As I sank onto the soft cushion, I noticed on the table beside his chair a black and white photograph of a beautiful young woman. Professor Garcia must have noticed my gaze, for he said softly, “My Rita. Wasn’t she lovely? She was my student at the university. Three years later, my wife. May you be as fortunate in love.” He bowed his head, and I blushed at the thought of Manuel. “What can I do for you?” he asked, folding his hands in his lap and giving me his full attention.
Looking around at all of his books, I took a deep breath. “I wondered if you had any books on a woman named Dolores Huerta?”
He wrinkled his brow, “Dolores Huerta—that name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Was she a revolutionary? A poet? Where have I heard that name before?”
“My father spoke of her many times. When he was very young, my age in fact, he worked the fields in America and met Dolores and Cesar Chavez.”
With that, his eyes brightened. “Ah, yes, now I remember! In the 1960s—the farm workers’ strike. Of course! They were so effective with their boycott that even workers at the docks of England refused to unload shipments of grapes.” He sat up straight. “Your father witnessed quite an important part of American history.”
The thought of my father as a young man in the midst of something important set my heart at a gallop. “Yes, he spoke of a march up through the state of California—many kilometers. He said they began with a few hundred people, and by the time they reached the capital city, there were thousands!” My eyes filled with tears as I pictured my father telling this story, and he had so many times. He’d been just sixteen and already a weathered farm worker himself. I’d seen an old photo of him bare-chested, grinning, his arms around his compañeros in a field somewhere in California.
“Yes, that I remember. The march from a small farming town to the big capital city. I even remember the number: 300 became 10,000. And your father was there?” His eyes widened.
I nodded, thrilled that he, too, remembered important numbers, and that he was impressed with my father’s past.
“Wonderful! ¡Magnífico! Yes, no wonder he spoke of this often. A monumental moment in American history. Now, what of this woman, Dolores?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, she was an important part of his stories. She helped organize with Cesar Chavez. He said she was unlike any woman he had ever met. Very determined and not afraid of any man—white or brown.” I grinned at the next thought, “He used to tell me I had her spunk . . . that they should have named me Dolores.”
He laughed, and I relaxed a bit. Then leaning forward, I looked him squarely in the eye. “But I think she is still living . . . somewhere in California. So, Rosa and I thought that if we could find her . . . maybe she might help us . . . she might know how we can find out about Papá.” My voice trailed off, for saying it aloud to such a wise man made it sound like a stretch. But what else did we have?
“I see,” he responded, then studied me quietly for a few moments. When he spoke again, his tone was serious, like a doctor giving a diagnosis. “I know nothing of this woman’s activities today, but let me call a few colleagues. I am told one can find all sorts of information in an instant with the use of computers. I’m afraid I am still immersed in scrolls and ancient manuscripts, and I write with the use of a legal pad, but let me see what others can discover with the use of modern technology.” He reached out and squeezed my arm. This simple touch released a flood of tears that I struggled to hold back. “You clearly love him very much. How pleased he will be to see how passionately his daughters are striving to find him. I wish you the very best. Sí, de verdad,” he said gently.
“Gracias. Thank you so much, for everything,” I said in a faltering whisper, then rose to flee before I embarrassed myself. But at the door I couldn’t help but stop and ask, “So, do you think . . . is it foolish to hope that . . .”
He immediately interrupted my halting question with a firm, “Hope is never foolish. Nunca.”
After Maestra said goodnight at our closed door, I slipped out to find Manuel sitting on the sofa with blankets and a pillow on his lap.
“I’d be more comfortable under a tree or in their garden,” he said quietly.
“Nonsense,” I replied. “Here, let me help you.” Together we covered the sofa with one soft blanket. I set the pillow at one end and fan-folded the other blanket toward the bottom. “Now take off your shoes.”
As he pulled off each athletic shoe, I noticed he was wearing two pairs of socks, and the shoes were a tad too big. He grinned. “A gift from Rafael.” So, Lupe’s son-in-law had been as generous as Lupe.
I sat on the edge of the coffee table. “What did Maestra say?” I asked timidly.
His eyes shifted away from mine, but his dimple appeared for a moment, and then he spoke. “She said her father will not allow her to go along with this venture unless I pledge to accompany you both for the entire journey, whatever that may be.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “She told me to sleep on it and give her an answer tomorrow.”
I held my breath.
“No es necesario. There’s no need to sleep on it, Alma. He is right. It is my duty to protect
