Firefly Summer

  FIREFLY

  SUMMER

  PURA BELPRÉ

  This volume is made possible through grants from the Rockefeller Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts (a federal agency), the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and the Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund.

  Piñata Books are full of surprises!

  Piñata Books

  An Imprint of Arte Público Press

  University of Houston

  452 Cullen Performance Hall

  Houston, Texas 77204-2004

  Cover illustration and design by Kath Christensen

  Belpré, Pura,

  Firefly summer / by Pura Belpré.

  p. cm.

  Summary: At a plantation in rural Puerto Rico around the turn of the century the foreman pursues the mystery surrounding his family.

  ISBN 1-55885-174-7 (clothbound : alk. paper). —

  ISBN 978-1-55885-180-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  [1. Puerto Rico—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B4196F1 1996

  [Fic]—dc20

  96-15679

  CIP

  AC

  The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984.

  Copyright © 1996 by Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños,

  Hunter College of the City University of New York

  Printed in the United States of America

  8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  For Lala

  She came that summer, and her laughter was to Grandmother as bright and merry as the dance of the fireflies on a dark night.…

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  1. Teresa

  2. The Trip to the Finca

  3. The Feast of the Cross

  4. Pomarosas

  5. Mercedes

  6. Pig Sty

  7. Work Can Be Fun

  8. Shopping Trip

  9. Fiesta

  10. 26 Tamarindo

  11. Ramón Santiago

  12. Hurricane!

  13. Aftermath

  14. Lucio’s Surprise

  15. Adiós—Farewell

  FIREFLY

  SUMMER

  CHAPTER 1

  TERESA

  It was recess time, and the front yard of the Baldorioty Grammar School in San Juan, Puerto Rico, was filled with a boisterous crowd of children, laughing and punching one another in an effort to get a glimpse of two lists of names posted on the bulletin board.

  Teresa pushed through the group, elbowing her way until she reached the front. She could see the lists plainly now: one for the seventh and the other for the eighth grade, both representing the names of students who because of unusual school work during the year had been exempt from final examinations. She had waited for this opportunity, wishing and hoping she would make the list. Today she wanted it more than ever, for in her pocket was a letter from her grandmother, and the news it bore made her wish she were at home with her once more. Someone gave her a push which almost unbalanced her. She shot a fierce look at the two offenders who, standing on their toes, were scanning the lists, unaware of anybody else in the group. “Eighth graders,” she said to herself, “the same pair who think they own the school.” She regained her position and began to read the seventh-grade list. It had two rows of names. The first row was made mostly of boys’ names. Her eyes followed the second row. She recognized many of the names: Milagros Santos, Eugenia Urrutia, María Hostos, Isabel Campos, and then her heart gave a jump which made her shut and open her eyes. There, between Fausto Milán and Rey Pino, was her name: Teresa Rodrigo. She looked at it intently, afraid she had made a mistake. The name was written so small, that it almost seemed like an afterthought. But it was real, her name was up, and the news in Grandmother’s letter suddenly took on a new meaning. What difference did it make now if her uncle and aunt were away for two weeks and could not take her home? She would not stay in San Juan even if she had to go home alone. Relieved and happy, she turned to face the pushing crowd of children again. There was a solid barricade of them now, for the youngest ones, who had brothers or sisters or even first and second cousins in the school, had come to see if any of them had made the lists. She was tossed like a rubber ball every time she made an effort to break the line. The children shouted and laughed and held their ground with every fresh start she made. But she was determined to go through, and that she finally did. She rushed towards the great stairway that led up to Luna Street. Across from it was her aunt’s home, where she lived when attending the city school.

  “Teresa! Wait Teresa!” Six girls overtook her in the middle of the stairs.

  “Come with us,” said Angelina. “There is a large ship in the harbor. It came all the way from South America, and they are letting visitors in. It’s sailing back late tonight. We’re going to visit it after school.”

  Teresa shook her head and continued to climb the stairs.

  “Oh, come along,” said Mercedes, her chum and constant companion after school hours. “You have nothing else to do.”

  “I am not interested,” said Teresa, “and I do have something else to do. Didn’t you see my name in the list of exemptions, Mercedes? That means no more school for me. I’m on my way home.”

  “Home? This is only recess time,” said Angelina.

  “For you sixth graders,” said Teresa. She ran up the rest of the way, leaving the girls wondering about her behavior. Even Mercedes was surprised and could not make her out. It was not like Teresa to miss a trip to the bay.

  Teresa stopped at the entrance hall and re-read her grandmother’s letter. It reassured her confidence. But what would Juana say when she heard of her new plan? She folded up the letter and climbed to the second floor where she lived.

  Teresa’s real home was a finca in the highlands, between Cayey and Cidra. There she lived with her parents and a maternal grandmother, besides Ramón, the boy who had come to live with them when he was six-years old and she only three. She was tall for her thirteen and one half years, with brown eyes that flashed at the least cause of excitement and a mop of thick black hair, which she wore in two braids tied together in the back with ribbons.

  She tried the wrought-iron gate and found it locked. “Juana must be in the kitchen on the other side of the house,” she thought.

  “Juana! Juana!” she called, rattling the gate. She could hear her now, her heels clicking on the floor. Juana was her aunt’s housekeeper, cook, maid and dressmaker all rolled into one. Her authority in the house was never disputed; it was as good as law. No one knew that better than she did, for both her Aunt Elvira and her Uncle Emilio had made it quite clear when she had first come to attend school in San Juan.

  “What are you doing here so early?” asked Juana, as she struggled to open the gate.

  Teresa did not answer, but followed her to the kitchen, where she had been preparing the noonday meal. She watched her cut a lemon and squeeze the juice into a glass, then fill the glass with water and sweeten it.

  “It is rather early for your drink,” she said, handing her the glass, “but you might as well have it. Perhaps you will tell me what all this means.”

  “Oh, Juana, I’ve made the exemption list, and I’m going home,” Teresa said joyfully.

  “Home? How can you go when school is still going on?”

  “But you don’t understand. I don’t have to stay until the end of the term now. I don’t have to take final exams.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” said Juana, “especially when your aunt is away. There is no one to take you home.”

  Teresa pushed the glass of lemonade away. She had to make Juana understand how important it was for her to leave for home immediately.
She took the letter out of her pocket and read it to her.

  “The Feast of the Cross!” said Juana. “Well, that is something worth going home to.”

  “Will you let me go then?” She waited for an answer, which did not come.

  Juana had gone back to her work and apparently had forgotten all, even Teresa. But actually she had not. Her mind was now filled with the picture of the Feast as she had known it, and a longing to enjoy it again rose within her. As she worked she made her decision. She could take Teresa home and … yes, that was it; she, too, would enjoy the Feast of the Cross. She glanced at Teresa, who sat quietly looking at her drink.

  Teresa, too, had been planning, only her plans did not include Juana. She had enough money in her trunk, and there were coaches in San Juan you could hire. She would go home even if she had to go alone. She pushed the stool under the table and began to leave the kitchen.

  “Wait, Teresa,” said Juana. “Since you are not going back to school, stay here while I go out for a while.”

  She took off her apron and hung it on the peg on the wall and, with no more explanation, headed for the stairs.

  Teresa ran to the balcony in time to see Juana reach the street. She watched her walk to the end and turn towards the public plaza, the square in the center of the city.

  Across the street, the school yard was deserted. Teresa wondered what the teacher had said when she failed to return to class. What if she crossed her name off the list and sent home for her? She dismissed the idea from her mind and returned to the kitchen to wait for Juana. The lemonade tasted better now after having set for a while. She hoped Juana had not gone shopping. If she had, it would be hours before she returned. Juana did more bargaining than buying. She had seen her bargain with the vegetable man at the foot of the stairs, with the grocery man on the corner, even with the charcoal man. “Cielos,” she said, “don’t let her be shopping.”

  But Juana was not shopping, as Teresa feared, but trying to hire a coach to take them to the finca. She stood in the middle of the plaza, looking over the number of coaches that stood around. At last she saw one which was being shined. There was a group of men around the driver. “Filimón, the very man I want to see.”

  “Buenos tardes, Filimón,” she said. “Your coach is shinier than a mirror, and well might it be, for tomorrow it will take Don Rodrigo’s daughter home.”

  “Señora,” said a man at her side, “I have been here for hours. You can’t put in your order before I do.”

  “Nor before I do either,” said another. “I need this coach. I will pay you a little more, Filimón, if you let me have it. What do you say, hombre?”

  If Filimón had been bitten by a tarantula, he would not have jumped quicker.

  “What do I say?” he roared. “You dare bribe me, monsieur!”

  Then followed a harangue of French patois, which was lost on his listeners. Filimón came from Martinique, and when he lost his temper, he forgot the Spanish he had learned in Puerto Rico.

  “But, Filimón,” pleaded the customers.

  “C’est tout…y basta,” he said, going back to his work.

  The group dispersed. Some went back to the other coaches and tried to hire them, although they knew they were inferior and the drivers less careful. All left, except Juana. She did not come to the plaza to have Filimón turn her back because of a fit of temper. Her fifty years had taught her how to cope with tempers.

  “Filimón,” she said, approaching him, “I have come to hire your coach and no other. Don Rodrigo’s daughter must get home tomorrow. She must be at the finca in time for the Feast of the Cross.”

  Juana never quite knew what did it. When Filimón turned to face her, he was a changed man.

  “Ah!” he said, smiling, “the Feast of the Cross est une belle ocasion.”

  Juana noticed the change and made the best of it, explaining how Teresa had missed it the year before.

  “Pobrecita,” said Filimón. “She will not miss it again.”

  “I, Filimón, will hire you this coach and I will drive it myself.”

  “Gracias,” said Juana. “Come early tomorrow morning to 67 Luna Street.”

  “Oui, madame, tomorrow.” He went back to his coach and gave it an extra rub.

  “Mon Dieux,” he said aloud, “the Feast of the Cross…Comme est belle!”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE TRIP TO THE FINCA

  For the first time since Teresa had been coming to the city school, Juana did not have to wake her. She was up and ready by six o’clock, delighted over the fact that Juana was going home with her. She wrote three letters: one for her aunt, which she left on her desk, one for her teacher and another for Mercedes. The last two she tied on the bolt of the gate, where she was sure Mercedes would find them that afternoon when she came calling.

  Juana sent her to her friend Doña Josefa, across the street, to ask if she would take care of the canary and water the plants in the gallery while she was gone. When she returned from her errand, the coach was at the door, and Filimón was bringing her trunk down. Juana followed with her hands full of extra packages.

  “Here I am, petite,” he said, laughing. “Filimón always keeps his word.”

  “And I will pray for a special favor for you,” said Teresa, climbing to her seat in the rear of the coach. From there she reminded Juana that Doña Josefa wanted the house key, otherwise how was she to get in the house? She took the extra packages, fixed them on the rest of the seat and waited for Juana to come back. “I hope she will sit in the front with Filimón,” she said to herself. Her wish was granted: Juana returned, took a look at the packages in the rear of the coach and decided on the front seat.

  Filimón picked up the reins and started the coach. It rattled over the cobbled street. The clatter of the horse’s hooves brought a group of sleepy-eyed children to their doors. On the corner of Cruz Street, the coach turned and rode down to Fortaleza. Teresa shot a quick glance at the Governor’s Palace at the head of the street. Only a month ago, she had been taken to see the strange flowers that grew there. She had made a picture of a beautiful orchid and given it to Doña Clara. She had been so pleased with it that she had promised to take her again when she went calling. Doña Clara had been going to the Governor’s castle for years to paint pictures of the garden, many of which now hung on the castle’s walls.

  They went past the Plaza Cristobal Colón, where the statute of the discoverer stood high on a pedestal overlooking the Municipal Theatre and the San Cristóbal Fort. They continued out towards Puerta de Tierra. Teresa hoped Mercedes had come with her instead of having to stay in the city. Mercedes had no mother. She lived with Lucio, her father, and her old cousin Flora.

  When they reached Santurce, the coach had to stop at an intersection to let the trolley car pass by on its way to the Condado, the rich suburb by the sea. The few passengers waved, and Teresa waved back. The traffic was beginning to crowd the street, and Filimón had to drive slower than he really wanted. When finally they were again on the road, he sent his horses flying. The packages tumbled out of the seat and Teresa had to pick them up while holding on to the sides of the coach for balance. They were soon in Río Piedras and passing in front of the University of Puerto Rico. There were students at the campus, and Teresa thought of her friend Sixta who was studying to be a teacher. Sixta lived across the road from the finca, and though she was nineteen-years old, she was one of Teresa’s best friends. “Someday, I will be going there, too,” thought Teresa. “Someday there will be enough schools for all the children of the fincas. I would rather teach at a finca than anywhere else.” She had not told her plans to her family yet, only to Sixta, who also shared her dream. “Maybe I will get Juanita to do the same, and Angelina and even Fausto. Their fathers own fincas and can send them to the city school. But there are all those children of the workers,” she thought, “who could not afford to come, and the few schools available are miles away.”

  They left Río Piedras, and now the entire cou
ntryside unfolded like a great panorama before their eyes. This was the country, with is long stretches of beautiful green fields, deep, deep valleys and mountains that rose like chains of emeralds topped with lavender, purple, and yellow. Now and then from different sections of the land they were crossing rose clusters of bamboo, which resembled sugar cane. Teresa looked out of the coach at a large tree which topped all others. It was a ceiba, like the ones on the road that led to her finca. They were sturdy trees from which furniture was made.

  The coach was approaching fruit groves. There were trees laden heavily with large grapefruits and pineapples growing on the spaces between the trees. The sight brought to her mind the picture of the finca at her home, though it was not a fruit farm, like the one they were approaching, but a tobacco plantation. Yet on the outskirts of the finca, during the summer the workers planted vegetables, fruits and other crops for home consumption. The finca! How she missed it! Gone were the hours she spent watching the preparations for the planting of tobacco, but clear in her mind was the picture of the cool foothills, mountain slopes with carefully laid out plots. She envisioned the farm workers bending over the first tobacco shoots, so precious to her father, tending them until they were ready for transplanting. She remembered the first time she had seen the first plots covered with cheesecloth to protect the shoots. At first she had not known what they were, looking to her like clouds dropped from the sky. “Come and see the clouds,” her father always said, whenever the workers were busy covering the patches.

  They were close to the fruit farm now. The laborers had baskets filled with fruit strapped to their backs. One of the youngest of the workers came to the edge of the road to look at the coach. He had a band across his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes and to sop up the perspiration. His resemblance to Ramón made her jump to the side of the coach, from where she could take a better look at him. He was strong, tall and brown-skinned, with high cheekbones and small eyes. He could easily pass for Ramón’s twin brother. “Poor Ramón,” she said aloud.