We Are Not from Here

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  They begin walking, and those who have overheard the old man begin walking in the same direction.

  “What do you think?” I ask Pulga.

  But he’s sitting down, not even looking at me. Not even listening.

  “Pulga?”

  “Did you see how fast it was coming?” he whispers. He has his eyes shut tight, like he’s trying to unsee something. Maybe he’s trying to forget how Chico looked on the ground after the train left him to die—like I am.

  “I know, I know,” I tell him, but he is shaking his head, hitting it with his hands like he can knock the images out. I reach for his hands, stop the blows he’s delivering to himself. “Don’t do that, Pulga. Please, please . . . stop . . .”

  He does, and then he sits, dull and lifeless, as the old man and the son and the group we were running with get farther away.

  I pull Pulga up. “We have to walk,” I tell him. “You have to get up and you have to walk and we have to get on the next train, do you understand? Please, okay?” My heart is racing and my body is sweating. I reach for his face, force him to look me in the eye.

  That’s when I see how much of him is gone.

  So I talk to the piece of him left.

  “Stay with me, Pulga. Stay and fight, okay?”

  Something in him snaps awake and he looks at me then, really looks at me, and nods.

  I smile at him, at the Pulga I have always known, at the part of Pulga who is still there.

  “Okay,” he says, reaching for his backpack.

  “Okay,” I repeat. And relief floods through me, for a moment, as we hurry into the darkness, down the tracks, follow the beast.

  Pulga

  Hours later we are in a field near tracks that veer off to the right sharply. We wait here with the old man and his son and a small scattering of others, all of whom are just as tired as we are, all of whom look too tired to do us harm if ever that was their intent.

  We watch the sun eventually come up. We sit there all day. Waiting. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore—or if I care if La Bestia ever comes again.

  “Look,” Pequeña says as the sun sets. I look at the way she stares at it dipping down. Like she sees something there.

  “You think it’s stupid? To imagine a future?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “What are your dreams, Pulga?”

  Something like a pang hits my heart. I want to tell her my dreams are dead, that all that is left of them is a kind of dull phantom pain. That that’s what dead dreams feel like. I want to tell her I don’t dream anymore, like she means, because my head is filled with nightmares. But instead I shake my head.

  * * *

  ~~~

  We watch the sun rise again.

  “What do you dream?” I whisper to her between hours of silence, hours of watching and waiting. She turns her head toward the sky and shrugs.

  “All kinds of things, I guess. I could go to school? Maybe? Learn how to help people—women—somehow. Maybe a . . . counselor, or therapist, or something.”

  I imagine that future for Pequeña as we wait. I try to see into my future as well, but I can’t.

  So maybe that’s why when the train finally comes again, rolling down the tracks and screeching that horrible screeching that has crawled beneath my skin and zaps every nerve and makes me want to give up, I don’t.

  I run.

  I run for Chico, and for Pequeña. Because for two sunrises and two sunsets she’s filled her head with dreams. I run because this field is dark and because it feels like the dark is consuming me.

  I run for all those things.

  And maybe some small part of me runs because not running feels like death.

  We run and we reach and we climb on the beast, tamed by a bend in the road. Pequeña smiles at me, like it means something, that we got on quickly, easily. But I know that whatever good luck we get, we will pay for in some way eventually.

  * * *

  ~~~

  We ride for hours and hours. We ride until our bodies are numb from sitting and lying down and holding on. I try to remember how many trains since the last shelter. How many days since the guy and his girlfriend who wouldn’t let us go on with them. How many days since Chico died. How many days since we left Barrios, since I last saw Mamá.

  Has it been three weeks? Maybe more.

  I don’t know, not really. It’s one never-ending day.

  And now again. Still we are here. Riding through so much countryside, and parts that feel like a strange dream. A dream where we’re floating over trees and mountains, over trees bursting from mountains.

  Until I see all that green, I’d forgotten color like that existed. Then we ride through tunnels, so long the world turns black, and I’m surprised when we’re spit out again among so much green.

  Pequeña marvels at it, tells me to look. And I do. But I don’t think I see what she sees, what makes her face look so at peace.

  When I don’t react, Pequeña leans closer to me, her face dusty and dirty. She studies my face, like she is searching for something. I’m not sure for what. Then she scoots very close to me and places her hand on my chest.

  “I have to tell you a story,” she says. “One that Mami told me about a woman in Guatemala City, a cousin of one of the women she worked with.”

  “I don’t want to hear a story,” I tell her, pushing her hand away. But she places it there again, goes on.

  “Close your eyes,” she whispers in my ear, her hand steady over my heart. I refuse, but the wind around us gets stronger, forcing me to close them against so much dust and warmth.

  And suddenly, I feel something electric go through me and an image of a small boy riding a tricycle flashes in my mind. He is riding on the dirt in front of his house, faded pink, guarded behind a peeling white fence.

  He wears a white shirt and blue shorts and rides in circles. Then come popping sounds and his shirt blooms with red.

  I want to open my eyes. I want to erase the image, but it feels like I’m stuck in a dream I can’t wake up from.

  I see his mother running out from the house, scooping him up in her arms.

  Pequeña’s voice fills my ears. Her cousin said that all night at the vigil, and at the gravesite, the woman didn’t stop wailing. All through the night, her wailing filled our streets, like a howling coyote. Like an animal with a missing limb.

  I hear the wailing, so loud, so clear, that I think it is the train screeching to a stop. Or someone crying next to me.

  She couldn’t stop wailing, not for a single second. At his funeral . . .

  I see a small coffin, his mother next to him, her mouth open, issuing that terrible sound.

  . . . just as the priest was committing her child’s body to the earth, she stopped her wailing. And when the priest said her son would live forever in the kingdom of God, she threw herself into that hole.

  I see the woman’s black dress flutter around her as she disappears into the ground. I hear the thud of her body as she lands, and then the commotion as men jump in after her, grabbing her, pulling her out forcefully, as she scratches their faces and begs to be buried with her son.

  They took her home. But the next day they found her lifeless body on top of her child’s grave. So they opened the earth again. They opened the coffin again. They took the child out and placed him in his mother’s arms. They placed them in a larger coffin. And returned them to the earth. Together.

  When I try to open my eyes this time, they snap open, my sight blurred. They sting and burn and I realize I am crying. I shove Pequeña’s hand away from my heart, and when I do, I feel a kind of jolt.

  She tries to put her arm around me but I won’t let her.

  “Don’t touch me,” I tell her. “Why? Why did you tell me that?”

  I look at her face, angry that she’s filled
my ears and my mind and my heart with these images. She stares back.

  “Because if you don’t run toward something, Pulga, at least remember what you’re running from,” she says.

  I shake my head, trying to forget.

  But I can’t. And the tears won’t stop.

  And my heart keeps beating, beating, beating in my chest.

  * * *

  ~~~

  When the lush landscapes disappear, I feel a spiteful kind of satisfaction. As we ride through land that is ugly and drying and without any color, I look over at Pequeña and want to say, Yes, dreams are stupid. But I don’t. Because even as we ride into a rail yard that is nothing but dust, even as we get off again, Pequeña looks like she believes in them.

  And so we board another train. One with even less people. Pequeña talks to one of those on board and leans over and whispers to me, “I think this is the one that will bring us into Altar.” She waits for a reaction, studies my face as we ride into the desert, into a sand-blasted landscape and fiery orange sky. Into the inferno of the hell route.

  “This is the last one,” she says again. I stare at the desert, waiting to feel something. Excitement. Relief. Joy. But nothing comes. So I nod.

  We sit through hours, hours and hours that make no sense. That drag on and race forward. That ripple like heat waves. Hours of hot wind lashing at my face, cracking my skin, making my cheeks bleed. Hours that make me imagine I’m in the middle of some kind of battle between God and the devil.

  But even if I am, I will never understand why He did what He did. I know it should have been me. I should have been the one who fell from the train, whose blood spilled. I should have been the one God took, so Chico and Pequeña could go on. Maybe then I would understand sacrifice. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so confused and angry at God.

  Maybe then I could still believe in Him.

  But it was Chico. It was his blood that spilled, and for what? What would he think if he knew—

  That I don’t want to go on.

  That I don’t want to run.

  That I just want to stop. I want everything to stop.

  And then finally, finally, it does.

  Pequeña

  The train pulls into the yard.

  We are dirty, dusty. We look like insects that burrow deep in the earth for years, before finally emerging.

  We look like corpses, things of the underworld, that have scratched their way to the surface of the earth.

  We look exactly like the mummies this beast makes of everyone, as we stumble off the train, walk away unsteady and limping, in a desert haze and stupor.

  That is what we look like.

  But inside I am swelling with relief and hope. Inside I don’t feel dead.

  I feel alive.

  I look back at La Bestia, that beast, that monster, the devil’s shuttle. I stare at that terrible thing that took away Chico’s life but delivered Pulga and me here. And something fills my chest and I want both to whisper thank you and hurl rocks at the unfeeling murderous thing. I’m afraid to open my mouth, afraid of the sounds that might escape me, the emotions that might erupt and flow over me like scathing lava.

  But Pulga is lifeless.

  “We don’t have to ride it anymore,” I tell him, choking back sobs.

  But it’s like he doesn’t realize. Because Pulga, with hunched shoulders and dust-coated lashes, keeps his gaze straight ahead and refuses to look back. And not a tear, or a word, or a flicker of emotion passes over his face.

  * * *

  ~~~

  We follow others from the train into the town of Altar, where as we walk, something in the air gets heavier. First I think it is because of the dust we’ve breathed, that has made it into our throats and noses and lungs. But the longer we go, the more I realize it is not dust. It is a feeling. A sense of danger that penetrates this town with a holy name.

  Altar. Where we get on our knees. And pray.

  It is small and eerie. It is quiet. There aren’t any people on the streets except for the occasional car that passes us by, slowing down, the faces inside taking a good look at us. I know what we must look like to them.

  Every gaze that falls on us does so with suspicion. Every gaze takes in our appearance.

  “There’s something terrible here,” I tell Pulga. He looks at me, but his eyes are dull. “Do you feel it?”

  He doesn’t.

  I look around at the others we’re walking with, those who have made this journey same as us, and I see they look lost, dazed. They look like Pulga.

  But something feels wrong. Something that makes me want to run even though I don’t know what I’m running from here. That makes me want to hide. Like when animals sense the coming of a storm.

  “Let’s find somewhere, so we’re not out in the open,” I tell him.

  There are just a few other people from the train, all of them scattering in different directions.

  Ahead, there’s a stand selling backpacks, canteens, first aid kits. The guy at the stand wears a cowboy hat and looks at us suspiciously. “Do you know of a shelter nearby?” I ask him.

  “Are you buying anything? Look here, you will need these shoes. You see how they’re lined with carpet at the soles? So you won’t leave footprints. Those you have on will fall apart once you start walking.” The guy looks at us, shakes his head. “Camouflage shirts . . . hats . . . canteens. I have everything you need right here. If you have money.”

  “No . . .” I say. The idea of all that we need, of how unprepared we are, overwhelms me with panic.

  He scowls and gives me a dirty look.

  “I mean, gracias, but not now. We’re just looking for a shelter.”

  “Ah, a shelter. For free, I guess, right?”

  I nod. “Yes, señor.”

  The guy twists his lips. “Well, nothing is free. You think you can just get everything for free, eh?” The man goes back to counting his merchandise.

  I give Pulga a look.

  “Thank you, señor,” I say, stepping away.

  “If you need a place to stay, you have to pay.”

  I don’t answer. The man looks at us as we hurry on. And then he is on a cell phone when I look back, his gaze still on us as he speaks.

  “Hey! ¡Muchachos!” he calls out after us, but I pull Pulga away.

  “Don’t turn around,” I tell Pulga, speeding up. He is lagging behind but then I see a small, dirty white sign advertising shelter for forty pesos a night outside a run-down building.

  There aren’t any other signs, or anyone to ask. A truck passes us by and the driver slows down, looks at us before driving on a bit, slower than before.

  “Come on, let’s check this place out.” I look up and down the street, wondering who has their eyes on us and why. “Get your money out, carefully.”

  Pulga digs into one of his socks and puts some money into my hand. I separate forty pesos so I won’t have to pull out money in front of anyone, and then we walk up the pathway to a small shack of a house with more run-down houses behind it.

  When we enter the small patio in front, the smell of dog feces is immediate. A big black dog on a chain stands up instantly and growls at us. The place seems empty, except for a loud television on a desk just inside the doorway of the house.

  A person stands up from a seat hidden behind the television.

  “Bueno,” he calls. He takes one look at us and then gets down to business. “Eighty pesos a night.”

  “There’s a sign back there that says forty,” I tell him.

  “The sign is wrong. It’s eighty,” the guy repeats. “Each. That includes a blanket, a cot, and safety.” The dog lunges in our direction and barks loudly, echoing off the walls.

  Pulga stares at the dog as if hypnotized. “We only have forty . . .” I tell the guy. He looks at Pulga, up and down like
he is assessing how weak he looks. How tired. How easy a target he might be.

  “Really, carnal? You just happen to have exactly forty pinche pesos?” The guy laughs. “You must think I was born yesterday. I haven’t lived here to not know better. But bueno, good luck to you.”

  “We just want somewhere to rest . . .” I say.

  He looks at me now, closely. Studying my face even though I look down, pull down the brim of my hat. “I know you have more,” he says, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “The price increases the more you waste my time. It’s a hundred pesos now. And . . . I know you really need somewhere to stay, right? A pretty . . . boy, like you, can’t be out on the streets at night.”

  I look up at him slowly, and when my eyes meet his, a flicker of satisfaction flashes in them. Then he nods, smiling, confirming what he thought. “Yes, trust me. You don’t want to be out there tonight.”

  The fear crawling on my body intensifies, and I suddenly know this was a bad idea. That no matter what we give this guy, it won’t be enough to keep us safe. I look back out across the patio, on to the street. “Okay,” I say, “we’ll be right back. I’m just gonna get my brother a drink first.”

  The guy looks at me suspiciously. “No need, man. I have water right here for you.”

  “I think a Gatorade might be better for him right now.”

  “Got that too. Best price in town.”

  “We’ll be back,” I repeat, inching away, pulling Pulga with me.

  “Like I said, no need . . .”

  “Really, be right back!” I yell, turning and walking across the patio as fast as possible.

  But the guy is yelling at us now, following after us.

  “Hurry, Pulga, please . . .” I tell him, and something in my voice, the fear in it, snaps him out of his trance and he speeds up. But so does the guy. So we start running, and then he starts running behind us, too.