope.”
After talking for a few minutes more Jo Ann remarked to Florence, “Ask
the mother something more about Carlitos, now. If he isn’t their child,
ask her where they got him and what nationality he is—he doesn’t
understand English.”
Florence began to laugh. “Hold on! I can’t ask all of those questions at
once. I’m a little dubious about asking any at all. They don’t seem to
like to talk about him.”
“Yes, I know, but I’ve got to find out about him.”
“We-ell, I’ll see what I can find out, but I can’t promise you much.”
Florence walked back to the mother, who was cooking beans over the fire
in the middle of the cave. After chatting with her awhile she tactfully
brought up the subject of Carlitos. “How long has Carlitos lived with
you?”
“Oh, for a long time. He is as one of our family.”
“How old was he when you took him?”
“Like Rosita over there.” The mother gestured toward the smaller one of
the two little girls.
Florence glanced over at the child, who, she judged, must be about a year
and a half old. So Carlitos had been with this family about seven years,
she thought. “Where is his mother?” she asked.
“Ah, she died and left her baby with me. I was his nurse.”
“That was too bad. Wasn’t there any relative to take him?”
The woman shook her head. “No one.”
The thought darted through Florence’s mind that perhaps after all
Carlitos was American or English. Since he had been so young when he was
taken into this family, he could not have remembered any of his native
language.
“Was his mother an American?” she asked.
“Yes, and she was so good to me and so beautiful. She had eyes of blue
just like Carlitos’.”
Just then Jo Ann crossed over to Florence’s side. “Did I hear right? Did
she say Carlitos was an American?”
“Yes.”
“So I was right at first about his not being a Mexican. What else did she
say?”
Florence quickly recounted all that the mother had told her.
When she had finished, Jo Ann said, “Well, there’s something queer about
a beautiful American woman leaving her baby with an ignorant Indian
nurse. Ask her where his father is. That child’s bound to have some
relatives somewhere. Looks strange to me that, as poor as this family is,
they’d keep Carlitos when they can hardly feed their own children.”
“Well, all right, I’ll ask her. She doesn’t seem to mind talking about
him today as much as she did yesterday.”
Florence turned to the mother. “Why did you have to keep Carlitos when
you have so many children? Where was his father?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know. He no come back.”
“Where did he go?”
“To the mine. The beautiful American woman go every day to watch for her
husband, but he no come. It was cold, and she got sick. She had much
cough, and one day she died.”
To the girls’ surprise the woman walked over to the grandmother and began
talking in a low, rapid voice. The grandmother nodded and smiled over at
the girls.
“She said something about us, or the grandmother wouldn’t have looked
over at us that way,” said Jo Ann. “At least she’s smiling—that’s
encouraging.”
They noticed the woman go over into a dark recess, then come back
shortly. In the light of the fire they could see that she held a soiled
yellowed envelope in her hand.
On coming closer the woman said earnestly, “You are American like his
_mamá_ and _papá_. You have been good to us like they were.” She touched
Florence on the cheek first, then Jo Ann. “And you are beautiful like his
_mamá_.”
She held up a sealed envelope. “His _mamá_ give this to me. I keep it for
Carlitos. When he get big, I give it to him.”
Florence took the envelope into her hand. She uttered a little gasp.
“Why, this is a letter! It is addressed to a man in New York.” She read
the name out loud. “Mr. E. P. Eldridge.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake!” exclaimed Jo Ann. “Why didn’t she mail that?”
Not stopping to listen to Jo Ann, Florence asked the woman quickly, “Is
Carlitos’ name Eldridge—Carlitos Eldridge?”
The woman hesitated a moment; then, after Florence had repeated the name
Eldridge several times, she nodded her head. “Yes, I think that was the
name. It has been many years—I forget.”
“This is a letter. Why didn’t you put it in the mail?”
The woman looked blank at this question.
“Didn’t Carlitos’ mother tell you to put this in the mail?” Florence
asked.
“No. His _mamá_ speak very little Spanish. She only been in Mexico a
little time. When she was dying she give this to me and tell me, ‘No let
big mean man get this.’”
“Who was the big mean man?” Florence asked, puzzled at this new turn in
her story.
The woman broke into a confused account which Florence later translated
to Jo Ann. “I can’t make out exactly what she’s talking about, but she
says some big man who had something to do with the mine was mean to
Carlitos’ mother after her husband had disappeared. She said they were
all afraid of him.”
“But that’s no excuse for her not mailing the letter,” Jo Ann said.
“All she understood was to keep this from that man,” Florence explained.
“She’d never seen a letter before in her life. She couldn’t read or
write. And the American woman couldn’t explain it to her, you know. The
only other people at this mine were Indian peons like themselves, so
there was no one she could go to.”
“It’s hard to realize that she didn’t know what a letter was when she saw
one,” Jo Ann remarked, then looked down at the envelope with renewed
interest. “I wish we dared to open this and read it, but of course we
can’t do that.”
“No; the only thing for us to do is to mail it now.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Jo Ann replied quickly. “It might get lost. It
has to be carried so far before it even gets to a postoffice. Besides,
it’s about seven years since this letter was written. Why not write a
letter to this address explaining the situation?”
Florence pondered over this plan a moment, then spoke up briskly: “I have
a better idea than that. I’ll write to Daddy and explain it all to him
and have him telegraph to this Mr. Eldridge in New York. That’ll save
lots of time.”
“You’re right, it certainly will.”
Florence turned and explained to the woman that she and Jo Ann were going
to send word to this man whose name was written on the envelope. “It may
help Carlitos,” she ended.
“Ah, you are so good to want to help Carlitos,” the woman exclaimed.
“I wish we could find something to write this address on, but we can’t,”
said Florence. “We must look at it very carefully so as to be sure we get
it right.”
Both girls read and reread the address, then repeated it aloud to each
other.
“Now let’s hurry and get home before we forget it,” said Jo Ann.
After a hasty “_Adios_” to the family, the two hurried out of the cave.