Every scenario I imagine ends the same way—with me taking a bullet, and Gladys too. I can’t risk her life.
But if I’m being totally honest, I’m using her as an excuse. Gladys pressing against me provides the perfect cover for my cowardice.
I feel my thigh go damp, and a small river runs down my leg. I’m so powerless I can’t even control my bladder. If I had room for an emotion other than terror, it would be humiliation. I hope Gladys doesn’t notice.
“Come on!” calls a distant voice from the other side of the house.
“I got one more,” the gunman says.
“Then do it. Let’s go! Everybody else left already!”
The man taps Arbo’s head with the barrel, then again, presses the muzzle flush against him.
“Adios.”
I close my eyes. No! No! Not Arbo! Please, not Arbo too.
I jump at the blast.
My life is disappearing right in front of me. I want to scream as loudly as Arbo had only a moment before. I want to march into the backyard for the gunman to see. What does it matter that I’m still around? What do I have left? My family is gone. Arbo is gone. Nearly everybody is gone. What do I have to lose? I’d die, but at least I’d go down swinging. At least I could tell them how brave they are for shooting up a fifteen-year-old girl’s birthday party. At least I’d take a stand.
I want to do all this, yet I remain frozen behind the wall with a wet leg.
“Oye, Arbo.” The voice is so soft I think I’m imagining it. “Arbo!” This time it’s a whispery shout.
I open my eyes and peek around the wall. The gunman is no longer there.
Wait…
He is there, I realize, but he’s no longer standing. He lies on top of Arbo, in an unnatural pose. Arbo’s legs twitch beneath him.
Five meters away, Marcos approaches with long, slow steps, a gun drawn, aimed at the small pile of bodies.
Gladys pushes around me and runs toward Arbo. She moans, a sound between a cry and a dry heave.
Marcos shoves the gunman’s body off Arbo with his foot, still aiming the gun in his hands, ready to fire again if necessary. I reach them in time to see the body roll onto the ground, neck gurgling thick bubbles of blood from where the bullet struck him.
Arbo coughs.
Arbo coughed!
He props himself up and looks wide-eyed at the three of us, then looks down. He’s still on top of his father.
“Papá.”
“Shh!” Marcos hushes, pointing a stern finger behind him.
Before I can even focus on the house, Marcos thrusts his finger in the other direction, toward the back wall. He grabs Arbo’s shirt collar and tries to yank him upward, but Arbo latches onto his father, anchoring himself.
“Idiot, let go! We need to leave now!”
The two pull in opposite directions. In the still tension of the backyard, their whispered grunts sound like screams.
I glance toward the house. There is no movement. But there is another gunman somewhere. We all heard him. It’s only a matter of time before he emerges.
As I turn back to the tug-of-war, my field of vision opens, as if I’m suddenly emerging from a tunnel. All at once, I see them. Bodies. Everywhere. Some lie together, embracing each other as though they went down mid-dance. Some lie alone. Some I recognize, some I don’t. These are people I know, people I love, people who loved me. This is my world, dumped lifeless in the backyard.
This is what happened while I listened. While I sat in the desert and did nothing.
As my eyes take in the scene, so do my ears. I’m shaken, not by the presence of noise, but the absence of it. Wounded people would scream, grunt, cry for help. These people make no sounds.
Why aren’t there any wounded?
Then it hits me. Hard. Each person has a single shot to the head. This wasn’t just murder—this was a mass execution.
I puke. Not hunched over or on my knees, but standing upright, in shock. First my bladder, now my gut. Vomit dribbles down my chin, my shirt, my leg. And I still feel cleaner on the outside than on the inside.
I hear soft sobs and turn to find Gladys weeping over a body. Her mother? One of her younger sisters? I can’t tell from where I’m standing.
My mother and father lie somewhere. I don’t search for them. I don’t want to. I can’t.
I break.
I turn to the dead gunman and kick him with everything I have left in me.
Marcos says something to me, but I ignore it. I fall down and cry. I pound my fists into the hard-packed dirt. Dull jolts rocket back up into my arms. It hurts, and I want it to. I want the pain. I want to feel anything other than what my heart feels.
They’re all gone, and it’s my fault. Everyone. All I had to do was say something about that car.
Next to me, Arbo struggles—with himself, and with Marcos. Finally, he lets go of his father. With Arbo untethered, Marcos is able to pull him up. They both tumble backward onto the ground.
Wasting no time, Marcos springs to his feet and again directs us out of the yard with his finger.
Slowly, we move. Knee by knee, foot by foot, we lift ourselves from the soil, separating ourselves from our people, choosing to accept—or at least concede to—their fate and ours.
Only we’re too late.
“Finish it already, Rafa! We need to get out of—” A man strides from the house into the backyard and stops.
He has some kind of rifle in his hand.
“Marcos!” Gladys screams.
Marcos doesn’t need the warning. He shoots first. The bullet misses, but it sends a message.
Rather than return fire, the gunman runs for cover. Marcos shoots again. This time the bullet hits him, right in the knee. The man stumbles and drops his rifle. He howls, rolling and clutching his leg, then he pops back up and lunges off balance on his good leg toward the small, stone-stacked wall of an outdoor cooking pit. Marcos fires again, but misses.
A stream of nearly indiscernible cursing and threats spews from behind the low barricade.
Marcos is half-crouched, thrusting the gun outward with two stiff arms. He steps toward the gunman slowly, oozing determination.
I wonder why he approaches so cautiously. We can all see the man’s rifle, out of reach and useless. Then I get my answer. A small handgun rises over the pit and fires a blind shot toward us.
Marcos stumbles backward and fires. The handgun launches more bullets in our direction. Arbo, Gladys, and I all charge for the back wall. Marcos is at our heels, firing twice more behind him as he runs. It’s enough cover for us to clear the yard.
More bullets fly as we blaze beyond the wall.
“Come back and fight!” the man yells.
None of us, not even Marcos, turn back. We tear out into the darkness, toward the plastic bench where we’d been sitting when all this started.
“Rafa! Rafa! ¡Hijos de putas!”
I feel a strange emotion at the man’s cries. Empathy. A vicious, sinister empathy. I feel his suffering, and I enjoy it. The dark hope that we’re leaving his world empty fills me. I nearly smile. A hatred swells in me that I’ve never known before.
“You’re dead! Marcos, I know your name. You’re dead! All of you!” The man’s roaring threats fade as we flee.
We stop when we reach the car seat, far enough from the house that we can continue running if he starts chasing us with his wounded leg, yet close enough to keep an eye on what’s happening at the house.
Panting, my hands on my knees, I see one of our cigarettes, still burning, smoke drifting up at the base of a long trail of ash. I’m struck by how suddenly my whole life vanished.
“You killed my brother. ¡Mi hermano! ¡Pinche culeros! You’re dead! ¡Muertos! ¡Muertos! ¿Me escuchan?”
We hear him. But none of us acknowledge his scr
eams, at least not to each other. I can barely stomach it. His attack wiped out my whole family, and he’s upset that his brother died as a result?
We hide behind the bench seat and watch the gate to see if he tries to follow us. He doesn’t. Several minutes later, a car door shuts and a revving engine fades into the night.
We wait for a few more minutes, but nobody arrives. No police. No ambulances. No neighbors. Nobody. Fear rules. And we are alone in our fear.
Where to Go?
We need to run, but where? None of us have an answer. So none of us even ask the question. We are paralyzed, each trapped in our own abyss, trying to gauge its depth as we fall. To call this shock feels like an understatement. If you break a finger, you can go into shock. Grief, rage, confusion, disgust, fear, regret, hopelessness, isolation, fatigue—they all overtake me until I’m numb. It’s like some heinous grand finale of emotional fireworks, marking the end of everything that was important to me.
Marcos lies flat on his back in the dirt, staring into the emptiness above.
Gladys is turned on her side, curled next to Marcos, her head resting on his chest. I can’t see her face, but from her sniffles, I can imagine her tears.
Arbo sobs on the bench with his head buried between his knees. His body convulses, staying still for several seconds, then balling up in a spastic but muted wail, as if he’s stuck in a loop of denying and remembering what has happened.
As for me, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I just want to die. I don’t want to be here. I have nothing, not even the will to push beyond this moment. It’s ironic. I survived because I was a coward, and now this same lack of courage has taken my desire to live. But I’m not going to grab the gun from Marcos to end it. Not now, at least. I don’t have that kind of determination. I don’t care about anything. I can’t even move.
I don’t know how long we stay here. One minute? Ten minutes? If I were alone, I’d probably stay here forever.
It’s Gladys who finally speaks.
“We need to go somewhere safe.”
“Like where?” Arbo asks. “Your house? How long do you think it’ll take them to find out where that is and bust in looking for our pistolero?” He looks toward Marcos, who still grips the gun in his hand.
“You were a second away from having a bullet in your ear,” Marcos says.
“I know. I wasn’t blaming you…”
“Good. Because they’re not looking only for me.”
“I was just saying that they know your name.”
“They’ll figure out who all of us are.”
Marcos’s words linger as we think about this. He’s probably right. He slaps his hand against the dirt, causing Gladys to jump, and says, “I should have shot him. I should have snuck back to the wall and put a bullet in his forehead.”
“You were the only one of us who did anything,” Gladys says. “So stop. But we can’t stay here.”
“She’s right,” Marcos says to Arbo and me. “We can’t stay.”
We don’t need to ask why. When you live in northern Mexico, you come to know certain things. There is a reason why the police haven’t arrived yet. The line between the law and the lawless is so thin it hardly exists. I’m not saying the gunmen were police. But the police were involved. Somehow. Through bribes or threats, maybe moles. We’re taught from a young age to approach the police with the same caution as we would anything in the desert that rattles. It would be unwise to be here when they arrive.
“So what now?” Arbo asks.
“We can’t go to any of our houses,” Marcos says. “Or to any of our friends…or family. We can’t bring this into their lives.”
“So nobody we know. Great,” Arbo says.
“Like we have any family left,” I blurt out. I’m an only child. And now I have no family. Of course, Marcos meant aunts and uncles and grandparents, and I have those, the same as the rest of them. But as of this moment, my parents are gone. It’s hard to see past that.
“Stop,” Marcos says.
“Stop what? It’s true,” I say.
“You know what I meant. We’re not talking about”—his head turns slightly toward the house—“them right now.”
“Who made you king?” Arbo asks. “My family is lying dead in the dirt back there. I’ll talk about whoever I want.”
“I made me king when I was the only one with enough sense to run inside and find your dad’s gun.”
I had no idea my uncle even had a gun. Welcome to northern Mexico.
Marcos continues, “You think I don’t get that…that”—he stumbles—“that we’re orphans? Well I do. But now isn’t the time for it. We have to get the hell out of here, or we’re going to join them. Does anybody have any money? Maybe we can get a place for the night.”
We check our pockets. Altogether we have about fifty pesos, not even enough to buy four tamales.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, thinking through our lack of options. As we do, our gazes turn toward Arbo’s backyard, as if we’re all considering the same question that no one wants to ask.
The police will steal whatever money they find on the bodies, but even so, there are limits to what we’re willing to do.
Lights from the neighboring houses begin to flicker on, as silence and curiosity lures those who had not attended from the safety of their homes.
“We can’t let the neighbors see us,” Marcos says. “We don’t know who talks to who around here. We need to leave. Now. I don’t care where we go.”
Marcos waits for someone else to contribute. I have an idea, but planning our escape feels too practical right now. I’m not ready to move.
“Come on, Gladys,” Marcos says. He stands and pulls Gladys up with him. They take several steps along the path.
Arbo looks to me to move. I don’t. He elbows me, beginning to panic as Marcos and Gladys leave us behind.
I break.
“I know where we can go,” I offer.
“Where?” Marcos asks, turning.
“Arbo, do you remember Señor Ortíz? What do you think? Would he help us?”
“If he’s still alive,” Arbo says. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“How do you know him?” Marcos asks.
“School sent us to his house on one of those volunteer days. He lives by himself outside of town,” I say.
About two years ago, our school sent groups of us out into the community to help others. Most kids went to churches, homeless shelters, or other organizations, but Arbo and I went about ten kilometers outside of town with one of our teachers to visit an older man. I think his wife had died a few years before. He put us to work tending a few animals and the small plot of land he farmed. He worked beside us, and we spent much of the afternoon talking. He seemed lonely.
We promised to visit but haven’t been back since.
“Would he tell anybody?” Marcos asks.
“I don’t think he has anybody to tell.” The parallel between our situations occurs to me, and I feel guilty for not having visited.
“Okay, next question. How do we get there?” Marcos asks.
“I know the way. We should drive. The truck is in front of the driveway.”
“And the keys?”
“¡Dios mío!” A shrill cry comes from the backyard. The neighbors have discovered the scene. More screams follow. “¡Qué demonios!”
My pulse quickens. Their cries sound too familiar, like ours only minutes ago. I lose myself in them.
“The keys, Pato! Where are they?”
“They’re behind the gas tank door,” Arbo says.
I nod.
Marcos stands and we follow. Arbo takes the lead, and we sneak along a separate desert trail that winds behind several other houses, eventually dumping us into the street.
As we approach the truck, I see several neighbors caut
iously approaching the backyard. I look away. I can’t watch. Marcos grabs the keys and jumps in the driver’s seat, while Gladys gets in the front passenger seat. There is no back seat, so Arbo and I climb into the rusty bed of the truck. I open the small window in the back of the cab so we can give Marcos directions.
He starts the engine and we crawl down the street. A few blocks later, we pass my house. As it disappears into the distance, I watch one more piece of my life slip away. We turn toward the desert and ride into the void ahead.
Finding Purgatory
Arbo and I lie flat in the bed of the truck, as hidden as possible. We share a rolled-up tarp as a thin headrest and try to lose ourselves in the starscape as we ride beneath it.
We don’t talk. I don’t know what to say. To talk about my loss would seem to lessen his, and to talk about his loss would be to ignore everything I’m thinking. And to talk about our collective loss is too big to handle. So I don’t try. I assume he agrees. I suppose that’s a sign of true friendship—knowing when to be quiet. We pass the ride with our shoulders pressed against each other, letting the small warmth remind us that we’re not completely alone.
I gaze up at the sky, my thoughts spiraling, tormenting me. How can the trillions upon trillions of stars, planets, moons all appear exactly the same night after night, while my life is nothing like it was yesterday or even an hour ago. High above me hovers Scorpius’s tail. It looks as it always does, its stinger angled right at me. My eyes search for one single difference. None. Nothing has changed. I know it’s not true, but it looks that way. It’s like seeing yourself in the mirror from one day to the next—you age, but you don’t notice. It takes a haircut for you to feel any different. The universe looks boundless as always, but I feel bald.
“¡Oye!” Marcos calls for my attention from inside the cab. “¿Adónde?”
I sit up and point him left. We’re outside of town and only a few kilometers from Sr. Ortíz’s house.
“Go slowly,” I say, minutes later as we approach. “Stop here and let us out. We’ll go knock.”
He stops about thirty meters before the house. It’s exactly how I remember it. A small house built from large concrete blocks—like dusty Legos—with a sheet metal roof.
The Border Page 2
