The Same Sky: A Novel

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  Father took my hand. If I spoke, I would beg him to keep me, to be not just a priest but my father. I could stay here in this place, cleaning and cooking for others. If he would never let go of me, I would do anything.

  We went to the back of the room where so many were sleeping. By the door, a large map was taped to the wall. I stopped short and stared. I had seen maps in books when I had gone to school. Father put his finger on a city by the bottom of the map. “Tegu,” he said. I watched him. He moved his hand up the map. “And now you are here,” he said.

  “And Texas?” I said.

  Five inches higher, he touched a blue ribbon. “The Rio Bravo,” he said. “And if you cross it, you are in the United States.”

  It didn’t seem impossible, standing in that room, looking at a piece of paper. I’d come so far already. I thought for one moment about how it would feel to put my face into my mother’s hair.

  “You could go back,” said Father, mistaking my quiet for fear.

  I shook my head.

  “Your hope,” said Father. “It inspires me, your hope.”

  I was iridescent, empowered by his words. “What else can I do but hope?” I asked. I assumed he knew what things were like at home.

  “Indeed,” said Father.

  I pushed open the back door, and there he was. He was bouncing a half-deflated ball, wearing only a pair of athletic shorts. I ran to Junior. “I found you,” I cried.

  “Ah, we’re in the middle of a game,” he said, pushing me away but smiling large. His hair was clean and his eyes looked less dull than I remembered. To the other boys, Junior said, “Keep playing. It’s just my sister.”

  34

  Alice

  DONN’S DEPOT PIANO Bar & Saloon had originally been an actual train station. When the wooden structure was slated to be replaced with a brick building, the older station was moved to Austin and attached to a boxcar, parlor car, and red caboose (the last now the ladies’ room). Surrounded by an outdoor deck, the building was soon filled with the musical stylings of Austin native Donn Adelman, who’d bought the place in 1978. Donn and the Station Masters played live music on the weekends, and on weeknights you could never be sure if you’d be hearing a new band, an old band, or your personal jukebox selections. I always brought quarters in my purse, just in case. Parking was a bit of an issue, as West Fifth had become snazzy—full of spas, fitness studios, and something called a Blo Dry Bar. Behind the Depot, I wedged my car into a space uncomfortably close to a telephone pole and slithered out. It was happy hour, and the lot was almost full already.

  I climbed the wooden steps to the deck and entered the bar. As always, the place was lit with Christmas lights. Though you couldn’t smoke indoors anymore, the scent lingered. Marion sat near the empty stage with a drink. I waved and went to the bar, where Toni said, “Alice!” and came forward to give me a big hug. I hadn’t been to Donn’s in two years.

  “Hey,” I said happily.

  “Where’s the big guy, the famous one?” said Toni.

  The young man behind the bar leaned in. “Who’s famous?” he said.

  “This one’s hubby. Conroe’s BBQ!” said Toni.

  “Whoa,” said the man, who sported a reddish goatee.

  “She’s famous, too,” said Toni kindly.

  “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” I said.

  “You can’t come in here wearing those boots and order a Chardonnay,” said the man.

  “She can do what she likes,” said Toni, unscrewing a large bottle and filling a pint glass to the rim with wine. I opened my purse, but Toni said, “We’ll run a tab,” shooing me away.

  Marion stood as I approached. “What is that?” she said.

  “Chardonnay.”

  “Ugh, in a beer glass?” said Marion. “You’ve got to try the Loose Caboose.”

  “Sounds good.” I sat down at the rickety table, took a sip of my wine, and sighed. “I need some advice,” I said.

  “From me?” said Marion. She laughed. “You need advice and I need a miracle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, hon,” said Marion, smoothing her cocktail napkin. “I’ve got this one school year to raise the TAKS scores and attendance records. One year, and then they close Chávez Memorial. To be honest, I think they’re going to close us anyway.”

  “What about the teachers?”

  “What about the kids?” said Marion. She rubbed her eyes. “I tell them I believe in them. I tell them I love them. I tell them I’m proud of them. But when—sorry. If they close Chávez, these kids are going to be in big trouble. Some of them won’t even go to school anymore. Some of these kids’ parents went to Chávez. Well, it wasn’t called Chávez then, but my point is there used to be pride.” She sighed deeply. “The teachers will find jobs. Maybe in Austin, maybe not. I’ll find a job. But the kids …” She stopped talking and drained her Loose Caboose.

  “So Evian has moved in with me … with us,” I began.

  “What?” said Marion, leaning toward me. She wore a gold pin on her sweater—a Chávez jaguar.

  “Her mom … she kicked her out, I guess.”

  “Go on,” said Marion in a grim tone.

  “I don’t know what to do. Jake is angry. He says … I don’t know, that we need some time to recover. I guess he thinks I’m replacing Mitchell with Evian. Or something. But I’m just trying to give her a safe place to live. Someone watching out for her.”

  “My husband left me, my third year as principal,” said Marion. She raised her hand and Toni began fixing another drink. “He told me I was married to the school. He wanted me home at night, to make dinner, to hear about his day. But there were basketball games, teacher meetings … there were kids who needed me, and I wanted to be there for them, the way their parents weren’t, sometimes. Graham was an adult. When I saw some kid who needed to talk, I knew whom God would want me to help. I prayed every time Graham threatened to leave. And every time, God told me what my purpose was.” She shrugged, accepted the drink from Toni with a smile. “But then Graham left,” she said.

  “You’re amazing,” I said.

  “And I’m alone,” said Marion.

  “Doesn’t look like you will be for long,” I said, eyeing the older men in the bar, many wearing cowboy hats and Wranglers.

  “I’m not alone every night,” said Marion. She winked. “But in a larger sense,” she clarified, shrugging.

  “What do you think I should do?” I asked.

  “Honey, I can’t answer that for you,” said Marion. Toni brought another pint of wine and placed it on the table. As I drank, I felt warm and confused. Toni took my empty glass away. Donn and the Station Masters took the stage and Marion and I listened, rapt and relaxed. Couples in their seventies and eighties took to the floor, two-stepping elegantly. A few younger hipsters moseyed out, and the elders revolved around them gracefully. A man with a bushy white moustache walked toward our table, his eyes fixed on Marion. “Oh, boy,” she said sotto voce. “Here we go.”

  “Lovely Marion,” said the man, removing his hat.

  “Hello, Clive,” said Marion.

  “Would you do me the honor, darling?” said Clive. But as Marion was nodding, placing her hand in Clive’s, her phone buzzed.

  “Forgive me,” she said, glancing down at the text. Her face went cold. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, no.”

  “Marion!” said Clive, alarmed.

  “There’s been a shooting,” said Marion. She stood, flustered, gathering her purse. “Gang-related, a football player …” she said. “Can you—”

  “Of course,” I said. I stood and Marion hugged me quickly.

  “Ask God what you should do,” she said as she hurried off. “Don’t ask me.”

  Toni approached, and I told her what had happened. “Forget it,” she said when I asked for the bill. “Poor Marion.”

  I sighed, slipping my purse over my shoulder.

  “She tell you about the gym?” said Toni.


  “What?” I said.

  “Condemned,” said Toni. “Marion’s been in here, trying to convince Donn to hold the Chávez Homecoming Dance here in a few weeks. No way, Donn said, absolutely no way. Some of those kids are hoodlums, you know what.”

  “I guess so,” I said. I made my way to my car, but it had become trapped between the telephone pole and a minivan. I sighed and began walking along 5th Street. It was only a few blocks to Lamar, where I could grab a cab. I was feeling kind of drunk anyway, and kind of sorry for myself.

  The corner of Lamar and Fifth was bright with the giant Whole Foods flagship store. Dazed, drawn like a moth to a flame, I wandered inside. The entire store gleamed, even the customers—their hair shone, their teeth were pearls, sleek fabrics covered their trim limbs. The food was beautiful, lush and swollen. I felt as if I were in a dream of some futuristic, perfect place. The grains were lined up in alphabetical order, not a smudge on their Plexiglas containers. Rows of multicolored sushi gleamed, as perfect as untouched children’s toys in their packaging. There was a wood-fired pizza station, a nut-roasting station, a fish counter with no fishy odor, and even a chocolate fountain, for the love of God! It was sickening. It was glorious. A place where every desire could be sated. I stood in the middle of the store and looked skyward, seeking understanding, but all I could see were more floors, escalators leading more wealthy people to limitless delights.

  A woman in spandex pants bumped into me, knocking me off-balance. “What the hell is the matter with you?” she said, her eyes frowning but her brow remaining shiny and uncreased. Under one arm, she held a firmly rolled yoga mat.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

  “Maybe you should figure that out,” she said.

  “Yes, I should,” I answered.

  “In the meantime,” she added, “maybe you could move away from the gluten-free cookie bar.”

  I nodded dumbly and stumbled out of the store. Back on Lamar, I felt a bit more like myself. I wanted, more than anything, to go back to Mildred Street and to have Jake there, asleep on the couch in his bathing suit. I ran back toward Donn’s, and when I reached the parking lot, the minivan that had been blocking me was gone. It felt like a sign.

  35

  Carla

  WE SPENT ALMOST a week in the shelter, planning how we would reach Texas. We shared stories and warnings, eating soup for three meals a day. Ernesto began romancing an older Mexican woman, whose brother, Marcos, had a job waiting for him in America. Marcos, stocky in a dark blue shirt and a hat that said “No Fear,” took pity on us. Marcos had instructed his wife to mail money to him at various points in the journey, so he could not be robbed. In fact, he boasted, he planned to hire a combi from the shelter to Mexico City, bypassing a week or so on The Beast.

  I began to follow Marcos like a puppy, it is true. It was amazing to think that he had an employer in America. There was even a Dodge Ram truck stashed for him in Laredo, Texas! The owner of a farm had given Marcos the truck when it became too old for his use, Marcos told me. He liked to boast, but I was happy to listen. I had never known a father, much less a handsome one with money and a job. I sat at his feet while he told stories. And I was not the only one!

  Marcos and his brothers, he said, traveled every year from Southern Mexico to Texas. For eight years now he’d been riding the rails, picking up the Dodge Ram in a parking lot just over the border, then driving it to the farm. Marcos had no map but knew the roads by heart, especially the ones to avoid because of border agents. “We are such good workers, we are worth a Dodge Ram,” said Marcos proudly. His three brothers smiled and nodded, a bit more bashful but not much more bashful. After the harvest, they returned home for Christmas, bearing lavish gifts and money. The following year, they headed north again.

  “This year we brought our sister, Juliana,” said Marcos. “If she marries that young friend of yours, the rancher will be very happy with me.”

  I was surprised Marcos thought a boy with a number tattooed on his face would be a good match, but I guess muscles are muscles at harvesttime. Marcos scrutinized my expression. “Is he a good man?” asked Marcos.

  “He helps me and my brother out of kindness,” I said.

  Marcos nodded, pleased. “My sister made a bad choice in Xaltianguis,” he mused, “but maybe this friend of yours can turn her life around. Would he be a good father?”

  I swallowed. “He has been like a father to me and my brother,” I chirped. I hoped God would forgive me for stretching the truth.

  Marcos nodded, impressed.

  “We were alone in Tegucigalpa,” I added, unable to stop talking. “Ernesto found us without food. My grandmother had died. Out of the goodness of his heart, he offered to help us find our mother.”

  Marcos listened, and having him pay attention to me was like a drug.

  “He … he found us food. He protected us as best he could. He is … like an uncle to me.”

  The dinner bell rang, and Marcos looked away.

  “He’s in love with Juliana, I can see!” I blurted. But Marcos was already walking into the large kitchen, where Father was ladling soup. I scrambled after him.

  For those of us who did not have the fortune it would cost to hire a combi, the train from Ixtapec through northern Veracruz and toward Mexico City was rumored to be especially dangerous; we were in a valley of lawlessness (explained Father) where unsavory characters lay in wait to steal from us, violate us, and kidnap or kill us. Father did not treat me like a child, which I appreciated, because I no longer felt like a child.

  I lay awake on my cardboard bed at night, going over the route in my mind, tracing the lines that led from Ixtapec to Nuevo Laredo and the Rio Bravo (called the Rio Grande on the map). Next to me, Junior slept, his breath shallow. I knew he was still sniffing Resistol. He left the shelter in the afternoons and returned with a vacant stare and little appetite. I told him that he was risking his life, venturing from the shelter, but he ignored me, so I stopped scolding. The power of the glue was far stronger than my words. I had decided to believe that the shifty-eyed boy who cared more for fumes than his sister was a devil who was inhabiting my brother. I had seen Father looking at him warily. I had to get Junior to our mother, I knew, so she could take care of us. I prayed for his recovery, though I could not think of anyone who had come back from the place Junior had gone.

  The day before they were leaving in the combi, Marcos and his brothers told me, Ernesto, and Junior that they would allow us to ride with them. At the thought of bypassing a week on The Beast, of sleeping in a van instead of facing the sickening lurching, exhaustion, and terror of the train, I began to weep. “Do not cry, little bird,” said Marcos, putting his warm palm on the top of my head. “God is good.”

  Junior remained expressionless.

  In the yard where we played with the limp soccer ball, I told Junior that an inch in the combi was priceless—a chance to stay alive for another leg of the journey! Of course, the driver could be dishonest: he could drive us to a secluded spot and rob or kill us. But Marcos seemed to know what he was doing. “You can sit on my lap,” I told Junior. “You can sleep without fear. We have been blessed!”

  Junior didn’t seem to hear me. He scanned the playground for something more, something else, something I didn’t have to give.

  The night before our departure, I could not sleep. Marcos had said we would leave before dawn. I thanked God for saving me from having to climb on the train again. I knew the combi route was dangerous, marked with immigration checkpoints, but nothing scared me as much as The Beast, and the things that could happen to a girl on The Beast at night.

  Endless minutes later, I heard Ernesto’s voice. “Wake up, Carla,” he said. “We’re leaving now.”

  I sat up, rubbing my face. I put my hand out, groping for my brother’s bony shoulder.

  “Come, child,” said Father. “I will bless you all together before you depart.”

  There was no bony shoulder. “Where’s Junior?
” I whispered. I stood and went outside. The combi idled, surrounded by Marcos and his family. Ten of us would fit like an awkward jigsaw puzzle into the van. In the coal-colored night, I searched for Junior.

  “God be with you,” began Father. His voice was warm honey. He told us that his blessing was from the families we had left behind, from the mothers and fathers and children we were going to El Norte to assist. He said the prayers were for those who had come before us, and for those who would soon arrive. We bowed our heads and thanked God for our lives, for God’s love and guidance. Father concluded, and I saw Ernesto put his arms around Juliana, holding her under the low sky. Maybe he did love her; who knew? Hand in hand, they walked toward the truck.

  Ernesto remembered me and looked back. “Carla,” he said. “Come. It’s time.”

  “What about my brother?” I said. No one answered. We all knew Junior was seeking glue. The driver pressed his foot to the gas pedal, making the engine hum.

  “God be with you,” said Father.

  I was rooted to the ground. To get into the van would be to abandon Junior. It was the hardest decision I had made until this point. I thought about the lurching of The Beast. I thought about my hands, frozen solid, on the hopper rails. I thought about the man with the wolf eyes who had made me into a woman without my consent, how it had felt to be split apart.

  “Carla,” said Marcos, “come, child. We must go.” The combi door remained open. The bodies of my companions, none of them my relative by blood, would be warm.

  There is no other way to say it: I chose myself.

  36

  Alice

  I DROVE PAST THE Whole Foods, across the interstate, to the Eastside. I parked in front of our house, ran up the walk, and threw open my door. Jake was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Evian and Sam were entwined in front of our television, watching House Hunters International and dry humping.