LITMIR.BIZ

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California earth? This precious land. I ask you!”

      Michael heard the pleading hidden in the boisterous exclamation and it broke his heart. His father was a proud man, raised harshly as an orphan by his relatives in Mexico. At twenty-two he brought his family to America because a bachelor uncle had died and left a small piece of California land to his only living nephew. From the moment he’d seen the fertile valley, Luis Mondragon’s life had had purpose. He’d turned a deaf ear to the many lucrative offers for the land and held on tight to his future—a risky move for a poor Mexican with three hungry children.

      When he’d saved enough money, Luis had moved his ragtag family to the suburbs and established a modest lawn maintenance company. He slaved in suburban yards from dawn till sundown seven days a week, like a huge bull in the harness. Luis hated the suburbs, but Marta had wanted the good “gringo” schools where the nuns would teach her children the same things as white children. Besides, what could he do? The suburbs was where the money was. The people liked his wit and strong back, and his business thrived. When the boys grew older they helped run the mowers and hedge clippers, working for a pittance.

      Though his father may have been cheap with a dollar, he was very generous with his knowledge. Like his precious nursery, he nurtured his boys, teaching Roberto and Miguel about the soil, stock and the family secrets for a vigorous plant. Every spare penny earned went back to the land. When at last he could begin a nursery, he sold only a few select plants, just the ones his customers were likely to buy. Then, slowly, with his twinkling eyes and infectious laughter, he teased his customers to “try something a little bit different, no?” Plant by plant, Luis built the reputation of the Mondragon nursery, and Michael knew it had to break the old man’s heart to see a lifetime of struggle strangled by heat, drought and competition. Looking at his face now, he saw how the drought had coursed new crevices in his father’s handsome face as well.

      “What would you have me do, Papa?” he asked simply.

      His father searched his face, then relaxed with a satisfied, proud grin. “Ah, Miguel. You are a true son to me. Sí! I see so much of me in you.”

      Michael stepped back from the bear hug, rebelling against the comparison. He wasn’t like his father. Not at all. “Papa…”

      “You see, Marta?” Luis interrupted, tightening his possessive arm around Michael’s shoulders. The force of his will flowed through him. “I told you my son would help me. I have one good son.”

      Michael met his mother’s gaze over his father’s head.

      “No, Luis,” she replied somberly. “You have two good sons.”

      

      When the feast was prepared, the family gathered around the long, dark wood table while Marta served the family favorites with pride. Ceviche, roast leg of pork in adobe sauce, corn pudding and green rice. For dessert, Marta insisted on no less than four cakes with fresh strawberries and cream.

      “Sit down now, Marta,” bellowed Luis. “Enough! You run like a rabbit. It makes me tired just to watch. Sit! It is time to eat.”

      Clucking her tongue while scanning the table for any missing salt shakers, butter or salsa, Marta reluctantly took her seat beside Luis.

      While Luis led the family in prayer, Michael studied the faces collected at the table. His family reflected Mexico’s rich and diverse history. His father was still a virile, handsome man. Tall, with dark hair boldly streaked with gray and heavy, bushy brows. His mother, Marta, had skin as fair and glowing as the Madonna in the May holy card pictures she adored. Her brown and gray hair, rolled smoothly back into a bun, accentuated the delicate, patrician features that reflected her Spanish descent.

      His brother, Bobby, was the most like her. His hair was as blond as hers once was, his skin as light and his frame as delicate. His cocky smile carved deep dimples into a face already over-blessed with good looks. His sister, Rosa, was also fair. But to her lifelong dismay, she was tall and wide in the shoulders, like himself and their father, a large woman able to lift heavy machinery and do a man’s day of work. Luis had often complained bitterly to Marta that she had somehow gotten the genes between Bobby and Rosa mixed up.

      Michael grew up knowing that of all the family, his features were the most Indian-like. Unusually tall, like his father, his skin was the darkest, his hair the coarsest and his face as severely chiseled as any Mayan statue. Of the three Mondragon children, only he’d been given a nasty push from behind by the local suburban boys after school.

      “We do not come together every Christmas,” began Luis, his dark eyes gleaming white against terra cotta skin as he stood at the table, a glass of wine held in a toast.

      “We are together—as a family should be.” His gaze scanned the family, one by one, settling firmly on Michael.

      “A la familia!”

      “To the family!” Michael replied in English, covertly catching Bobby’s amused glance.

      “You look good,” Bobby said later, his eyes openly appreciating Michael’s black jacket, crisp white shirt and knitted silk tie. Bobby had always been the sharp dresser and used to chide Michael pitilessly while growing up. “Armani, huh? Where are the worn jeans, the mismatched socks, and God…remember the leather jacket?”

      “Of course,” he replied with a wistful smile. “Wish I still had it.”

      When he was young he’d always worn a shirt, even in the summer, so his already dark skin wouldn’t darken more. He could still remember how hot and sweaty he got working in the yards, covered up, while watching pale-skinned boys run and play in cool T-shirts. He’d saved every penny he earned, not buying a candy or seeing a movie, in order to buy himself that leather jacket, and it had become a second skin.

      “Man, I loved that jacket.”

      “Maybe, but that one’s not too shabby. Los gringos in Chicago finally taught you how to dress?”

      Michael smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. Truth was, clothes didn’t matter to him in the least. As long as it was well cut and black, he was satisfied. What mattered to him was how pale and thin his brother looked. Bobby’s clothes hung from him as limply as from a wire hanger.

      “You feeling all right, big brother?” Michael leaned over and asked, concern in his lowered voice.

      A shadow flickered in Bobby’s eyes, then, as quickly, disappeared. “The flu,” he replied with a casual smile. His gaze darted to his mother. “It’s been going around.”

      “Sí, it is terrible,” Marta exclaimed. “Everybody is getting it. One of those terrible new bugs. From China.” She crossed herself. “Be careful, Miguel, you don’t get it, too.”

      “Ha!” Bobby barked out a laugh.

      Luis glared at him, his spoon halted before his tightly closed lips. Bobby’s smile quickly vanished and he seemed to withdraw inwardly.

      After the four cakes were served and the coffee was poured, the family gathered around the tree, as they did every Christmas Eve, to hand out a few special “parent-child” gifts.

      “Bobby, you are eldest. You be Santa’s helper,” ordered Luis.

      “Glad to, Papa,” Bobby replied with enthusiasm.

      Michael watched with affection as his elder brother donned a red Santa’s cap and let loose a hearty round of “ho-ho-ho’s” before handing out the gifts. Although he made a pitifully thin Santa, Bobby was not above playing up the part for the sake of his niece and nephew. The children squealed with delight.

      “Enough! Don’t be a fool, horsing around,” Luis barked.

      Bobby’s shoulders drew back, but he smiled urbanely. “God bless us, everyone. Even you, old Scrooge.”

      Luis grumbled as he shifted in his seat.

      Bobby pressed on with enthusiasm, shaking the children’s gifts and making them guess. Everyone, save Luis, laughed

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