by Luanne Rice
“Where’s the picture?” he asked, to distract her.
“In my pocket,” she said weakly.
He reached in, and pulled it out to show her: there they were, Roberto and Rosa and his grandma, standing under a lemon tree. She touched the photo and smiled.
“That’s us,” he said. “And Abuela. Smell the lemons, Rosa? How beautiful and fresh? Remember how you help me pick them, what a good girl . . .”
“Sí, Papá,” she said. “But I miss Abuela.”
“The picture will help us remember her,” Roberto said. “And when you look at it, you’ll know how much she loves us and how much I love you.”
“Gracias, Papá, te amo.”
“Te amo, Rosa.”
“But I still feel sick.”
He slid the photo back into her pocket. “Then let’s think about where we’re going. Everything will be better. Easy to get work, good jobs, and I come home to you every night, I pick you up at school.”
“Not helping,” she said, turning pale green. Roberto held his hands near her mouth, ready to catch if she threw up. “Tell the good part, not the work part.”
“Okay,” Roberto said. He closed his eyes, and the image felt like a dream—he’d never seen it himself, only heard about it from his father. “We’re going to live next to a public square, the most special and magical square in all of Los Angeles. But instead of angels or fairies, there are . . .”
“Mariachis!” Rosa said. “In their black suits and hats, white braids on their shoulders, brass buttons, and all their instruments. They’re always there.” She smiled and closed her eyes as if remembering the many times Roberto had told her about his father’s neighborhood. She’d loved hearing about mariachis as if they were archangels instead of normal workingmen. “Why are they always there, Papá?”
“Waiting to be hired. Restaurants and people having parties need mariachis, so the men wait in one spot until someone drives by and picks them up.”
“Will they play music for us?”
“Grandpa says we’ll be able to hear it from the porch every day, every night.”
“I want to hear them,” Rosa said, bouncing on his knee. “And see Grandpa again. Does he know we’re coming?” She had looked forward to Roberto’s father’s infrequent visits to Mexico nearly as much as Roberto had.
“Oh, yes. He helped make the arrangements. We have a good coyote, Rosa. Grandpa made sure of it.”
She nodded, resting her head on Roberto’s chest. The bus bumped and swayed, but she’d stopped fighting the movement, and let herself be rocked to sleep. She didn’t question the concept of “coyote.” Even though the fields and hills around their town were full of the animals, who howled at night and stole into barns to kill chickens, she’d known since she could talk that “coyote” meant a guide, a person who would help them cross the Mexican-U.S. border with as little chance as possible of getting caught by the Border Patrol or ICE—U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
The bus rumbled into the next town. It was dark and Rosa didn’t wake up, even though church bells were tolling seemingly overhead, when he carried her into the next bus—smaller than the last and filled with more people. It was a fight to get seats.
Roberto clutched Rosa and their small bag and tried to rest. The ride went on all night. They sat near the back, where he could smell the exhaust and feel the engine’s heat. Still, he knew he had to sleep. The next days would be long and hard, and he needed to stay strong to take Rosa across the border.
Thinking of her kept him from feeling too scared. He had never crossed before. His father and aunt and several cousins had; some, like his father, more than once. He had always kept his father’s stories in his mind, like fairy tales, but now they were all coming true, and Roberto and Rosa were about to live them. Tomorrow, when they got to Altar, his cousin Miguel would meet them and help them through the next step.
He reached into Rosa’s pocket to pull out the photo she carried of them. Mexico, home, the place they knew and loved. His throat tightened and he tried not to cry. This journey had to be the right thing. He couldn’t stand Rosa growing up hungry the way he had. He slid the picture back into her pocket, and just before dawn broke, he slept.
Altar was their last stop in Mexico. Roberto and Rosa woke up the minute they heard the bus’s squeaky brakes, felt the vehicle come to a stop. They filed off with all the other people, standing in the town square, blinking into the morning light. They might as well have had a sign saying Pollos—the nickname for border crossers—pinned to their shirts; the coyotes were circling. Roberto scanned the crowd for Miguel.
“Atlanta, Chicago, Nueva York, I get you there.”
“San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, I am the best.”
Rosa clutched his neck. They had stopped in several town squares along the way north, to drink water and change buses, but this felt different. He could feel Rosa picking up on this new energy, frantic with predators and prey. He spotted the Centro Comunitario de Atención al Migrante y Necesitado, a free shelter for migrants and the needy—his father had told him about it. There were stalls set up everywhere, selling backpacks, water, and food.
“Hey, man,” a short, stocky, dark-skinned Mexican with a full Zapata moustache said, coming up to him and Rosa. “You have a pretty little girl there. You want to get her safely across, I’m your guy. I know the best way. Not all coyotes are good, and there are bandits out there, just looking for beautiful girls. I keep you safe. Where you want to go?”
“I’m meeting my cousin,” Roberto said. “But gracias.” He watched the Zapata moustache walk away, join up with three other men. They glanced toward Roberto, but when they saw him staring back, they looked quickly away. He felt the delicate balance, showing respect to a man he couldn’t trust, but making his eyes hard so the coyote and his friends would see he’d cut them if they touched Rosa.
The church, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, with a cross atop its dome, stood across the square, many pilgrims entering and exiting, blessing themselves. Bells rang; Mass was about to start. He held Rosa’s hand and started toward the steps.
“Hey, primo,” his cousin Miguel called. They hugged each other, and then Miguel spoke to Rosa. “You’re so grown up! Last time you were just a tiny baby in your father’s arms. Now you’re a princess.”
“Gracias,” Rosa said, looking at her father to make sure it was okay. Roberto nodded.
“Miguel is our cousin,” he said. “He grew up in the same town where we live.”
“But now you’re on your way to the States, and I’ve set it all up.” Miguel lowered his voice, and Roberto set Rosa on the hard ground so they could talk. She knew not to stray far; he watched her find a stick, then crouch to draw pictures in the dirt.
“You got the money?” Miguel asked.
“Four thousand U.S.,” Roberto said. “Half now, half when we get across.”
“That’s all you have?”
“I’m keeping an extra fifty.”
“Hide it well—if they find it, they’ll take it.”
“Gracias, primo.”
“Okay, now you stock up. You need two gallons of water per day per person. Dry meats, too. That’s a lot for you to carry, with the niña, too . . .”
“We’ll be fine.”
“It’s hot as hell during the day, but cold at night. You got the right clothes for that?”
“Sí. Papá told me already.”
“You could be walking for four days.”
“Sí. Yo lo se tambien. Where’s the coyote?”
“I pay him,” Miguel said. “Give me the money and I introduce you.”
“Why don’t I pay him?”
“Primo, I got you the best coyote. He will take you right away, no staying overnight in a flea-infested casa de huéspedes.”
Roberto had heard all about them, the stash houses where coyotes kept the pollos waiting, up to fifty people in a room. The free shelter was nicer and cleaner, his father had said, but better to stay with the coyote and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
“The money, primo,” Miguel said, his hand out.
It rankled Roberto; Miguel was a middleman, matching people with coyotes. He received a cut of the fee and showed no favoritism toward his family. The only benefit was that he’d make sure Roberto and Rosa were taken care of, with the best and most knowledgeable guide, someone who knew the desert bandits well enough to intimidate them from attacking his group.
Roberto and Rosa bought supplies while Miguel waited impatiently. Roberto used half of his extra fifty dollars to buy water and dried beef, sunscreen and a sun hat for Rosa, as well as a sling to carry the heavy water bottles on his back and around his neck. Trying it out, following Miguel across the plaza in the hot sun, he felt like one of his grandfather’s oxen and tried not to worry about carrying all this weight through the desert.
“Can I help?” Rosa asked.
“Just take care of Maria,” he said. “That will be your job.”
“Okay,” she said, clutching her doll.
Miguel led them to a truck normally used for transporting livestock. The cab was rugged and old, and the back was fenced in, open to the sky. Already it was nearly full. Some of the passengers were Honduran and Guatemalan, but most were from Mexico. They had been straggling in over the last few days, but the coyote wanted to wait until the truck was full before starting north.
“Okay, now come with me,” Miguel said.
Skirting the truck, they walked to a small bar with a front porch. Two men sat in rocking chairs surveying the entire plaza. One was about Roberto’s age, the other closer to his father’s. They wore faded red shirts and shiny lizard boots. He took in the darkness of their skin, their hooked noses, and their beards and knew they were father and son.
“Hey, cholo,” the father said to Miguel. “What you bring me?”
“Dos pollos—mis primos, eh? Here’s the money,” Miguel said, counting out the wad still damp with Roberto’s sweat. He handed it over with pride, as if the cash were his and represented years of work and saving.
“Two thousand, that’s all you got?” the father asked Roberto.
“Sí, Señor. For me and my daughter. Half now, half later.”
“It’s two thousand for you, three thousand for la niña,” the son said.
Roberto flashed with anger and panic, looked at Miguel. “You said four altogether.”
Everyone but Roberto and Rosa laughed. “He’s just fucking with you, primo,” Miguel said.
“Yes, this little angel travels for three. We charge extra because she needs special protection, which we give. Some we charge more, but because you’re Miguel’s primo, well. We give a discount, so your full cost is four thousand. When you get to L.A., maybe you decide to give us a present, maybe an extra five hundred U.S.”
“Not up front?” Roberto asked, suspicious.
“No. En serio,” the father said. “We try to keep families together. That’s why we’re the best. We know the way through the desert, over the border, past any pinche bandits and Border Patrol—sorry for the bad word, preciosa,” he said to Rosa, “all the way to the road where a car will pick you up and take you straight to Los Angeles to your father’s house.”
“You know my father?”
“My brother helped him cross,” the father said. “I told you—family is everything to us. We have helped many Rodriguezes over the years. Ask my name.”
“Como te llamas?” Roberto asked.
“Alberto Rodriguez. And this is my son Benito Rodriguez. Perhaps we are related by blood, but for sure we are related by the four-grand total you pay me to get you across. You have my word on that.”
“Gracias,” Roberto said.
“And now we leave for the first part of the trip. The truck is full, it’s time to go.”
“Okay,” Roberto said. His heart lightened a little. Alberto’s words had sounded sincere and true. His father had already told him about this coyote family and warned him never to turn his back, never to trust: all coyotes, even the best ones, were smugglers, in it only for the money.
Never forget, hijo, his father had said, when you’re in the desert and the choice is between your life and his, he will choose his.
Alberto, Benito, and a third man climbed into the cab. Roberto hoisted Rosa up into the truck bed, then pushed the water jugs after her, and gave his cousin a last hug.
“Buena suerte. Call me when you get to Los Angeles!” Miguel said, with a huge smile that reassured Roberto even more.
“Gracias, primo. Adiós!”
And the truck started up with a roar—the cab might look old, but someone had tricked out the engine, made it very powerful. Roberto put his arm around Rosa, felt the kick of the truck as it started down the main road. Their fellow passengers were settling in too, keeping to themselves, not yet making eye contact. Roberto counted the people, all crammed together.
There were twenty-one travelers, counting him and Rosa. He had twenty-five dollars in the heel of his boot. That, plus the canvas sack and their clothes, were the only material things he carried. The sun beat down, sickeningly hot on their heads and arms.
Roberto shaded Rosa with his body. One man, already unable to take the heat, pulled a knife from his belt and cut the long sleeves off his shirt. He threw them away, into the back of the truck, but Roberto caught them and shoved them into his backpack. You never know what you might need. In that moment he looked up at the blue sky and whispered suerte—luck—as the truck rolled out of town and headed for the borderline between Mexico and Arizona.
Julia
They sat in the kitchen, Julia so lost in the tale that when he said the word suerte, “luck,” she could almost believe that he’d had it, called it forth, that they were five years in the past and their daughters both still with them. She hugged her arms around herself, knowing this was just the story’s beginning.
“I know that area,” she said.
“Mande?” he asked—“What?”
“The Sonoran Desert.”
“You said. Hard to believe you ever set foot in that place.”
“I was doing research for my thesis.”
He stared at her as if he didn’t understand. She refilled their coffee mugs just to give her hands something to do. They were shaking because she was remembering the summer she’d been in the desert, when Jenny was ten. Once she’d set the mugs down on the table, she started telling him.
Jenny had been upset to be away from Black Hall and all her friends for July and part of August, baking in tents with only a few special mother-daughter weekends away from the other researchers, in cozy inns in Santa Fe, New Mexico; Marfa, Texas; and San Miguel de Allende in Mexico.
“Mom, I need the beach!” Jenny kept saying. “Beach girls don’t belong in the desert. It’s summer—where’s the water?”
“I know, Jen,” Julia said. “Just your luck to have a mother who waited this long to go to grad school.”
“I just want to go home to the beach,” Jenny said.
“This is part of my schoolwork,” Julia said “I could have come alone and left you with Daddy, but I wanted you with me. I wanted you to see the desert.”
“It’s kind of cool,” Jenny said grudgingly. “Did Daddy want me to go?”
“We both want you with us,” Julia said. “But he understood.”
Jenny was a savvy ten-year old. She loved her father, but she knew he worked all the time. The best lawyer in a small, wealthy town, he had constant and varied work, and he was much in demand on the golf course and tennis courts. If Jenny had stayed home in Black Hall, there would be babysit
ters every day.
“See?” Julia asked.
Their tent was semi-permanent, made of green canvas. Julia loved it—how rustic it was, how close she slept to Jenny, the canopy of stars from horizon to horizon at night. She loved that she was showing her daughter self-sufficiency and an exciting side of academia. It made her sad, but she even enjoyed the fact her husband wasn’t there.
She and Peter still loved each other, but that made the rest hurt even more. They were good parents and decent partners. They fought, but in private, where Jenny couldn’t hear. They cared about each other—but in the way friends, or brothers and sisters, might.
Some nights, lying in bed beside Peter, she wanted so much more than easygoing conversation and a quick kiss before bed and sex that felt almost impersonal, more indifferent than passionate. Julia wanted to attack him—not just sexually, but in anger. The rage was powerful, and scared her.
The team was excavating the edge of a mesa where a civilization had once thrived. The mound, known as the Uto-Aztecan Site, contained remnants of a culture—hunting, building, and cooking instruments, caves painted with scenes of tribal movement, the hunt, and Spanish domination. While archaeologists uncovered and catalogued artifacts, Julia and her fellow anthropologists studied the culture, tried to understand the various tribes who had passed through this space—to understand what had caused them to move here.
Jenny had brought her dolls from home, and Julia watched her stage battles against the conquistadors. She had no doubt that her girl dolls would prevail against the armed men on horseback. At night they lit their tent with lanterns and would play on the wood floor, raised up about six inches from the ground, trying to ignore the crawling and slithering noises they heard below. They had seen one rattlesnake at the site, a hundred yards away, but Julia knew the desert night was filled with plenty of other poisonous snakes and insects.
“The Spaniards had every advantage,” Julia said. “They rode in blasting. So the Indians had to be shrewd, use their knowledge of the land, to protect their families.”
“This girl,” Jenny said, intent at play, “found one of the Spaniards’ swords.” She used a spike they’d cut from a prickly-pear cactus earlier. “And when the conquistadors ride in at night, she fights like this!” Jenny waved the spear over her doll’s head. “The girls are too small, so they use magic to help them. All the witches come down the mountain and fight the bad men with their powers, and they win! The invaders are dead and can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
