Can you tell her I called? An abrupt sí. Antonia wonders if Mario will convey the message at all. She better look in on Estela herself after the sheriff’s visit.

She also needs to call Beth Trotter and let her know. On the drive home from Athol, Antonia had a lot of “recalculating” time. With whatever long process Izzy’s care will involve, Antonia is going to have to recuse herself from taking in a minor with a baby and no papers. She cannot abide in the wide open spaces her sister inhabits. Antonia had hoped that with time she could shed those smaller selves—what therapy was supposed to help with, so she thought. Instead, it looks like she’s going to have to learn to live with the disappointment of not being as grand as she would like to be. If I try to be like you, who will be like me? her former therapist had quoted every time Antonia got down on herself, one of a repertoire of Yiddish sayings her therapist’s grandmother had quoted to her as a child. There was also one about Abraham at Heaven’s gate, but that one is foggier in Antonia’s mind. She always messes up God’s punch line.

*

Sheriff Boyer is in obvious discomfort. Instead of touching his hat in salute, he takes it off, a cue that he wants to be asked in.

Come in, Antonia says, already cautioning herself not to invite him as far as her living room. A few minutes of her time, that’s all he’s going to get.

Sorry to bother you, he mutters, looking at his feet. That spot where inchoate males often look to for coaching on what to say. For a big man with a gun in a holster and a star on his chest to be so tied up in knots is surprising and somehow endearing.

Antonia has no inkling what he wants—rare when other people’s lines aren’t already projected in her head. Surprising? Refreshing, actually.

Sheriff Boyer wants her to know, he says, giving her a quick glance before he goes back to reading his lines from his boots, that he has the greatest respect for Mexicans. You all know how to work; that’s a fact.

She’s not Mexican, but never mind. She’s not about to set him straight. He’s having a hard enough time.

You all are doing the jobs no one else wants to do. Matter of fact, his family’s dairy farm went under some years back. His father couldn’t make a go of it. Had he had a couple of these boys, the Boyer family would still own those hundred acres over on Snake Mountain Road where that development is now. He’s gone off script, no longer staring at his shoes.

And your point being . . .? Antonia used to prompt her rambling students.

Take that Lulu. The sheriff shakes his head in wonder. You ever taste one of her chicken empanadas?

Antonia pulls her gaze away from the stout man’s belly, protruding over his belt buckle. She decides not to tell him she’s vegetarian. Lulu’s a good cook, she agrees.

Good doesn’t begin to touch it. A woman like that’s worth her weight in gold.

Lulu is built solid. Cast in gold, she’d be worth a ton. But then, another thought replaces the image of Lulu as a golden block. Antonia had wondered whether the sheriff was hitting on her, but maybe Boyer is taken not only by the chicken empanadas but by the attractive Mexican woman who cooks them.

In my line of work—the sheriff’s voice has thickened—we get insider information all the time. We don’t get involved in immigration enforcement. Someone doesn’t break the law, it’s of no concern of ours. But we hear things, is the point. Sheriff Boyer happens to have heard that the folks up in St. Albans are planning a raid down this way. Just saying. In his line of work. He hears things.

One phone call to Mario or José, and in a matter of minutes, every undocumented farm worker in the county will be alerted. How soon? Antonia asks the sheriff.

They’re working on some federal order to be sure all their i’s are dotted and t’s crossed. Maybe as soon as this weekend? he offers, answering her question with a question—apparently, it’s not the purview of females only. I figured, you knowing Spanish, you could maybe spread the word? And maybe also let Lulu know? Best not do it by phone as those calls can be tracked. And he’d appreciate it if Antonia doesn’t mention her source. We don’t get involved, you understand.

Antonia nods. Sure, she’ll alert folks. It’s not a crime to be a gossip, is it? But the bigger issue is the answer to the question she now poses to the sheriff: What do you advise people do? People. Every noun divested of identifying adjectives. No brand names. She thinks of Dot. What would Grandma say?

If I were them—a big leap of the imagination, which he takes—I’d make myself scarce. Not be out on the road, delivering tacos, or wiring money at Shaw’s. For right now, anyhow. I’m real sorry about all this, he concludes.

Turns out they do have this being sorry in common. Antonia thanks him at the door. It was big of you to let me know.

Know what? he asks, grinning as he wipes his fingerprints from the kind deed he has done.

As she watches the sheriff drive away, Antonia wonders what has gotten into the man, putting himself out this way. Might not be that he’s taken with Lulu. Why does her mind instantly run to that default romantic plot? It no longer applies to her, for one. Could it be something as simple as kindness? Or love? The agape kind, not eros, a distinction she often pointed out to her students, who slathered the word love on every boy/girl heartache. Embodied in a man who could so easily fall into the stereotype that Antonia and her friends often banish the Jesus folks, the political right-wingers, the gunslingers and xenophobes. Her own othering of others. Whatever is driving him, Sheriff Boyer’s not going to turn the tide of meanness sweeping over the country, but at least he’s saved a handful of “her” people from being carried away.

Estela runs into the mudroom when she hears Antonia’s voice at Roger’s door. Do?ita, do?ita. Antonia’s heart floods with warmth at the girl’s undisguised joy, reminding her of those times when babies reach out their hands to her. Is this what mothers feel toward their children?

Estela is full of excitement. El patrón is letting her earn a little money helping inside the house. You’d think she’d gotten a fancy job in a high-rise office with a picture window of Lake Champlain. It occurs to Antonia that this might be Estela’s first paying job.

The mudroom connects into the kitchen, which seems to host every activity in addition to cooking. The air smells savory, a carnita Estela has fried up for el patrón to have for his cena. So, you know how to cook? Antonia asks foolishly before she thinks through that Estela has probably never had the luxury of someone else making her meals, no less choosing among the menu options offered in the college’s dining halls. On faculty-student supper nights, Antonia was astonished by the variety. She had read that colleges had upped the ante of perks in competing for students: a food court of offers, condominium living, stables for their horses. Or llamas, probably. If you don’t see it, ask! said the sign by one of the food stations.

Estela laughs. Of course, she knows how to cook, and she just learned how to do a laundry americano. She pats the washer and dryer in the entryway to the kitchen—máquinas that do her work for her and she still gets paid. Giggles of mischievous delight. There’s a television on one counter and beside it a boom box, which Antonia has also heard blaring in the barn—portable entertainment for Roger during long milking hours. Every surface seems to be piled high with catalogs, pieces of equipment, old newspapers. Tacked on the wall is a cartoonish sketch of a leering tractor—that’s what it looks like, the top part of an old calendar Champlain Valley Equipment gives out every year, the bottom pages with the months torn off. Roger probably thought the sketch amusing and saved it. Like opera, farm art is an acquired taste. There she goes again, shoving someone down her othering chute.

Estela smiles proudly, as Antonia surveys the girl’s handiwork. A shining path has been mopped from the doorway to the stove. The curtains look freshly washed and ironed. There’s a stack of clean dishes and gleaming water glasses on the cramped counter. Estela was just finishing up with the last of the pots and pans.

Antonia pulls away to get a full-length look at the pregnant girl. She nods at the enormous belly. Should Estela be doing all this housework?