Cry Macho

by N. Richard Nash

  The boy struck at the air a moment, then again at the air. At last he stopped. He turned away. He was still.

  Mike started to cry. And Rafo didn’t look at him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mike lay on one bed, Rafo on the other. Neither was asleep. As the first rays of sunlight came through the window, Mike sat up abruptly and looked at the ceiling. Then he got up and stared more fixedly, trying to figure it out. The room was high-ceilinged and it was hard to see anything between the rafters. What he thought he was looking at was a neat section of slatting, possibly two feet square, which had been fitted between the timbers. Not too well fitted, however, or perhaps the slats had dried and shrunk, for the battened square of wood was bordered by a perimeter of light. A narrow border, like a square halo, of early morning sunlight.

  Mike stood right under it, his head tilted back, peering upward. In a little while his eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the raftered area. Quickly, as silently as possible, he moved the chair under the slatted square. He got up on the chair and looked closer. It was a homemade panel of some sort, covering something. He reached. His fingertips could barely touch the wood. With an extra lift, on tiptoe, he pushed. The panel hardly budged and he tried again. The square slipped a little, askew, slightly out of position. Now, suspecting what it was, he got off the chair and turned to Rafo.

  The boy was no longer lying down. He stood on the far side of his bed, watching Mike, taut.

  “I think there’s a skylight above that,” Mike said, as quietly as he could.

  The boy listened and said nothing.

  Mike pointed to the chest of drawers. “If we moved that over, I could get up higher. I might pull the panel off.”

  With the slightest inclination of his head Rafo implied he understood.

  There was more to it than just removing a square of wood, Mike realized. More even than getting away. There was finding out where they were with each other.

  “Rafo . . .” He felt he was overstepping the breach too fast to call the boy by his name—he was sorry he had said it. “If I can help it, I’m not going back to Mexico City. The border is probably about a mile away. I’m going to try to get across.” Then, almost faltering over the words. “What do you want to do?”

  A difficult moment. “I . . . want to go back to Janasco.”

  “. . . By yourself?”

  “Yes, by myself.”

  Well, what else did he expect? Mike felt a pang too sharp to deal with. That’s that, then. It would be over soon.

  “Then I’ll help you,” he said.

  “How?” Rafo’s interest was tainted by suspicion.

  “If we can get up on the roof, I can go over it—to the truck. It’ll be a short run. We both go up there—” And he pointed to the panel he’d have to remove. “When I come down off the roof, you stay up there. I go down to the truck and go off by myself. They’ll think we’re both in it. You lie flat on the roof—and don’t move—until they’ve gone after me.”

  Rafo didn’t make any further sign.

  He understands all right, Mike thought—he’s just weighing it, wondering whether I’d really take the chance for him, whether he can trust me.

  Rafo nodded.

  Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out all the pesos he had left. Three hundred and ninety pesos and thirty centavos. They had used less money than he had expected. He put a hundred pesos in his pocket and handed Rafo the rest.

  “Here,” he said. “It won’t take you all the way, but it’ll get you started.”

  The boy shook his head. Mike said flatly, “If you want to get to Janasco, you need the money.”

  Rafo took the money, didn’t look at it, put it in his pocket. It was something he didn’t want to have anything to do with.

  “Help me,” Mike said.

  He indicated the chest of drawers. Silently, they lifted and carried it to a position under the panel. Mike jumped up on it and tried to pull the panel away. It was loose but wouldn’t come out. It moved barely a quarter of an inch, got wedged in tighter than before, then wouldn’t move at all. He could see, through the gap between the frame and the panel itself, the four nails that were holding it, toenailed in. Without tools there was no way to remove them. Unless he could pry the entire panel down. But he had nothing to use as a lever, no screwdriver, not even a stick of wood.

  Wood. He pointed down to the chest of drawers on which he was standing. “Give me one of the drawers,” he whispered.

  Rafo pulled out the top one, handed it up to Mike. He looked at it. The dovetailing was old and loose. Careful to make as little noise as possible, he pulled the drawer apart. Keeping one of the sides and handing Rafo the rest, he inserted his board of thin wood into the widest gap. One shove and it was wedged in, tight. A yank downward and the panel came loose—not much, an inch or two—enough for him to get his fingers in. He pulled and the whole panel came free—with a screech of nails. The sound was too loud. He didn’t breathe for a moment.

  Nobody came. Nobody stirred in the hallway outside the room.

  And there it was overhead, just as he had suspected: a skylight, sloppy in its fittings. Cautiously, quietly he raised the pane of glass. It gave no resistance, made no sound. He slid it easily onto the roof and yanked the two remaining nails out of the decayed wood. Looking down at Rafo, he gestured to tell him he was going up and for the boy to follow him. He grabbed onto the framework of the skylight, gave his body some impetus with a slight jump, got his elbow and forearm onto the roof and pulled himself through. He beckoned for the boy to come up.

  Rafo lifted himself onto the chest of drawers, stretched upward to get hold of the skylight frame, couldn’t reach it, jumped—and still couldn’t reach it. Mike couldn’t quite see what the trouble was and wondered if the boy’s bad leg was hobbling his movements. It was foolish of him to have come through first, he realized, and was about to say he’d come down again when he saw Rafo jump off the chest, grab the chair, stand it on top of the chest, get up on one, then the other—and he was through, breathing fast, standing beside him on the roof. The boy seemed perfectly all right except he flexed his sore leg a little.

  “Is it all right?” Mike asked in a low voice.

  “If I use it, it won’t get stiff,” the boy said.

  Then they stood there, irresolutely.

  If they were to escape, they had plenty to do—separately. But it was as if they wanted, this last moment, to be doing something not apart but together. And they couldn’t find anything. Not even words—no, especially not words, for they had everything to say and nothing. They settled for next to nothing.

  “Don’t do anything crazy, kid,” Mike said.

  “You too.”

  “And don’t get lost.”

  “No.”

  “Good-bye, Rafo.”

  “Good-bye, Mike.”

  Mike went. He scurried as low as he could. As he came to the valley of the roof and started descending along it, he saw Rafo lie down flat on the rooftop so no one could see him from the street. He’ll be all right, Mike thought, as he came to what he judged to be the roof over the paso of the inn. He must walk particularly softly here, he told himself, or they might hear him in the lobby below. (The boy will be all right.) Slowly, each step measured with caution, he crossed to the eave that overhung the street. He looked down.

  The street was deserted. No human being—it was too early—not even a street dog. Only the two vehicles, the truck and the patrol car. (Don’t worry—the boy will be okay.)

  He wondered if he dared jump the distance to the street. It might be too high, he thought, and he couldn’t risk a broken leg or even so much as a wrenched ankle right now. (The boy’s smart, he’ll get there.) He looked to the left where the roof slanted down to a lean-to on an alleyway. Better yet, he thought, to hit the pavement in an alley rat
her than on the open street. Crouching low he moved down the slope of the roof. He jumped on the lean-to—(don’t worry about the boy, he’ll make it)—then quickly to the ground. He waited in the alley an instant, looked in both directions, then edged himself toward the street. Still nobody there.

  He stood there, looking at the two vehicles again. A thought occured to him: What would happen if he opened the hood of the police car and disconnected some of their wires? How easy it would be—easy to do and an easy outcome for himself. They wouldn’t be able to follow him ten feet. He’d be across the border, safe and free, as uneventfully, as peacefully as he had crossed it going south. Why not? His other plan—what a fool he’d be to follow the other plan! Christ, making himself a decoy—setting himself up as a goddamn hero—a sitting-duck hero—to be shot at—what a stupid, fucking fool! For what? For a boy who would probably do a hell of a lot better than he himself would.

  (Don’t worry about the boy!)

  Yes, by Christ, that’s what he’d do—pull the wires on the patrol car and get across the border by himself—as free and easy as in the camping days when he was eleven years old . . . Rafo’s age.

  No, he had to worry about the boy. Because the boy trusted him. Because he had again put himself into Mike’s hands. Because he wanted to worry about the boy—it was good, it was a blessed relief to worry about somebody he loved, even if he knew he would never see him again.

  He didn’t touch the patrol car.

  He ran to the truck, got into it, realized he didn’t have the key—the police had it, of course—got out, opened the hood, jumped the circuit in the starter box, got back into the car, made the motor roar. His door was still open, he slammed it shut—then opened the other door and slammed that one shut too.

  Suddenly he had a feeling of exhilaration as if he were back in the arena again. The same elating trial-by-danger, the same feeling of ecstatic lunacy, and the bravura—throw the hat in the air and catch it!—and in that same grandstand manner he started to shout:

  “Hey, you cops! We’re going! Adiós! Adiós!”

  Even then he waited, not sure they had heard him. The moment the inn door burst open, he gave the truck the gun, shrieked out with a ripping of tires against the grit road and went tearing toward Texas.

  The sergeant was the first to the car and took the wheel himself. He started moving even before the driver could shut his own door.

  Mike looked at his mirror and saw them pull out after him. If he could maintain his lead, he thought, if he could lengthen it just a bit, he’d make it to the ravine. There were trees there and scrub and he might lose himself in them—and the border ran right through the thicket. Once out of the scrub, he’d be home in Texas.

  He looked at the mirror again. Not losing, not gaining. He should really do better than this—but his right foot was down as far as it could go.

  He wondered if he had fooled them about Rafo. Did they really think the boy was in the truck with him? Should he leave it alone, taking his chances that they believed the boy was with him—or should he nail it home? How?

  He heard a shot.

  That was the way. He turned to his fellow passenger and gestured to him to scrunch down lower in his seat; the goddamn cops were shooting.

  Another shot.

  Mike gestured again—angrily this time. Get down, you little bastard.

  Another shot.

  He could see the tops of the trees in the ravine. Less than a quarter mile away—another shot—a hundred yards now.

  Another. The truck swerved. He couldn’t control it. A tire, perhaps. He got it running straight for an instant. But it wouldn’t hold the road. No control, none. Nothing to do now—there was the ravine—go down it, down, hell for wreckage, any way at all, go down.

  The truck hit something. It came to a crashing stop. It shuddered. Went still.

  But he was in the ravine—he had made it.

  Another shot.

  You can’t shoot me now, you bastards! I’m in the ravine, I’m in Texas—read the rules—you can’t shoot me now!

  Another shot.

  He had the presence of mind to open the right-hand door, as if Rafo presumably had done it. He left it open, hoping the police would think the boy was using the open door as a shield to cover his escape. As Mike was doing on his side.

  He was out now, in the scrub.

  Another shot.

  It hit him. He could feel it, sharp in his shoulder, like two shots—one slug entering, one coming out. It was strange to feel the blood first, not the pain. Then, belatedly, the hot stab, then the icy one, then the warm gush.

  Another shot.

  I’m home, you bastards, stop shooting, I’m in Texas!

  They continued shooting. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he wasn’t there. He couldn’t be sure until he felt the hill rising under him. Yes, the hill told him for certain—he was coming up out of the ravine, upward into Texas. It was a steeper hill than he expected and it took more breath than he thought it would. And the blood was coming too fast.

  The shooting stopped. Good. They knew he was home in Texas.

  Now if he could only make it to the top of the hill. He mustn’t fall, he told himself, and he mustn’t waste breath. Only one breath per one step, that’s all he needed; don’t squander any, and don’t fall. If he fell, someone might find him, the troopers on the Texas side, perhaps. He was going to make it, he knew he would, he had never not made it, he had ridden cripple in his day, and made it, made it.

  He fell. He couldn’t get up. Perhaps if he rested awhile . . .

  18

  The sergeant and his driver went back to the inn and the older officer made one more telephone call. He spoke in English, for the man at the other end was a norteamericano. Even though his English was entirely comprehensible to most gringos, this particular one was either asleep or stupid. At last the sergeant started to lose patience.

  “No,” he said, “they are on your side of border. Not two men—a man and a boy. No, the man is not Mexican, the boy is Mexican. No, not on the Mexican side—on your side—in Texas!” At last, his face washed clean of tension, he said relievedly, “Sí—yes. De nada—de nada.”

  Hanging up, he called the man a bobo, a necio and a cretino, he paid his hotel bill, cursed at his slow-moving driver and left the inn. He apparently decided not to make an escapatoria report to his superiors until he could do so in person. If he had to confess a double failure—both as to narcotics smuggling and kidnapping—his alibi would require more adroitness and charm than he could manage by way of a faulty telephone connection.

  Come to think of it, maybe—when making his report—maybe he shouldn’t say a word about the kidnapper. After all, that wasn’t his assignment. Besides, it was all over. The man and the boy were out of Mexico—finished and done with—why refry those refried beans? Let the gringos take care of it. And he was certain his driver would concur with this simple and sensible decision. Why need it appear on either of their records? Pleased to have found a pleasant solution to an unpleasant situation, he lighted a cigarillo and ordered his driver to start the car.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rafo heard the car start but didn’t get up until he heard it move. Even then he waited. When he was sure it was safely distant, he turned over, rose to a kneeling position and looked. The patrol car was barely visible, ascending swiftly toward the mountains. Then it turned to the left, into the lowest of the foothills, and was gone.

  Rafo stood up, full height, and for an instant did nothing. Instead of looking southward, toward Janasco, his glance went to the north.

  When the gunshots had stopped, he had wondered what the quiet meant. Either that Mike had made it, had cleared the border and was now running free in Texas . . . or was killed. He couldn’t bear the thought of Mike lying down there, somewhere in the ravine, dead.

 
How strange . . . Last night, when he had heard the whole truth, he had gone back to hating gringos, just as he used to hate them. Worse. They were liars, all of them, liars and promise breakers. But suddenly, in the morning, this gringo, this Mike had done such a wild and wonderful thing. “Adiós!” he had cried for all the police, all over the world, to hear. “We’re going!” Not I but we—to protect Rafo—to draw the gunfire at himself so that his friend could go safely southward.

  “We’re going.”

  How Rafo wished it were true—that they were still “we,” and together. Well, for Rafo they would always be together. Mike, alive or dead . . . No, he couldn’t be dead. He told himself that Mike had not been shot, he was still alive—just as alive as Santa Maria—even if he would never be able to touch either of them. But he had an ache he couldn’t stand and he was afraid he might never be able to stand it, and he didn’t know what to do about aches like this.

  He turned his face southward. He scampered across the roof, copied all the movements he had seen Mike make, jumped down into the alleyway, peered out onto the street, walked out into it and, trying to look as ordinary as any other Mexican boy, started southward toward Janasco.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was a tree. There was no question it was a tree, except that it spoke Spanish to him, which didn’t seem a logical language for a tree to speak. Perhaps it wasn’t a tree after all, but a man standing over him. He made his eyes open wider, whether the light hurt them or not. It was a tree, all right, and it didn’t speak at all, except the language of its leaves. He wished he could awaken enough to understand something, anything.

  Then he did: the pain in his shoulder. He even began to understand how it had happened. There had been gunshots. He had better get up off the ground, he told himself, or there might be more. Not from the Mexican side this time, but from Texas.