“Why are you crying, little girl?”
     Janice halted in the midst of her tears, which continued running down her smudged cheeks in wet, red streaks. She had wandered far from the garden, though she was still in the park. Her questioner, a plump, middle-aged woman perched on a bench, was peering at her curiously.
     “What are you doing here?” the girl accused. She had thought she was alone. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry.
     A corner of the woman’s mouth drew up. “I’m looking at this tree,” she said, nodding a little to the right with her chin.
     Janice’s eyes followed the motion, and alighted on a huge oak surrounded by a carefully manicured lawn and a narrow border of flowers. In front of the tree was an upright cement slab bearing a brass plaque. Intrigued, she approached the plaque.
     “Discovery Oak,” she read out slowly. She loved to read, but she was still having a bit of trouble with some of the harder words. She looked back at the woman. “What’s that?”
     The woman shrugged. “They say it’s the tree the Spaniards camped under when they first came to this place,” she said. “I’m trying to decide if it is or it isn’t.”
     Janice read further, puzzling over the long words. “It says here that it is,” she announced.
     “Yes. Here and now it is. The question is, was it then?”
     “What do you mean?”
     “When the Spaniards came,” the woman explained, “it wasn’t important to anyone where they camped. No one paid any attention to it. Folks only cared later, you see, after it became important that the Spaniards had come. That’s when someone figured out they must have camped here. But others say it was somewhere else.”
     Janice considered the question. “Does it matter?”
     The old woman laughed. “Maybe not. But it bothers me not to know such things.”
     “Why?”
     “I’m a storyteller. I like having everything straight in my own mind.”
     Janice grew interested. “Would you tell me a story?” she asked.
     “I might—if you tell me why you were crying.”
     The girl’s mouth drooped. “I got lost,” she said. “I can’t find the art gallery.”
     “Ah. That would be because it’s that way.” The old woman pointed back the way Janice had come. The girl felt her face go hot. “Do you want me to take you there?” the woman went on.
     Janice thought of saying yes. Then she remembered what her mother always said about going off with people she didn’t know. “No,” she said. “I have to get back to Momma soon.” Then, with sudden anger: “We have to go home to Monterey!”
     The old woman looked surprised. “You don’t live around here? Odd.”
     “What’s so odd about it?”
     “I can generally spot a local. You have that look.”
     “We’re here to see my grandpa.”
     “Ah, that explains it. And you don’t want to leave him?”
     “It’s not that. I want to meet him! I only got to see him once, and he doesn’t even know who I am. Momma didn’t tell me till after.”
     “Wouldn’t tell you—say! You’re Ginny Garber’s little girl, aren’t you?”
     Janice backed up a step. “How do you know that?”
     “Why, I know your mother, of course,” the old woman said. “Now then. Tell me all that’s troubling you.”
     The girl backed up again, a suspicious frown on her face. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said.
     “A little late to think of that.” The woman laughed. “But I’m hardly a stranger. You’ve been and out of my shop all week.”
     Janice’s eyes widened. “You’re the grocery store lady! The one with all the books! Mrs. Paydra.”
     “Piedra, dear. But call me Rosa. All my friends do.”
     “Rosa,” repeated the girl. “Okay.”
     “Now, then,” Rosa repeated. “What’s the matter?”
     Soon Janice found she was telling her new acquaintance all about herself. How her grandma and grandpa had some fight a long time ago, which made Grandma leave with her daddy. How her daddy was so mad about it he never had anything more to do with Grandpa, even after he grew up. How he had never even told him when he got married or had Janice. “That’s how come Grandpa doesn’t know who we are,” she said. “But Momma says it’s important for me to know where I came from, ’cause we’re Indians. That’s why we came up here for the fiesta.”
     “And what did your daddy think of that?”
     Janice looked troubled. “He doesn’t know we’re here,” she admitted. “He thinks we went to Arizona to see my other grandpa. Momma said we shouldn’t tell him, because he doesn’t want me to know we’re Indians. He wants us to be white, like Grandma.”
     Rosa shook her head. “That’s too bad. It’s a not a good thing to deny who you are. But it’s wrong to deceive people, too. I don’t envy your mother, girl.”
     “My momma’s doing all right!”
     “There, there, dear, I’m sure she is.” Rosa paused. “So what do you think of your grandfather?” she asked.
     Janice’s face, in which a storm had been brewing moments before, cleared instantly. “Oh, he’s neat! Almost as neat as Daddy! And he’s lots nicer than Daddy says he is. He writes books and poetry, and stuff. That’s what I’d like to do.”
     “Does your daddy write books, too?”
     Janice drooped. “No,” she said, full of disappointment. “He sells stuff. He doesn’t want me to write things. I bet Grandpa’d let me!”
     “I bet he would,” Rosa chuckled. “But how do you think your father would feel?”
     “Oh,” said Janice. “Not too good.”
     “And what do you think your grandpa would do if he knew who you were?”
     “I don’t know. He’d want to see me more, I hope.”
     “And do you think your daddy would like that?”
     Janice didn’t answer.
     “You know,” said Rosa, stroking her chin with her index finger, “there’s a story involving another little girl who was in this same sort of spot. And she was a Bellota Indian, too, an ancestor of yours. Would you like to hear it?”
     “Sure,” said Janice. “But how come you know about her?”
     “Oh, I’m a Bellota, too. Those are the stories I tell. Let’s see, now. This would have been—oh, about seven generations back from your grandpa, in the old days, long before the Spaniards came...”