He nods. “Yeah, yeah, I feel stronger.” He smiles as if to try to prove it, but his wife looks worried. “You know, sometimes you have bad luck on this trip, that’s all. You can’t expect to come out of it unscathed. But you have to keep going.”
“Así es,” Carlita says, sighing and looking down at the table.
“What happened?” Pequeña asks Alvaro.
“We got mugged along the way,” Nilsa answers instead. “They took our money and beat Alvaro.”
“But God was with us,” Alvaro says, looking at Nilsa. “They just took our money and beat me up. They didn’t hurt you or Nene.” She nods and lets out a sigh.
Alvaro’s words—that God was with them—repeat themselves in my ears. I think of God there next to Alvaro as he was being beaten. As Nilsa and Nene watched in horror.
I wonder where He was when Chico was dying. On the train? Watching?
“Anyway,” Alvaro says. “Now we are close.” His eyes brighten a bit. “We were able to scrounge up enough money from a cousin I have in the US and Nilsa’s family. And now we have enough for el coyote to lead us the rest of the way. And then we’re there.”
“Oh, sí . . . just like that,” Nilsa says, shaking her head and taking another deep breath. She and Alvaro exchange a look that makes me think this trip was more Alvaro’s idea. “How many die, Alvaro? How many die in the desert?” she asks.
Alvaro stares at her intently. “How many die back home, in Honduras?”
Nilsa doesn’t answer and instead goes back to feeding Nene.
“What about you two?” Alvaro asks me and Pequeña. “How are you crossing?”
I look down at my plate. With the last of my tortilla, I wipe the plate as clean as possible and shove the food in my mouth.
“Well,” Pequeña says, “things went bad for us, too . . .”
Don’t say it, don’t speak it, don’t . . .
But she begins, and I hear Chico’s name, and the way the air is sucked out of the room as she tells them, and the gentle horror of their responses.
Don’t.
And I see how Carlita and Nilsa wipe their faces, how Alvaro and the brothers look down at the table.
Don’t.
As Pequeña’s voice gets choked up and she tells them how we really only thought of how we would get this far and don’t know what our next step will be. Maybe find a coyote.
Don’t, don’t. Don’t, don’t.
Don’t tell anyone what our plans are, I remember telling him. Back when I thought I had it all figured out.
I press down on my heart, trying to stop it from remembering.
I guess this is where we are now, so desperate it doesn’t matter. So desperate we can’t be so guarded with plans that have dissolved into nothing anyway.
Alvaro takes a deep breath. “You can have the trip planned, but it never goes that way,” he says softly, shaking his head. “And I know it’s hard to trust anyone, but if you can gather the money, call your family and ask them, I’ll ask the coyote we’re crossing with if he will lead you, too. He’s very good, so I’ve heard anyway.” Alvaro shrugs, like he doesn’t want to make any promises.
The two brothers at the table nod. “Us too. My friend crossed with him a few months ago and he’s living in El Paso now. Working, sending home money to his mother.”
Pequeña looks at Alvaro, wiping tears from her eyes, but I see it. Some kind of spark that has reignited there. “Really? You would? Do you think he’ll really help us?”
“If you have money, he will.”
She nods. “We’ll get the money . . . sí, please, ask him.”
He nods. “I’ll ask him. We’re supposed to leave here in three days.”
“Three days,” she whispers, with a strange look on her face.
I don’t know where Pequeña thinks we will get money. I don’t even ask her.
“Go without me,” I whisper. Because I don’t think I care about making it anymore. Because I don’t feel like a person anymore. Maybe I’m not.
“No,” she says. “I won’t, Pulga, so please . . .”
I put my hand over my heart, wondering if it’s still there, if it’s still pumping blood.
“Okay?” Pequeña asks. I think I nod. I think she reaches for my hand.
I don’t know.
I don’t feel real anymore.
Maybe I’m just a ghost. A ghost who has lost his best friend, his home, faith. Everything.
PART 5
Al Borde de Tantas Cosas
At the Border of So Many Things
Pequeña
Three days.
I take out the ring from my jacket. It could have been shaken loose by the constant rumbling of La Bestia, fallen to the tracks and been lost forever. It could’ve fallen into a hand slipped into my pocket those times I slept like the dead because I almost was. It could’ve lain hidden in the pocket of my jacket in a bag filled with the clothes and belongings of other migrants if we’d been robbed and stripped along the way.
But it wasn’t. We weren’t.
Rey’s face fills my mind once more, his hot breath in my ear whispering the only truth he ever uttered.
This ring is your destiny.
I stare at the diamond—bright, sharp, indestructible—that will carry me the rest of the way. That will give Pulga and me a chance.
I almost laugh at how it sparkles in the bit of sunlight coming into the room, like the script silver letters on Rey’s car. White prisms dance on the floor as I move it to and fro, and I see myself, walking over white light, to that place of dreams.
Alvaro appears in the doorway and I clutch the ring in my hand, hiding it from view. “I spoke with el coyote,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets, shakes his head as he delivers the news. “He wants five thousand US dollars for the both of you.”
“Five thousand dollars . . .” I whisper, clutching the ring tighter, until it is digging into the palm of my hand.
He takes a deep breath and nods. “Do you have gente in the States who can get a collection going?”
I shake my head.
His face fills with pity. “Lo siento,” he says, and I think he does. I think he feels every bit of the impossibility of five thousand available dollars.
“But tell him yes,” I say.
Alvaro looks at me strangely. “Yes? Are you sure you can pay? These are not men you can lie to . . .”
“I know, but . . . I’ll have it for him,” I say, careful not to let him know it is in the palm of my hand. Letting him think that maybe our family back home can come up with the money somehow. “I can get it,” I assure him.
His dark eyes are doubtful, but he nods. “Bueno . . . all right, I’ll let him know. But if I say yes, you better be sure you can get it.”
“I’m sure,” I say. I know the ring is worth at least that, or more. Maybe even double. I’m sure it is. I can feel it. Because it is my destiny. This ring was always my future.
“Gracias,” I tell Alvaro, and he nods and backs away, heading to the other room, where I can hear Nilsa telling Nene a bedtime story.
That night I sleep with the ring in my sock, up near my toes, and both my shoes on.
* * *
~~~
For the next couple days, we pitch in around the shelter helping Carlita. Helping each other. The brothers clean the bathrooms and the floors. I play ball with Nene while Nilsa washes clothes. I drag Pulga to play with us, and he does for a little while, barely kicking the ball before he disappears and I find him later staring at the ceiling. Alvaro prays. Day and night, he prays at a little altar in the corner of the kitchen.
When we go inside, I can’t help but look at him and wonder about praying and God and things that are holy. I wonder what Alvaro would think of a witch who’s an angel, too.
When he opens his
eyes and catches me staring, I look away.
He calls everyone to the room, and when we are gathered there, I know why he was praying so hard.
“The guy who runs this small coyote ring will be here tonight,” he tells his family, the two brothers, Pulga, and me. “He will just be taking the seven of us on this crossing. He will collect the money when he arrives and then drive us to Nogales, where we will walk at night across the desert, to the other side.”
Nilsa’s eyes get big and she holds Nene tighter. “Tonight? Dios, Alvaro . . . tonight.” She begins smoothing back her hair, her face full of worry.
Alvaro nods. “Tonight. So let’s all make sure we have everything ready,” he says, looking at all of us. “It’s a new moon, so the desert will be pitch-dark, easier to go unnoticed.”
We stare at each other, letting the news set in.
Tonight, when the sky is at is darkest, we’ll set out. My stomach flutters with fear, with anticipation and hesitation. Pulga and I made it on La Bestia, but we lost Chico. And Pulga is hardly whole. What more will we lose?
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I wish I hadn’t thought it. I wish I hadn’t tempted fate. Because despite everything we’ve been through already, everything we’ve lost up until now, there is still so much more.
So much more to bear and so much more to lose.
But also, the possibility of something new.
We slowly disperse and begin preparing. Carlita gives us cans of tuna and energy bars, empty bottles to fill with water. Alvaro prays again. And Nilsa prepares their backpacks.
Back in the room, Pulga and I pack the clothes Nilsa washed and hung to dry for us.
“Are you scared?” I ask.
He shrugs and puts his hand over his heart. For a moment, I think he’s praying like Alvaro. But Pulga’s eyes are open and his lips don’t move and he makes no promises.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, hoping he will say something more, but he nods and zips up his backpack without a word.
Pulga, as he used to be, back in Barrios, flashes in my mind. How he and Chico used to run around, joking, laughing. How they always had some stupid made-up song to share with me. How beautiful they were.
Pulga is not that boy anymore.
I look away before I remember anything else. Before the hope that has begun to burn inside me is completely extinguished.
Carlita calls us all to the dining area. And we sit for our last meal together.
And it feels like a last meal, even with Carlita talking and joking, trying to lighten the mood.
She ladles soup into bowls for each of us. Frijoles charros, she calls them. Beans and sliced-up hot dogs and onion in a rich tomato broth. Each bowl she tops with toasted pork rinds and some chopped-up onion, cilantro, jalapeño, and fresh tomatoes. On the side, a bit of yellow rice with vegetables and some sliced avocado.
It is the kind of meal that makes you want to cry as you eat it. Maybe because it is that delicious. Maybe because we know Carlita has been working on it ever since Alvaro said he’d gotten word. Maybe because we know she made it carefully, thoughtfully, with the kind of love and humanity you can forget exists when you’re running for your life.
Maybe because it might be our last meal ever.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I eat. As I imagine each spoonful filling my body with nourishment and strength and something spiritual. And then there is only an empty bowl, and a silence around us.
Carlita gets up and brings over a bowl full of canned fruit. She pours condensed milk over it, asks Nene to help her top it with whipped cream, which he does with the biggest smile I’ve seen since I don’t remember when.
“This is all I can do for you,” Carlita says, suddenly melancholy as the light in the room shifts, and late afternoon sets in. “I hope it will carry you the rest of your trip.” She wipes tears from her eyes.
“We may come from different countries,” Alvaro says, “but we are all brothers and sisters. And we thank you, hermana,” he says to Carlita.
Just before dusk, a white van rolls up to the shelter and we know it’s time. Carlita and Padre Gonzalez walk us outside.
The driver asks for his payment from each of us, and when he gets to me and Pulga, I place the ring in his hand.
I feel how everyone’s eyes fall on me, how they look between me and the man’s hand and his face. Pulga’s eyes flicker with questions when he looks at me, but he doesn’t say a word.
“What the hell is this?” he asks me. He is short and corpulent and his voice sounds strained, like it gets stuck in his fleshy neck.
“It’s worth more than five thousand dollars. I swear you will—”
He shakes his head. “No, no, no, muchacho,” he laughs. “You’re fucking loco to be trying this shit with me.” He looks over at Alvaro, his eyebrows raised like he’s expecting some kind of explanation, but Alvaro shrugs helplessly as Nilsa clutches on to his arm.
“This is not the way I do business . . .” he says, but the ring catches the last of the sunrays and glints impressively, and his eyes narrow as he studies it for a moment.
“A narco back home was in love with my sister; he gave her that ring. It’s worth a fortune. If you take it, you can sell it for more than five thousand US dollars. I could get more for it, but I don’t have time.”
Everyone is silent as he stares at that ring.
The guy rubs his chin, and finally drops it in his shirt pocket and nods. My body goes weak with relief. I feel Pulga’s hand on my shoulder, the slightest squeeze, I think, of appreciation. It makes me want to cry.
We did this together, I want to tell him. But there is no chance. And even if there were, I don’t trust myself to speak. A quick glance between us is all we share.
Somehow, it’s enough.
Padre Gonzalez says a prayer over us. He blesses us, making the sign of the cross on each of our foreheads, and Carlita hugs each of us as we climb into the van.
“Vayan con Dios,” she says as we pull away from the shelter. And I watch her and Padre get smaller, waving at us, as we head to Nogales, where we will cross through the desert.
It’s one long ride, down a single highway, out of Altar. The van’s windows are open, and the wind whips and rumbles. No one says a word except for Nene and his mother. His sweet voice, just barely audible over the sound of the wind, asks his mother questions every so often.
When will we get there?
Will Tío be waiting for us in the desert?
Will he have candy for me?
Will he teach me English?
Will I live in a big house?
Nilsa begs him to sleep and rest because soon he won’t be able to.
I know how he feels. I’m too scared, too anxious, for sleep also. So instead I watch Pulga, who has tucked himself beside me, not looking out the window once. I watch how he seems to sleep soundly, but his body twitches and his breathing quickens as if he’s fighting something in his dreams.
The driver slows down. “This is a checkpoint, but don’t panic,” he says.
When we come to a stop, my chest tightens as some men holding guns peer in at us, count the seven of us inside. The driver gives one of them money and the other guy gives the driver some kind of receipt. Each second I expect us to be ordered out by those armed men. Each second I expect to be our last. But we are allowed to continue on and I breathe a sigh of relief.
There’s another checkpoint maybe twenty minutes later, up ahead where another man with a gun gathers the receipt given at the last checkpoint. Again, another count. Again, another receipt. Again, a sigh of relief.
We drive like this the whole way, through various points where the driver pays and we are counted and confirmed as the red sun dips below the horizon.
And then after what seems like a couple hours the driver is pulling off the road and
comes to a stop between tufts of dry desert brush.
“Okay,” he says. “Here we are.” We all get out of the van and grab our backpacks. Pulga winces as he pulls his on. His dog bite. It must be painful with the weight of the bag, the rub of the strap.
“¿Estás bien?” I ask him. He nods, but repositions the bag on his good shoulder instead.
Outside the van is an impossibly thin man wearing a cowboy hat and plaid shirt. “This is Gancho; he is the one who will actually lead you through the desert. This is as far as I go, amigos,” the driver says proudly. “Que les vaya bien.” He waves at us lazily before getting back in the van and pulling out onto the main road.
Gancho begins his instructions. When he opens his mouth to speak I notice one of his front teeth is crooked and another is missing.
“This trip will take us three nights. Each night, from sundown to sunrise, we walk. During the day, I will take you where there is shade and you will rest so you can continue walking at night. You must follow and listen to me, or you’ll die. You have to keep up, or you’ll die. I will not wait for anyone. It’s that simple. Understand?” he says.
Something about the way he says it strikes new fear in my heart—and the way he looks at Pulga, then at Nilsa, who is holding on to Nene’s hand.
Nene looks up at his mother, his eyes wide. “Are we going to die, Mamá?” he asks.
Nilsa shakes her head. “No, Nene, of course not, hijo. Don’t worry,” she says without looking at him. But I hear the concern in her voice.
And as I look at Pulga, with that faraway look on his face and his body looking like it will buckle under his backpack, I worry, too.
“Bueno,” Gancho says, barely glancing at us. “Vámonos. Time is money and the sooner I get back, the sooner I get the rest of my cut.” He adjusts his own backpack and begins leading us into the desert as night falls.
We walk, following each other, in a kind of silence that feels intimate, in a place that feels holy. Where we can almost hear each other’s thoughts and dreams and fears and prayers. Where we are a very small part of something bigger, something so big it can consume us. This vast land we must cross.
We Are Not from Here Page 25
