“Ah,” Rosa said, turning and raising her spoon. She came over to Hudson and rubbed her nose against his and he laughed, squeezing her cheeks in his pudgy hands. When she pulled away she was laughing, too. “No wonder you are so fierce, little one. You have the blood of champions inside you—Vikings and great Mayan warriors.” She winked at me and used her finger to tickle Hudson under his chin, which sent him into more peals of laughter.
“Gloria,” Rosa called as she returned to the stove. “Could I beg you for your assistance getting started with the tamales?” She spoke in Spanish and my mama paused momentarily but then stood and went to stand beside Rosa where they began stuffing the tamales and placing them in the steamer. I watched for a long moment as Rosa spoke softly to my mama, causing her to laugh—though shortly—and give her a shy smile.
I stood to take the husks I’d piled up to Rosa, and Mrs. Sawyer held her arms out. “I can take Hudson,” she offered. I handed him over, which was helpful, so I had both hands free to work. I didn’t want to put him down since he was walking like a little pro, and he’d only get underfoot. Thankfully, he seemed happy enough to remain in my arms, probably because of all the new faces in the room. When I was done with the corn husks, I’d take him outside so he could play. He was obviously entranced by the water guns.
As I was standing at the sink looking out of the back window, I saw Tracie come around the corner of the house. I’d known she was coming by to pick up her two-week check as she’d accidentally left it on the table by the door when she’d left on Monday.
I opened my mouth to tell Preston she was here when Rosa’s oldest boy, Joaquin, shot out of the bushes with a bucket of water in his hands and threw it at Tracie, drenching her completely. I gasped at the same time Tracie let out a short scream, and we all froze, although they didn’t know I was watching them.
“Oh, shit,” Joaquin said. “I mean, oh crap. Damn. Oh . . . shit.”
Tracie blinked at him, her mouth in an O shape, her white shirt clinging to her, clearly showing the white bra beneath. Joaquin’s eyes looked down and then back up, taking in Tracie’s wet frame. His mouth opened, and then he looked her up and down once more. I put my hand to my mouth so as not to giggle, and Preston and Rosa, who had heard me gasp, joined me at the window where they quickly took in the situation, too.
“I thought you were my brother,” Joaquin said.
Tracie took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not your brother.”
“No,” Joaquin gave her a bashful half smile, “you’re most definitely not.”
Tracie’s eyes widened, and she paused for a second, looking him up and down as if just noticing he was a very cute, very repentant boy who was staring at her in a way that said he’d noticed she was a very pretty girl. I was almost positive we were watching the beginning of a love connection.
“Rosa,” I murmured, “how old is Joaquin?”
“He’ll be nineteen in June,” she said. “He took a year off school, but he starts at an art college in San Francisco in the fall.”
“Art college?” Preston asked. “Did he by any chance draw the mural at Abuelo’s?”
“He did,” Rosa said, sounding surprised.
“He’s very, very good.” The intensely earnest note in Preston’s tone caused me to glance at him.
“Yes, he is. Abuelo Juan says he has an old soul, though I watch him play water guns with his brothers and I wonder about that.”
We all turned as Joaquin led a soaked Tracie into the kitchen, and I ran to get her some towels. When I returned, she began to dry off and the younger boys burst in, laughing and ribbing their brother about his water gun faux pas, obviously taking great pleasure in their brother’s embarrassment.
“Tracie, if you want to go up and use my blow dryer, you’re welcome to,” Mrs. Sawyer said. I looked at her and then frowned.
“Where’s Hudson?”
“Oh,” she said, looking down and turning. “He was just here.”
We all began looking around for him as Preston called his name. “I’ll check the stairs,” he said, his jaw tight. “He’s obsessed with trying to get up and down them by himself.”
Preston walked quickly from the kitchen and that’s when I noticed the cracked back door and my heart plummeted.
In one instant, I was standing near the table and then I was at the open door, looking out into the backyard where my newly walking son was at the edge of the yard, toddling toward the rows of farmland, right into the direct path of a giant piece of equipment that looked as if it was spreading something. Whatever it was, Hudson was heading straight toward it and the machine wasn’t slowing down.
I didn’t remember going down the two outdoor steps, didn’t remember beginning to run, but suddenly the wind was whipping at my face and my chest was burning, and time slowed, as I waved my arms and yelled at the top of my lungs to the driver, who seemed to be looking at something on the floor of where he was sitting high up in the driver’s seat, the piece of equipment far too loud for him to hear anything else except the roar of the engine.
And Hudson was too close to it to hear me screaming either.
Dios Mío, dios Mío, mi hijo. It was going to run over my baby. It was going to hit him. Oh dear God, no, por favor. No, please, no please, dios Mío no.
I wasn’t going to make it. I wouldn’t reach him in time. My only chance was to plow into Hudson and throw him out of the way. It was my only chance, but I was still so far away. With one mighty burst of adrenalin, I shot onto the soft dirt of the farmland.
It happened in the space of three heartbeats. Hudson suddenly paused and reached his hand out, turned left, still in the path of the machine, but heading away from it now, just enough, just the two inches that gave me a burst of hope. My body slammed into his tiny one as I used my arms to push him with all my might right before I crashed to the ground hard and curled into a ball, rolling to the side as far as I could with the wind knocked from my lungs.
I waited for the crushing pressure of the wheels, but they moved right past me. I felt the heat from the huge machine as the brakes squeaked and shuddered and came to a stop next to where I lay on my side in the dirt.
I was crying and shaking and sucking in huge gulps of air. The driver had finally seen us.
Footsteps pounded the earth and someone was scooping me into his arms. “The baby,” I cried. “The baby.”
“Joaquin’s got him,” Preston said, his voice raspy and panicked. “He’s okay. He’s crying—a nice, strong cry. He sounds mad. Can you hear him?” Yes, I could. The cry that told me he’d been scared but not injured. I knew his every cry. I was his mother. I was his mother. “He sounds like the night he was born, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he, Lia? That strong, fierce wail. He’s okay. You saved his life. You saved him, Annalia.”
“Holy shit!” I heard as the driver of the truck rushed to where I lay in the dirt. “Man, I only looked down for a minute. The gas pedal was sticking and I . . . fuck, I didn’t even see them.” He sounded almost as panicked as Preston.