by Audrey Braun
“Really. That’s your plan?”
“I’d do it myself if I weren’t afraid of hitting my face and knocking myself out.”
“You need a doctor.”
“That’s what you said.”
I imagine myself on the run, dodging bullets, getting hit, getting caught, raped, decapitated. A shiver runs through me.
“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” Benicio says. “I don’t know if I want to take the chance that we’ll be killed trying.”
“And if we do nothing?” I ask. “What do you think our chances are?”
“I think something has gone wrong somewhere. And the longer they have to wait, the madder they’re going to get.”
“Let’s say we do escape. Where do we go? The police?”
Benicio tries to laugh. “I have a whole routine about how corrupt the Mexican police force is. You want to hear it?”
“Not particularly.”
“And don’t forget Leon has your passport.”
“Shit.”
“I think there’s only one thing for us to do.”
“And that is?”
“Make our way back to the border and sneak in.”
“What?” I pull up a map of Mexico in my mind. “We’re hundreds of miles away from the border. How the hell are we going to cross half of Mexico and then sneak into the States without getting caught?”
“It’s not as if I haven’t done it before.”
Nights in the desert, hours locked in the back of a semi, crawling beneath barbed wire. There are people to be paid. “What are we supposed to do for money?”
“I don’t know. I have about three hundred pesos in my pocket to get us started.”
Three hundred pesos will buy us each a sandwich. I have several thousand dollars in my checking account. I think I might have tens of thousands in an investment fund. But now I’m not so sure.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. “I’m an American. I’ll just go to the consulate and explain everything. They’ll help me. I know they will. Or do you also have a routine about corrupt U.S. consulates in Mexico?”
Benicio doesn’t answer. Lightning flashes and thunder roars behind it. It takes a moment before the truth of what I’ve said dawns on me. Of course they will help me. But what about Benicio?
“There’s a small consulate in Nuevo Vallarta about five miles from town,” he says.
“What about you?”
Again he’s quiet.
“And Oliver,” I say. “Shouldn’t I go back for him?”
“I have a feeling Oliver isn’t waiting for you at the condo.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. But he wouldn’t be there. That would be stupid of them. He’s probably wherever your husband is. Or maybe he sent him home.”
Home? Who would be there to take him in? Maggie’s family? I’ve managed to completely isolate myself over the years. There are acquaintances, a couple of neighbors, but no one I can imagine Jonathon asking for such a favor. We’ve become the family written about in the papers after the fact. They seemed very nice but always kept to themselves. Jonathon has talked about people from the bank, but the only time I ever see him with them is at the annual picnics and obligatory holiday parties, their awkward body language a clear indication of the lines drawn between them.
How is Jonathon explaining my absence to Oliver? Does he tell him I’ve been kidnapped? If so, won’t Oliver wonder why Jonathon isn’t he going to the police? And what about Switzerland? How is he explaining that? I grit my teeth, and my entire body fills with a dark and savage hatred.
“I have no idea who or how many people are connected to this,” Benicio says. It appears to be getting more difficult for him to speak. “I would hate for you to get out of here, only to be trapped by someone else.”
How likely is that? I can’t help but wonder if he’s concerned for me or just concerned about being left behind.
The rain is softer now, the storm moving past, the pleasant smell of wet soil drifting away.
“I’m pretty sure that tomorrow is Tuesday,” he says. “We’ll have to stay awake until the sun comes up.” He spits more blood to the side, markedly less than before. “That will be close to five thirty in the morning. Once it’s up we’ll have to estimate the time. Count the seconds into hours until it feels close to eight. We’ll listen for the sound of movement in the house. The cars leaving.” His breathing is clearly labored. “I’m not sure how else to do it.”
“Stop talking,” I say. “Put your head back and take the pressure off your nose.”
He does what I ask.
I imagine counting, one Mississippi, two Mississippi for hours. It’ll be like counting sheep, impossible to stay awake for so long. “We’ll have to take turns counting. One rests while the other counts and then we switch off.”
He gives a moan I take for a yes.
Moments pass in quiet.
“How are we going to get past Isabel?” I finally ask.
Benicio lowers his head. The bleeding appears to have stopped. “First we need to decide where we’re going,” he says. “We can’t just run out of here without a plan. That’s suicide. They’ll find us if we’re not smart.”
I imagine myself on the streets of Puerto Vallarta, making my way to the consulate. Won’t that be the first place they look for me? I don’t speak the language, don’t know my way around, and can’t trust a single person. Then again, what are my chances of getting within a few miles to safety, compared to the hundreds it’ll take to reach the border?
“I think your best bet is to take a chance on the consulate.” He seems to be reading my mind. “Make your way back into the city and hail a cab. After that you’ll be there within half an hour.”
“What if they’re corrupt, like you said? What if they know who I am?”
“Make a scene. Scream your name. Attract as many witnesses as you can. Most people on the street will at least be able to understand you. There are Americans all around there. I think you’ll be all right.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know.” He sounds worse than ever. “I may have no choice but to get back over the border and do whatever I have to to survive.”
And where will I go when I’m free? Make my way home, sleep in my own bed, carry on a life with Oliver, the two of us thick as thieves after all of this? And Jonathon? Where is he? In jail? Dead? Or just lying low until the next time he offers me up for another of his mistakes? I might never be able to go home at all. These people know where I live. Their reaches go far beyond this house, this country. I feel tangled in a worldwide net.
Then I think of Benicio, the two of us on the bed. My heart squeezes as if wringing out all the rest. There’s no getting around the fact that if it’s difficult for me to elude these people, how difficult will it be for someone who’s grown up here? Someone whose handsome face is likely to be recognized by everyone in town?
I have to think of Oliver.
“I can’t leave here without seeing for myself that Oliver is not in the condo.”
“Celia. Of all the choices you have I wish you’d forget about that one.”
“You don’t understand. You don’t have any children.”
“I’ve seen things that have happened to children and their parents that you couldn’t even begin to imagine.”
That shuts me up. I’m out of my league. I know that. I have no idea what Benicio has lived through. And yet, I have to get to Oliver. There’s simply no question.
“Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they catch you a second time?” Benicio says. “I guarantee Oliver will never see you again.”
That does it. I throw myself down, taking the chair with me. I hit the floor with a sickening thud, my arm and shoulder bearing the brunt. Pain strikes my neck and back. I bite down hard and refuse to scream. I will my body not to break. I breathe like a bull through my nostrils.
“Celia,” Benicio says. It’s almost a cry.
> I struggle to find momentum, jerking my bound feet forward, then my shoulders, then my feet.
“Celia.” His whisper is coarse from the blood in his throat. “Celia,” again as I kick my legs and inch my way toward the glass.
13
After what must be thirty minutes of scratching the triangle of glass against the plastic tie and cutting the meat of my palm in the process, my wrists finally pop free. By the time I release Benicio my body is so pumped with adrenaline, I feel as if I could lift him right out of his chair.
Rain has gathered on the sill, and I use it to wet the towel and gently wipe the crusty blood from Benicio’s face. He twitches in pain, his eyes black and purple, one swollen shut. He’s in no shape to run.
I walk him to the bed and prop pillows beneath his head. He gives me his best smile and squeezes my hand. His nose is enormous. It’s hard to tell just where it ends and the rest of his face begins.
I hold the towel through the bars on the window and dip it against the cool, wet leaves. I bring it back and lay it across Benicio’s nose.
He groans.
“Pretend it’s ice,” I say.
The sun is beginning to break. “Rest.” I cross the room for the shard of glass I used to cut us free.
I sit next to him, the glass closed in my hand like a lucky rabbit’s foot. I count inside my head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. No need to worry about dozing off. I’ve never felt more awake in my life.
With every ten minutes, I mark the concrete with the glass; like nails on a chalkboard, every scratch sets my teeth on edge. I remain focused for hours, never allowing myself to veer from the task, every thin white line a step closer to saving us. Every hour brings me closer to Oliver.
Benicio sleeps with his mouth wide open, snoring, gurgling with every breath he pulls in, lets out.
I estimate it’s around seven o’clock when doors begin to open and close in the house. But Benny’s cries obscure the sounds I need for cues. We need to act fast.
“Wake up!” I whisper loudly in Benicio’s ear. “Hurry.”
I rush over and place my chair back where it stood.
Benicio struggles to sit. He moans. He brings his hand to his face.
“Get in your chair,” I say. “Quick.”
It probably hurts too much for him to speak.
“Come on,” I say, and help him into the chair.
I snatch up the old zip ties and cup them at his ankles to make them appear fastened.
Benicio places his arms behind the chair as if they’re bound.
I gather up more ties, slide onto my own chair, place the ties around my ankles, and wait.
When the locks begin releasing I throw my hands behind me.
Benicio murmurs something. A prayer, I guess, and wish I could think of one myself.
“Isabel!” Benicio is suddenly wide-awake, up to the task. He spouts off in Spanish.
Isabel appears confused at first, but it doesn’t take long to get her riled. She crosses toward him and screams something of her own.
Benicio’s forehead beads with sweat.
Isabel pulls out her gun. It’s hard to tell if anyone else is in the house. This is why Benicio is causing such a fuss, to see if someone will come running in. Benny’s unanswered cries are a good indication that we’re alone.
I scream. Isabel turns and Benicio leaps from the chair, grabbing her from behind. He ropes his arms down around both of hers and jerks her to the side to free the gun.
It’s all happening so fast. Isabel stumbles but holds the gun beneath Benicio’s grip.
I dive to the side just as the gun goes off. I land on my arm and scream in pain. I scream again in anger.
Benicio grasps Isabel’s wrist and the gun goes off again, shooting the seat of the chair I just sat in. The sound is deafening. Everyone’s screams are just as bad.
Isabel’s arm continues to flail. She’s trying to kill me.
Only seconds have passed from the time Benicio jumped from his chair to the gun going off once, twice, and now a third time.
A sting, and then a deep wrenching seizes the side of my calf.
Benny wails down the hall as if he’s the one who’s been shot.
Benicio flings Isabel against the wall, chopping her wrist so hard that the gun tumbles to the floor. Isabel screams. He snatches up the gun and points it at her face.
Her mouth fixes into an O. She’s crying now, holding the wrist he’s cut down.
“Celia?” Benicio says without taking his eyes off Isabel.
I’m still on the floor, the shots ringing in my ears. I’m afraid to look at my leg.
“Celia!” he yells.
I look. Blood streams down my calf. The sight of the hole intensifies the pain. I swipe at the blood, but it continues to flow.
Benny continues to wail.
Isabel shouts at Benicio.
Benicio screams for me. He moves to see my leg without taking his eyes off Isabel. “Shit, shit, shit,” he says and glares at his sister with a look of pure hatred.
“I’m fine,” I say. “It didn’t go in. I could use a stitch or two, but I’m fine.”
“Quick,” Benicio tells me. “The medicine cabinet in the bathroom beneath the sink. There should be some gauze.”
I catch my breath and hop to the bathroom, reminding myself of the pain of childbirth as I retrieve the gauze and a brown bottle of rubbing alcohol. I hop back with the pain shooting into my hip.
Benicio and Isabel remain in a standoff. Benny continues to cry.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I bite down and pour the alcohol on the wound like a soldier. Spit escapes through my clenched teeth. I tear a piece of gauze and tie it tightly around my calf. Then I hop across the room and get in Isabel’s face. I want more than anything to smash it the way Leon smashed Benicio’s. The shrill of Benny’s cries stop me short.
“Hurry.” Benicio motions for Isabel to move into the hallway in front of him.
The bedroom we enter smells faintly of urine but is clean and spacious with the same glossy terra cotta tiled floors. The furniture and décor are similar to the condo, warm, colorful, tropic. The double bed is neatly covered with a white down blanket. Above the crib a mosquito net hangs like a white spotlight cone around Benny.
He can’t be more than a year old, standing there in a diaper. He grips the bars of his crib and quiets when we walk in. His legs give a small bounce.
Isabel starts toward him.
“No!” Benicio says, and she freezes.
He lowers the gun but keeps it directed toward her. “Hola, baby,” Benicio says sweetly.
Benny bounces his legs again.
I limp around Isabel, my leg on fire. I open the net and see the boy’s face is red and soaked with tears. His hair is surprisingly light. He barely looks Mexican, though his lips are undeniably Isabel’s.
“Hurry!” Benicio urges her.
I lift the boy from his crib like we planned. Benny seems cautious at first, staring deeply into my face. He looks at Benicio and then me. He reaches out and feels my hair. And then he smiles, and that’s when I know.
Even if I hadn’t been shot my balance would have wavered beneath me. I turn to Benicio. “He’s not,” I stammer when Benicio looks away. “Oh my God. My God,” is all I can say.
“Put him down!” Isabel shouts.
Benny starts to whimper.
“Ssh.” I bounce Benny on the hip of my good leg, stifling tears from so many kinds of pain.
Then I turn to Isabel. “You don’t call the shots anymore, chica.”
I lift a satin baby blanket and a small floppy yellow bear from the crib. I smile at Benny and he smiles back, his father made over. For as much as Oliver resembles me, Benny resembles Jonathon.
He wraps his things into his arm and buries his face against the bear. I pat his cheeks dry with the blanket and instinctively kiss the top of his head.
“Pasaporte,” Benicio says to Isabel. “Dónde está su pasaporte?�
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Isabel stares at Benny in my arms.
Benicio gets down in her face and growls something in Spanish. Isabel shrinks beneath his words. She walks over to a dresser and pulls out my passport and hands it to Benicio.
He snatches it from her and sticks it in his back pocket.
Then he orders her to do something else. Isabel opens another drawer and takes out a violet tank top and jeans. She tosses them to me.
“Come,” Benicio says and motions everyone into the next room. It isn’t nearly as well kept, the queen-size bed is unmade and curtains still closed. Isabel pulls a pair of men’s jeans and a black T-shirt from the drawer and hands them to Benicio.
I glance down at the gauze on my leg, already soaked red. The hot pain increases with every step.
Benicio orders Isabel farther down the hall, and I can hear the anger and determination in his voice.
Isabel crosses the room and takes a seat in the very chair she helped tie Benicio to. I’m so tempted to ask her how it feels to be the one trapped in here, but Isabel doesn’t take her eyes off Benny. She’s a mother concerned for her son, and in that moment I can only think of Oliver.
Benicio walks backward to the door.
“Here you go,” I say, and set Benny down with his blanket and bear on the floor in the place Isabel slid in the trays. I notice my sneakers for the first time at the end of the bed. I set the clothes down and slip on my shoes, wincing at the pain. I remember the broken glass and snatch up the bloody towel and use it to sweep away the shards. I scoop the pieces inside of it and then throw the whole thing out the window.
Isabel watches with a dazed expression.
Benicio pats Benny on the head, and the boy peers up at him and grins as if this is all part of some game.
I gather the clothes and the remaining gauze and rubbing alcohol. Benicio and I back out of the room and lock the door.
In the kitchen Benicio pulls a plastic grocery bag from a drawer and stuffs it with chips and bread and bottled water and salami from the fridge. He rummages through other drawers, collecting a knife, lighter, flashlight, and several more plastic bags. He rushes into the bathroom and comes out with insect repellant and an assortment of medications cradled in his arm.
