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Excerpt, Chapter Two, Part One

From Before the Alamo

By Florence Byham Weinberg

1821

Emilia paused in the middle of Main Plaza to squirt dust between her bare toes, delighting in the silky feel, the funny little geysers of dust. She inhaled mixed odors: cattle, horses, and human sweat from a man passing by with a spade over his shoulder. The driver of a team of oxen shouted for her to move out of the way. Unsurprised, Emilia stepped back, barely avoiding a fresh cow pile on one side and horse droppings on the other. Instead, she’d stepped on a sharp pebble, but she scarcely winced. Her feet were tough and well calloused. Sandals were for Sunday mass only.

Legs of horses trotting past gave her intermittent flashes of farmers’ booths around the perimeter of the plaza, busy as usual with shoppers, filled with fresh farm produce—but no Manuela, no Jacinta. Surely, her playmates should be there, in their usual meeting place.

She pictured them. Jacinta—like Emilia, seven, going on eight—was smaller than Emilia and wore her hair in two braids with a part dividing her head into halves. If Jacinta had two braids, why should she, Emilia, have only one down the middle of her back? Mamá had explained, “One takes half the time of two.” Manuela, eight already, was too fat and didn’t smile enough. You had to work to get her to smile.

Ah! There, by the booth selling ears of fresh corn, she saw Jacinta, one braid in her mouth, her head hanging. What could be the matter? A quick glance in both directions, and she skipped across to the booth.

¿Qué pasa, Jacinta? What’s wrong?”

“Manuela’s sick.”

“Sick? How?”

“She’s got a headache and a fever and she’s throwing up. They think it might be serious.”

“We’d better go and pray for her, Jacinta.”

“You go. I’m tired of praying.”

The church, the biggest and grandest building in Béxar de San Antonio, raised a tower to the sky across the plaza…

She entered the cool twilight of the church, listening to her soft footfalls as she moved close to the altar rail and knelt in a pew on the right side. Surely, prayers coming from there would be more powerful, would persuade God better, since they came from where the town’s hidalgos sat during mass. She bowed her head over clasped hands, but a black shadow made her jump. It left the sacristy and started across the sanctuary. The priest.

Father Zambrano stopped and squinted, raising his hand to shade his eyes. He must be blinded by the light coming from the entrance door. He must be looking for her, kneeling just a few steps away. He made a noise like a growl, descended from the altar, and strode to her side, like a great black bird of prey flapping in for a landing.

“You’re on the wrong side of the church, brat!” He had her ear, twisted it and pulled.

Emilia batted at his hand. “Ai! Ai!! You’re hurting me!” It hurt so much she had to follow him. He pulled up and she stood, then he dragged her, stumbling along while he hauled her across the aisle and shoved her into a pew on the left side of the church.

“That is where you belong. Stay there and don’t forget this lesson.”

“But why, Padre Zambrano?”

His angry eyes and red face made him ugly, and the broken veins on his potato-nose showed more than usual. “Because you’re half Indian. A coyota! You have no right to use pews reserved for your betters. Your father should have taught you that.”

Emilia, wiping at her tears, managed to choke out, “My f-father?”

He stared down at her, eyebrows raised, red nose still twitching. “Yes, your father, that proud lieutenant, Juan Andrés Altamirano. ¡Pah! ¡Gentuza! Rabble!” He whirled and stalked to the altar.

Emilia could think of nothing to say to God about Manuela after that. Señor Juan Andrés her father? Her twisted ear and her face, burning red with hurt and shame filled her mind, while the strange business about Señor Juan Andrés faded. She’d ask her mother about that.

But how could she ask her mother? By now, several days had passed. Padre Zambrano had told her that her father was Señor Juan Andrés Altamirano, the man she saw every day, the man for whom she and her mother labored. Fathers loved their children. They protected them, played with them. But Andrés had always kept his distance and sometimes he’d even been mean.

The whole subject scared her. She wanted to know and yet drew back from truth. Why did Andrés behave as he did? That man surely couldn’t be her father.

She busied herself in other things. As she entered the plaza, she danced her joy in the cool spring day. Across the way, the churchyard glowed with bright, multicolored zinnias and petunias, where two older girls had come to play. In the shadow of the church, Juana and Chipita skipped rope. They had never played with her, but Emilia decided to approach them. She stepped forward. “May I have a turn, too?”

The two nicely dressed, pale-skinned girls let the rope drag in the dirt. They stared at her.

Chipita spoke first. “Go away.”

Juana lowered her eyelids and looked down her nose. “Who are you, slave girl, to mess with us and our games?”

“I’m no slave girl! I want to be friends and jump rope like you.”

Juana took up the rope and began to jump, chanting. “Slave girl! Slave girl! Nothing but a slave girl!”

Emilia’s voice betrayed her hurt. “Why do you call me a slave girl?”

Chipita explained. “You aren’t like us. Your mother is a slave and so are you.”

The two sisters again took up the “Slave girl!” chorus as they passed the rope back and forth, skipping. Emilia, tempted to cry but not wanting her tormentors to know, turned her back and walked as straight as she could down the street.

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