Page 11 of The Harvey Girls

He hesitated a moment, and in the fading light she could see his face harden slightly. “I was born in Minnesota.”

“My gosh, that’s a long way from here. Even farther than Nebraska!”

“Sure is.” He gave his long frame one last stretch. “I’d better get back in there. I’ll tell Pablocito you’re looking for a church.”

Most of the girls attended services of one denomination or another, and there was a schedule set up as to who would go when, so that each shift had coverage.

The Presbyterians went at nine, the Methodists went at ten thirty, and the like.

Billie was the only Catholic, and since there were Masses held on Saturday afternoons, she was expected to go then.

“Which one?” Frances asked without looking up from the schedule she was sketching out.

“Pablocito says there’s a Mass at his church at four.”

Frances’s gaze came up. “You’re going with him? To that one?”

“So I won’t have to go by myself.”

Frances shrugged and went back to scribbling on her tattered schedule.

On Saturday, Charlotte didn’t get out of bed.

“Going to be late,” Billie said to no one in particular as she tied her apron.

“Day off,” muttered the mound of blankets on the other bed.

“Monday is our day off this week.”

“Mind your own business.”

Billie sailed down the dorm staircase to breakfast with a little tingle of excitement. Charlotte would surely be fired. Then there was the tremor of guilt. What kind of person was she to delight in another’s downfall? A bad person.

At least I’ll have something interesting to say at confession for once. It beats “I coveted a green velvet hat with a satin bow I saw in the newspaper.”

She worked all morning and most of the afternoon, as usual, and was dismissed at three so she’d have time to change into church clothes (also known as just clothes, since she’d never owned anything fancy).

Pablocito met her out on Holliday Street behind the Harvey House, and they walked the mile or so to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

“How long have you been going to this church?”

“I’ve been coming since I moved here when I am sixteen,” said the diminutive man. “It is a good place. You will like it. Everybody is very friendly, very nice. Don’t worry.”

This was more than she’d heard him speak in the two weeks she’d worked side by side with him for twelve hours a day. She’d thought him shy, or possibly embarrassed that his language skills weren’t that good. As it turned out, his accent was strong but so was his English.

“You will meet my wife, Graciela. She is very nice. Very beautiful. But her English is not so good, so don’t worry if she don’t speak to you.

My children, Guillermo and Estephania, will be there, too.

Their English is very good. Better than me!

” At the Harvey House he was always hunched over, pushing a mop, loading a tray with dirty dishes, or hauling water to the coffee urns.

Now he strode with his shoulders back, chest high with pride as he described his happy family. “So you will have three translators!”

“Translators?”

“Oh, pardon me. I thought you do not speak Spanish, but perhaps you do?”

“No, I… Is the Mass in Spanish?”

His face fell. “You do not know this? Guadalupe is our saint. The church is named for her.”

Billie smiled her best Harvey Girl smile. “Of course! Isn’t that lovely. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” Even if I don’t understand a word.

Most of the Mass was in Latin anyway, so it wouldn’t be too much of a loss.

She figured she would have to mouth the prayers in English while everyone else said them in Spanish.

As long as she followed the tide up to communion and got the consecrated wafer, she was certain it would count.

Or mostly certain. She would say a Rosary when she got back just to be absolutely sure she was in the clear.

Pablocito’s wife, Graciela, was just as tiny as he, and truly quite beautiful with her silky black hair twisted into an elaborate knot at the back of her head.

“Billie es una Harvey Girl, Graciela. Es Católica.”

Billie offered her hand to shake. “Very nice to meet you, Graciela.”

The woman smiled shyly. “Mucho gusto.” Her small hand fit like a child’s into Billie’s large pink palm.

The children, Guillermo and Estephania, appeared to be twins of about eight years old. They stared up at Billie when their father introduced her, little heads craned so far back on their necks they seemed at risk of toppling backward, and the girl whispered to the boy, “Gigante!”

Pablocito let out a ringing laugh. “She’s not a giant, bobos ! She’s just very, very tall.”

Billie smiled to show she wasn’t a giant.

“A friendly giant!” yelled the boy, and they took her hands and hurried her into the church and pointed out the pews and the statues—as if these were foreign ideas to her—and the painting of Jesus behind the altar.

“He’s like your Jesus, only brown. But he’s still Jesus,” explained the girl. “You know him.”

“Yes,” said Billie, understanding that this statement required confirmation. “Definitely the same fellow.”

Mass was spent with Estephania and Guillermo translating every single Spanish word, including the songs.

“El Senor es mi roca y mi salvación! ?De quién debería tener miedo?” they sang in high sweet voices, then raced to be the first to whisper, “The Lord is my rock and my salvation! Of whom should I be afraid?”

After Mass, the children, desperate for a few more moments with their friendly giant, clamored to be allowed to walk Billie back to the Harvey House.

“Aye, no carinos. It’s getting late. You go home with Mami, now.” To Billie it seemed barely evening, but Pablocito was determined not to have his family accompany them. Clearly they lived in the opposite direction.

“I can go back on my own,” she offered.

“Oh, no, I cannot let you do that. A woman must not be left to walk alone in the city. Especially not on a Saturday night when people can be…” He searched for the right word. “Free,” he said finally, “with their behavior.”

There were promises to go to church together again next Saturday, and to visit their home, and to go to the park. Finally Graciela took the children gently by their small hands and led them away.

It was after five, and the streetlights flickered on as Billie and Pablocito walked down Branner Street. A few blocks from the train station, a small crowd had converged and was listening to a man with a megaphone standing on the hood of a car.

“Many politicians are squarely in our camp and will ensure the rise of the good men of the Invisible Empire. The Empire, in turn, will ensure the safety and decency of every God-fearing man, woman, and child!”

There was a wide white banner strung along the side of the car the man was standing on: Ku Klux Klan of Kansas it read in black lettering.

Below it in red was Join Now! Several men inside the car hung their arms out the windows and cheered every few sentences the man on the hood spoke.

Near Billie and Pablocito, a man with a camera and tall flashbulb casing stood taking pictures.

The flashes went off with pops that sounded like the BB gun her brother Angus used to shoot squirrels.

“The white man is under attack in Topeka today, and all across this fair country. The colored man takes our jobs, our land, and even tries to take our women !”

What on earth? wondered Billie. The one colored man she knew in Table Rock never seemed to have any designs on other people’s jobs, land, or women. Sked Calhoun, the town barber, had eyes only for his wife, Melasia.

Pablocito came to a dead stop.

“The colored man insinuates himself into our society, pretending at friendship, shuffling along as if no threat exists, all the while aiming his stealthy black eyes at all that is rightfully ours!”

Staring straight ahead, Pablocito murmured, “I will go another way,” and sidestepped away from her.

“There! Right there!” The voice seemed to reverberate off the buildings around them, the man’s forearm slashing in their direction. “Before your very eyes, a colored man lays claim to a white woman!”

In an instant, the men were out of the car, hurtling toward Billie and Pablocito, the crowd surging apart to let the men through, then back together, like a school of pasty-white fish wearing cloche hats and bowlers.

Pablocito turned to run, but his short legs didn’t get him very far before the men were upon him.

Billie screamed his name. “He’s not colored!

” was all she could think to holler as fists rained down on her friend.

“He’s Mexican!” As if this distinction might matter to these people. As if it might somehow save him.

“Catholic!” she heard someone yell. “And she must be, too!” People surged toward her; a woman with a pink hat and stained teeth came in close and screamed, “Papist pig! You’re a traitor to your own race!”

“No, I—”

Suddenly there was a yank on her arm, pulling her back and away from the crowd.

Charlotte.

Hands grabbed at her, and Charlotte screamed, “Stop! Please stop!”

A flashbulb went off, blinding them for a moment as they stumbled backward. Then Charlotte had her by the elbow, dragging her toward the train yard. Sirens howled by them toward the fray.

“Run, for godsake!” Charlotte hissed at her.

“Pablocito!” Billie wailed. “We have to get Pablocito!”

“Don’t be stupid. You nearly got your head cracked, and then where would you be? Out of a job, for sure, and possibly dead. How would your dear mother feel about that ?”