by Glenn Trust
“Your mother sent you away from her to your uncle for this?” Inez looked into the young girl’s face, sensing that there was more to the story.
“No.” Jacinta shook her head, and a tear appeared at the corner of her eye. “My mother has passed.”
They made the sign of the cross together at the mention of her mother’s death. “God calls those he loves,” Inez said.
“Yes.” Jacinta nodded. “And those I loved as well. She died two years ago. I have no other family, but …” She patted the pocket where the picture of her uncle was secured. “But my uncle will welcome me. My mother loved him very much, and he is such a good man.”
“I’m sure your Uncle Arturo will be glad to see his niece. He is sure to throw his arms around the daughter of his beloved sister.” Inez smiled. “But where did you get the three thousand American dollars to pay the coyotaje?”
“I have been working. It was hard to find a job that would pay more than it took for me to live, but the priest who buried my mother knew a family in Culiacán. They said I could live with them and care for their three small children. The pay was not so much because they fed me and gave me a bed to sleep on, but in two years, I was able to save the money.”
“They sound like nice people. Could you not have remained with them until you met a man to marry?”
“Perhaps.” Jacinta shrugged. “I thought of that at first. The woman was very nice. The man too … at first.”
“He changed, the man?”
“He …” Jacinta hesitated. “He wanted things from me … when his wife was not around.”
Inez’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of things,” she asked, suspecting the answer.
“He came to my bed when the children were sleeping. He …” She shook her head. “I didn’t understand at first. He did what men do with their wives. Made me do things for him … to him. Terrible things that will send me to hell.”
Sobs shook Jacinta’s shoulders. Inez held her close in the tight space, letting her cry out the tears she had been holding.
“There, there, little one. You are not going to hell. Did the priest not tell you? You were raped. The man who raped you will go to hell for sure, but you are still innocent.”
“El hijo de puta!” The cold-voiced woman’s voice was less icy now, and she turned back to Inez and the girl, Jacinta. “The son of a bitch! If there is any justice, he will have his balls cut off before he goes to burn in hell,” she hissed.
“I agree. He is the evil one, not you,” Inez said. “And your priest? You told him, of course, and he did nothing?”
“Yes.” Jacinta lowered her head, ashamed. “I confessed my sins.”
“Your sins?” Inez raised her voice for the first time. “How can there be a sin when you are the victim?”
“It is what I was taught as a child … when a woman lies with a man she is not married to it is a sin. So, I confessed my sins to my priest.”
“And this priest of yours, what did he do?”
“He was very kind and forgave me. I only had to say four Hail Mary’s,"
“How kind of the black-coated bastard,” the woman with the cold voice interjected.
Inez nodded agreement but drew the line at speaking evil of a priest.
“It was the priest’s idea for me to leave,” Jacinta said. “Father Alfonso said it was best to get away so that the sinning would stop. He introduced me to the coyotaje, Señor Lopez.”
“Señor Lopez?” Inez laughed. “Such a grand title for a gutter rat like Pepe Lopez.”
“Father Alfonso said you had to find someone to trust to take you over the border. Otherwise, they might take your money and leave you in the desert or do terrible things to you. He said that …” She hesitated and then whispered, “Señor Lopez would see that I was safely across.”
“Well, at least he was right about that,” Inez said, patting her hand. “Pepe Lopez is better than the others who take people across.” Her voice went low, remembering something unpleasant from her past. “I have made the crossing five times to be with my son in Nevada. Each time, I stay for a while, earn money, see my grandchildren, and then go back to Mexico with the money to see my sisters and help them. The first time, I was dropped off in the middle of the desert without water or supplies. There were ten of us. Four died. We didn’t even know if we were over the border. As it turned out, we were in Arizona. I made it to a town and called my son who drove all night to come pick me up, or the Border Patrol would have found me and sent me back.”
“You must have been frightened,” Jacinta said.
“Ay! I was angry.” Inez shook her head in disgust. “The next time we made it safely across, but there was an extra charge before we could leave.”
“An extra charge?” Jacinta’s eyes opened wide. “After you already paid?”
“Yes.” Inez nodded somberly. “That time, the women in the group had to pay with their bodies. The coyotajes gathered around and took turns with us. When they were done, they let us go.”
“Madre de Dios!” Mother of God. Jacinta crossed herself.
“After that, I found the coyotaje, Pepe Lopez, the one who has arranged this trip. They promise safe delivery, no rape, no being left in the desert to die of thirst. The Americans he works for make sure that no one is hurt. Since I found them, it is safe to cross. Sure it is a little crowded and cold in the truck, but you get there in one piece.”
“It is true,” a voice agreed in the dark.
“Yes, for me, this is the fourth time with Pepe and no problems,” another said.
“Your priest did one thing right,” the woman with the cold voice said. “Look around. Why do you think there are eighteen women in a group of twenty-three? Because they know this is the safe way to cross.”
The truck shuddered and slowed. Brakes squealed as they bumped and swayed in the back. The driver steered off the road and down a dirt trail until they were out of sight of the main road. A murmur went up among the women and the few men on board. Finally, they could have some water and get out to stretch.
The truck rocked to a stop. A minute later, the back door was thrown open, and one of the panels that concealed them behind the wall was removed. The passengers made their way through the narrow opening and weaved through a path that had been made between the crates of tomatoes.
The crates were arranged strategically so that from the outside, they appeared to be stacked all the way to the back. Even if someone came onto the truck to inspect, they would have to remove every crate to discern that there was a winding passage between them. Even then, they would not know about the wall panels that concealed the illegal border crossers.
One by one, the passengers jumped to the ground. The sun was rising and, a fresh breeze, dry and warm, but clean, blew over the desert.
“Come, little one,” Inez said and took Jacinta by the arm.
They walked thirty feet away from the crowd that gathered around the truck to receive their bottles of water.
“Good. Hierba del vaso—vase grass. This will do.” Inez stopped and with the toe of her shoe carefully lifted the outlying stems. “No snakes,” she said, satisfied. “Squat and do your business here. I will watch and see that no one disturbs you.”
Jacinta did not need to be coaxed. Moving behind the four-foot-tall shrub, she dropped her pants and squatted. Relief washed over her, taking with it any remaining delicateness about relieving herself in public.
For nearly two minutes, the flow ran onto the ground, splashing at first, then soaking into the parched soil. When it stopped, Jacinta stood and adjusted her underwear and pants. She looked at Inez over the bush, a smile on her face and the embarrassment gone.
“Now you watch for me,” Inez said, dropping low on the other side of the vase grass. As she peed, she chatted as if they were two women leaning over a wall talking about the weather. “The norteamericanos call this shrub bristle brush. I think our Mexican word has a nicer sound, don’t you?”
“Yes, vase gra
ss sounds like something you would find in a garden.”
“Exactly. In fact …” Inez stood, pulled her pants up, and leaned toward Jacinta. “Some call it incienso because in the old days the priests would burn it as incense during the mass. What do you think your priest would say to that? That we took a piss in his incense!” Inez threw her head back and laughed.
Jacinta couldn’t help but join in. For the first time since her mother’s death, she felt free to laugh. There were no children to care for, no rules to follow in a stranger’s house, and no man coming to her bed in the night. There were only the new day, the laughter, and the relief after a good pee.
They walked back to the truck. The driver and the man who rode up front with him handed them each a bottle of water.
A car approached down the dirt road, the tires crunching over the rocks. Jacinta tensed and reached out for Inez’s hand.
“Relax, child,” Inez said. “He always comes just before the last part of the trip.”
The car brakes squeaked, and the door opened. It was the man the priest had introduced to her, the one who would get her across the border. Pepe Lopez walked up smiling.
“Bueno mis amigos. I hope all is well. Have there been any problems?”
Heads shook.
“Good. That is good. So, I am here to tell you what will happen next.”
Inez whispered to Jacinta, “He always does this. I think he likes the show, to be the big rooster and show us how he has taken care of everything.” She shrugged. “Still, it is his show, and he has taken care of everything, so we listen and smile.”
“From here,” Pepe said. “It is only four hours to the border. They know us there, but they do not know about you, so one thing is most important. When you hear the men in the front knock on the wall behind the cab …”
He stopped and gave three hard raps on the side of the truck to demonstrate. “When you hear these knocks, you must be completely silent. There can be no noise.”
He placed his finger to his lips. “Total silence This is most important. Absolutely no sound, not a sneeze, a cough, or even a whisper.”
Heads nodded their understanding.
Pepe smiled. “Excellent. So, we all understand. Now stretch your legs for a few more minutes, and you will go back into the truck to cross the border.”
Two of the men lit up cigarettes and leaned against the truck. The women gathered in small groups, chatting about where they would go and what they would do once across the border.
Pepe approached Jacinta and Inez. “Hola abuela—hello, grandmother.”
“Phht,” Inez hissed. “I am not your grandmother.”
“True enough,” Pepe nodded, the ever-present smile not flinching under the woman’s rebuke. “But I trust you have taken good care of our youngest passenger, perhaps been a grandmother to her.”
“I have been a friend.”
“What more can a person ask?” Pepe oozed. “True friendship is everything, is it not?” He turned to Jacinta. “Father Alfonso sends his greetings and a prayer that you are well.”
Jacinta smiled. “I am well. Please thank Father Alfonso, for all he has done for me.”
“I will do that.” Pepe gave her a pat on the shoulder and turned. “¡Vamos! Let’s go! Everybody in the truck. Time to go to America!”
11.
Not Overloaded with Brains
“What the fuck happened to you?”
Raul Zabala stood on the loading dock to the refrigerated warehouse at K and Z Trucking, watching Stu Pearce and Lucky Martin get out of their pickup and walk toward him.
Stu had the sad dog look of a mutt about to take a beating. Lucky supported his broken jaw with one hand as he walked, wincing at every step. When he reached the dock and tried to climb the short iron ladder up from the pavement, he moaned.
“Go around to the front and come in through the door,” Zabala ordered. “Meet us in the office.”
Martin nodded and walked around the side of the building, stepping gingerly to avoid any jarring of his injury.
“What happened?” Zabala snapped at Pearce.
“Met someone,” Pearce said matter-of-factly and shrugged. “He didn’t like Lucky shootin’ at a Mex family across the river.”
“Let’s go.” Zabala turned and led the way inside to the office.
By the time they arrived, Martin was sitting across the desk from Tom Krieg whose steely eyes bored into the luckless Lucky. “What happened?”
“Got my jaw broke,” Martin managed to whisper through clenched teeth and then whimpered in pain.
Zabala elbowed Pearce as he took his customary seat to the side of Krieg’s desk. “You tell it, Pearce.”
“Me?”
“You.” Zabala nodded. “Just spit it out.”
“Well, Mr. Krieg,” Stu Pearce said, swallowing down the butterflies rising in his gut. There was no telling how the boss was going to take this, two of his men outdone by a drifter sleeping in his truck and looking for breakfast. “Like he said, he got his jaw broke.”
“I can fucking see that. You tell me how it happened. Start talking.”
“Well, we was out by the Rio Grande, like you said … followin’ orders, doin’ what you told us to do … what we always do.”
“Get to the point, dammit!” Krieg leaned forward, elbows on his desk, glaring at Pearce.
It didn’t seem fair to put the pressure on him, Pearce thought. He thought of protesting. After all, he didn’t do anything. He didn’t shoot down some Mexican and get a drifter pissed off at them. He sure as hell didn’t get butt-stroked with his own rifle. Then he looked into Krieg’s eyes and put aside any idea of protesting.
“Right,” he nodded and took a breath. “So we see some Mexicans about to swim across. Don’t know where they was headed, didn’t seem to be nobody waitin’ for them. I reckon they was gonna walk a ways and meet someone when they got over.”
Pearce cast a sideways glance at Martin, still whimpering in pain. He didn’t like turning on a partner, but there was no putting off the boss. Besides, he was not going to take the blame for Martin’s hotheaded nature.
“So, Lucky, he puts a few rounds in the water in front of ‘em, but they keep comin’ on, like they knew we wasn’t really gonna shoot ‘em. So, he puts a few more rounds in the mud around ‘em on the bank over there.” Pearce lifted a finger to emphasize that this was all within their operating orders. “Not too close mind you. Just close enough to get their attention.”
“And they still came on?” Krieg's eyes bored into him, looking for some sign of deception.
“Well, no, sir.” Pearce could feel Martin’s eyes glaring at him. “They sort of stopped about then.”
“So, what was the problem?”
“Well, they was walkin’, along the bank sort of … maybe they was lookin’ for another place to cross, you know, away from the shootin’. That’s when … well, I suppose that’s what did it … what caused it to happen.”
“What, Goddammit!” Krieg’s fist slammed down on the desktop.
There was no stopping now, Pearce told himself. Just get it out.
“That’s when Lucky here reloaded. I guess it pissed him off that they wasn’t payin’ us no mind. So he puts seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Then he lifts and starts levering them rounds in and spraying the far bank to scare ‘em back for real. And that’s when …” Pearce hesitated and took a breath and lowered his head, avoiding Krieg’s icy stare. “I mean, he didn’t mean to or nothin’, least I don’t think so. You know they was all movin’ around so much over there, but that’s when he hit one.”
“What!” Krieg spun towards Martin. “You shot someone trying to swim across? Are fucking out of your mind?”
Martin tried to answer. “I was only …” he shook his head, the pain of trying to speak too much for him to bear.
“And you?” Krieg swung his stare back to Pearce. “What did you do during all the shooting?”
“Well, I
tried to tell him to stop … that we had done what we was supposed to, but he didn’t.” He was committed now. Best to just spit it all out. “I reckon his blood was up about them ignorin’ the warning shots and all. You know how Lucky gets. Anyways, he wasn’t listenin’ to me. He just commenced to shootin’, sprayin’ the other bank.”
“And he hit someone,” Krieg said, disgusted.
“Yes, sir.” Pearce nodded solemnly. “He did for a fact.”
“Who?” Krieg shook his head. “Tell me he didn’t shoot one of the children.”
“Oh, no, sir.” Pearce grinned, happy to have some good news to report. “Not one of the kids, or the mother either. Hit a man. I suppose he was the father of the brood.”
“How bad?”
“Not so bad he’ll die,” Pearce said, giving the man’s wound serious consideration. “From what I could see, at that distance and all, I’d say he’ll be limping for the rest of his life, but he should make it fine if he gets some medical attention.”
“You stupid son of a bitch.” Krieg glared at Martin. “You’re supposed to scare them off from crossing, not shoot them. What happens if the Mexicans pull your bullet out of that man’s leg and pass it over to the Border Patrol with a grievance? They match the bullet to your rifle, and we’re all fucked!”
Lucky Martin could do nothing but stand there and take his punishment. He prayed now that the ordeal would end so that he could get some liquor in him and try and kill the pain.
“Alright,” Krieg sighed. “He shot a Mex, but who broke Martin’s jaw.”
“Well, that’s when he showed up, when all the shootin’ commenced.”
“Who?”
“Some drifter. Said he was sleepin’ in his pickup off the highway and heard the shootin’. Come to see what the fuss was about. Had him a pistol, a big Colt 1911.” Pearce shook his head. “That damned bore looked wide as a badger hole and twice as mean.”
“So he got the drop on you … both.” Krieg’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“Me? I didn’t do nothin’. Like you said he had the drop on us. Lucky, he thought about it, but after a bit, he laid his Winchester on the ground and backed away.”
