Owner of Two Names

The air inside the Juchitán greenhouse was heavy. Rosa Jiménez adjusted the clip holding her silver hair at the nape of her neck, then turned back to the roots of the vanilla orchids. She was wrapping each cutting in damp paper and settling it into a small box. Soil had stained the green apron she wore over her faded cotton blouse. The boxes were to leave for La Ventosa in the morning; she would close the lids last of all, so the plants wouldn't dry out on the road.

She didn't know the woman who walked in at the door. The woman, whose dark hair was cut short, lowered a canvas satchel from the shoulder of a shirt creased by the heat of the road. She took a thick, old ledger out of it, but didn't set it down on Rosa's worktable right away.

“I'm Marisol López. I've come to compare the records,” she said. “There's something you need to look at.”

Rosa put the cutting she was holding down on the bench. When Marisol opened the ledger, a crumb of dried leaf fell from between the pages. In the plant propagation records, the source was listed as Guie' Jiménez. On the current inventory sheet beside it, the same cuttings were listed under Rosa Jiménez. Rosa read both lines carefully, running her eye first over the dates, then over the counts. The numbers matched.

“Is another record missing?” she asked.

“No. Because the names differ, the delivery paperwork could get snagged. They might stop tomorrow morning's shipment,” said Marisol. Her voice was calm. She turned the ledger toward Rosa, then stepped back.

Outside, a motorbike went by. The loose wire on the greenhouse door trembled briefly. Rosa wiped her hands on her apron and looked again at the old handwriting in the ledger. She remembered the mornings when she had answered roll call at school: her teacher had forbidden her to say that name and had made her say Rosa in front of the class. From that day on, she had not spoken it outside her home.

“Guie' is my Zapotec name,” she said quietly. “I wasn't allowed to say it at school.”

Marisol did not reach for a pen to write anything down. Rosa looked at the empty box beside the cuttings not yet packed. Then she drew the ledger a little closer to herself.

“Who can correct this record?”

Marisol smoothed the open page of the ledger with her hand. She didn't answer Rosa's question right away; she looked once more at the names before her.

“Tomás keeps the inventory. When he comes in the morning, we'll lay the two records side by side,” she said.

Rosa nodded. She pulled the empty box toward her and began settling the remaining cuttings into it. Marisol did not close the ledger; the page stayed open until Rosa asked her to.

The next morning, the door of the Juchitán greenhouse stood open. The packed crates were stacked beside it. Outside, the vehicle that would take them to La Ventosa was waiting; the driver had moved to the foot of the opposite wall to find some shade. Despite the hot air coming in, the soil among the crates still smelled damp.

Tomás Pineda took the inventory from the pocket of his pale blue work shirt. He took the pencil from behind his ear and compared the lines against the old ledger Marisol had brought. Rosa took the gloves out of the pocket of her green apron and set them on the bench.

“The cutting count is right,” said Tomás. “But the propagation source here says Guie' Jiménez, and the inventory says Rosa Jiménez. I can't send the crates out without knowing which one to go by.”

He tucked the pencil back behind his ear. Rosa looked at the crates by the door. The engine was running; its noise came in through the open doorway.

“They're both mine,” said Rosa. Then she lowered her voice a little. “Since I was a child, I haven't written Guie' on official forms. I didn't write it while I was teaching, either. I never thought this ledger would turn up in front of me.”

Tomás lowered the paper in his hand. He didn't write anything. Marisol didn't explain on his behalf, either; she only turned the old ledger toward Rosa.

“We can fix the difference between them,” said Marisol. “But you have to be the one to confirm that both names are yours.”

Rosa looked at the open page. Then she turned to Tomás and held out her hand.

“Could I have your pencil?”

Tomás took the pencil from behind his ear and handed it to Rosa. Rosa took it but didn't write right away. She smoothed the page of the old ledger Marisol was holding with her finger. The edge of the propagation record had gone soft from years of being turned. The warm air coming in through the greenhouse door stirred the blank labels on the worktable.

Rosa took the ledger from Marisol's hands. She looked once more at the line that read Guie' Jiménez, then passed the ledger to Tomás. She laid the pencil across the open page.

“Guie' Jiménez is my name too. And so is Rosa Jiménez. Both are mine,” she said.

Tomás took the ledger. He looked at Rosa's face, then opened the inventory page on his clipboard. Marisol stood beside them and offered no explanation. Tomás added Guie' Jiménez next to the line that read Rosa Jiménez. So as not to rush the letters, he propped the clipboard against the flat lid of a crate.

“I've written both names together. Now I'll check the source records for the cuttings,” he said.

He compared the propagation line in the old ledger with the source records for the cuttings. Then he glanced at the labels on the crates, one by one. While she waited, Rosa took her hands out of the pockets of her green apron. She had said her old name aloud; even so, she didn't move from where she stood until Tomás had checked the last crate.

“The source record holds up,” said Tomás. “We can load the crates.”

He dated the bottom of the form and stepped back from the crates. Rosa looked at the two names standing side by side on the inventory. Tomás hadn't crossed out either one. As Marisol took back the ledger, Rosa pushed up the sleeve of her apron to grab the corner of a crate.

“Thank you,” said Rosa.

“I didn't want to leave the record incomplete,” said Tomás.

Rosa nodded. She took hold of one end of the crate; Tomás took the other. Together they carried it to the greenhouse door. The cuttings bound for La Ventosa, at last, shifted from their place.

At the door they set the crate on the ground. Tomás opened the tailgate of the truck, lifted the crate with both hands and settled it inside. Rosa stood in the doorway. As Tomás loaded the remaining crates, he didn't let any one crowd the next; he checked that the pieces of cardboard he had wedged between them weren't slipping. When he shut the last tailgate, he looked at the list in his hand and tucked his pencil behind his ear.

“That's everything,” he said.

Then he took the corrected inventory off his clipboard and left it on the worktable in the greenhouse. Rosa looked at the bed of the truck. That morning they had stood before these same crates, unable to move a single one because of two different names written on them. Now the cuttings were on their way to the growers in La Ventosa. Outside, the driver climbed in behind the wheel. The truck pulled slowly out along the dirt road in front of the greenhouse; Rosa waited until its tailgate was out of sight.

When she went back inside, the air was hot. Marisol was standing beside the worktable. Her short hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat; as she slung the strap of her canvas satchel over her shoulder, she turned the inventory on the table toward Rosa.

Rosa picked up the inventory and found the line where the two names were written side by side: Guie' Jiménez, Rosa Jiménez. She ran her finger first under her old name, then under the name she had used for years. Tomás's handwriting was small but legible. The source record, noted in the margin of the page, was there too. Rosa did not put the paper down right away.

“I never told anyone about this, all these years,” she said. “I thought if I said it, I'd have to give up my other name.”

Marisol gave a slight nod.

“They're both here,” she said.

Rosa set the inventory on the dry corner of the table. After saying goodbye to Marisol, she went back in among the vanilla orchids. She straightened a tie that had come loose, then tested the soil in the pot beside it. As she wiped her hands on her apron, she glanced once more at the door. The truck was gone. Rosa bent over the next orchid; the work she did today, she had left standing under both her names.