The Lemon Orchard

by Luanne Rice

  She stared down at the glossy creatures, their pelts gleaming in the sun. No children were in the swimming area. They drove a few miles and parked in front of Rimel’s—a tiny restaurant, warm and cozy and filled with beautiful paintings.

  “Everything is good,” Juan said as they sat down. “It’s all fresh, the catch is right off the dock, and if you like fish tacos . . .”

  “Done,” Julia said.

  They drank iced tea and talked about Chris and Maxine, how Julia had wound up studying with Chris at Yale, how Juan had gone into anthropology because he was Mexican and wanted to study the layers of culture and movement that gave his country and its people their identity.

  The food arrived, and Juan was right: the fish tacos were delicious—fresh halibut, salsa, and crisp white cabbage in a corn tortilla. They ate quietly and drank iced tea in the gentle daytime darkness of the small restaurant.

  “The Children’s Pool,” she said. “Did you show it to me for any reason?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just a La Jolla attraction. Why?”

  “I was thinking about fences and walls, and how they don’t really do the job, and how they relate to your work now.”

  “Very perceptive,” he said. “Fences and walls.”

  “Keeping out the unwanted.”

  “Unwanted—that’s a good way to put it.”

  “Tell me about your work now, Juan. It’s called the Reunion Project?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But in general, not happy reunions. I work on border-crossing deaths.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We collect bodies and bones from the desert, try to match them with dental records, DNA, even clothing and belongings, and let families back in Mexico know the fate of their loved ones. Six hundred to a thousand deaths a year, mostly in the hot months.”

  “How did you go from papers and fieldwork on cultural anthropology to studying border-crossing deaths?”

  “It’s still anthropology, but applied in a very specific way. The border has changed drastically since I was young.”

  “How?”

  “There has always been migration. That goes without saying when you have a rich country like ours sharing a border with a country as poor as Mexico.”

  “It’s a given,” Julia said

  “Yes,” he said. “The U.S. wants to protect the border—Operation Gatekeeper and the fence. The first phase took place just a few miles south of here—from the Pacific Ocean into San Ysidro—the border between San Diego and Tijuana.”

  She listened intently.

  “That’s when migrants began heading east, crossing through the Otay Mountains and the desert beyond—and dying in great numbers.”

  “That made you change your focus?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The sheer numbers. Fresh skeletons. And then we’d go into town and see families walking around with pictures of their sons and daughters and husbands and parents—it got to me.”

  “It would get to me, too,” she said.

  He nodded. “Some Mexican and Central American families say goodbye to their children, parents, expecting to hear from them when they arrive in Phoenix, L.A., New York, wherever. But they never hear. And I couldn’t imagine how they felt, and how they lived with it year after year. I’d seen the bodies in the desert, and I knew there had to be a way to match them with their families. So I joined up with other anthropologists working on similar projects in Texas and Arizona.”

  “Do you think we’ll find out about Rosa?”

  “I’ve already started trying,” Juan said. “Let’s go back to my office.”

  He paid the bill and they walked into the shaded parking lot, climbed into the Jeep, and headed back to the morgue. Julia closed her eyes because she had a picture of smiling, dark-haired Rosa in her mind, from Roberto’s stories of her, and she wanted to hold on to it as long as she could, before they entered the building of bodies and bones.

  After walking through the reception area, they came to a locked door with a sign that said THE REUNION PROJECT. Juan punched in a code and they entered. The hallway smelled of pine and lemon, but the scents didn’t quite cover the chemical odor beneath.

  When they got to Juan’s office he dragged a second chair beside his and invited Julia to sit beside him at his desk.

  He tilted the computer screen toward her. Several windows were open, including one that bore images of differently shaped skulls.

  “We work with medical examiners in lots of jurisdictions,” he said. “We start with fingerprints and dental records, of course, but sometimes the body is too decomposed, or has been separated by animals, and we’re left with only bones and shreds of clothing.”

  He glanced at her, as if to see how she was taking this. She nodded, wanting him to continue. “Tell me more,” she said.

  “One of the problems in making identifications is that the bones are often so degraded by the time the coroner gets them—predators and the desert heat destroy all but slight traces of mitochondrial DNA. That can narrow an ID down to a particular family, but it’s not enough to positively identify an individual. So we’re getting creative.”

  “What are those skulls?” she asked.

  “Some of my colleagues and I are working on a genetic map of Mexico, Guatemala, and Ecuador. Skull shapes, bone length and density, other factors are helping us narrow down where the dead came from. People from different regions in those countries have skulls with vastly different characteristics. So we can determine one crosser began in Oaxaca, while another comes from Veracruz.”

  “And that helps you learn enough to notify the families?”

  “Not alone but sometimes with other evidence, such as a piece of clothing. In one case, a distinctive pair of sneakers, with initials drawn on the cloth, inside a heart.”

  “Lime-green sneakers,” Julia said.

  “That’s what Rosa was wearing?”

  “Yes. Her father told me.”

  “We can enter that into our database,” he said, typing in the words. “I’ve already gotten started, based on what you emailed me. Is there more?”

  “She had a doll,” Julia said. “Her great-grandmother made it for her.”

  “What about her mother? You haven’t mentioned her.”

  “The parents never married. They were young when she was born, and Roberto raised her with his grandmother.”

  “And where was Roberto’s mother?”

  “She died.”

  “Okay. So Roberto was picked up by La Migra, and then what happened?”

  “While he was in detention, a border agent—Jack Leary—came looking for him—he’d found a child’s footprint in the sand and connected it to Roberto’s group. He wanted to check it out. Roberto gave him the best directions he could.”

  “The agent went looking for her?”

  “Yes, right away, but she was gone. Still, Roberto had to see for himself. It took two days for him to be deported back to Mexico. He went straight to Altar and retraced the route the coyote had taken, crossed the border again on his own.”

  “He found the rock?”

  “Yes, but no sign of Rosa.”

  Juan typed all this into a report, and she watched him hit Send, sharing it with other members of the Reunion Project throughout the Southwest. “You never know what will come back,” he said. “I’ve already checked our database for skeletal remains of young females in that particular sector.”

  “Did you find any?” Julia asked.

  “Yes, too many,” he said. “But none that fit the criteria you gave me. All the girls were older, and the times of death don’t fit; they were either before or after 2007.”

  “What did they die of, the girls?”

  “Heat, dehydration, mostly. One was bitten by a snake—there
are twenty-five varieties of poisonous snakes in that section of desert.”

  “Roberto said Rosa was so dehydrated, she was delirious. Talking about her flying doll, and a pet goat, and her great-grandmother.”

  “That’s what happens,” Juan said. “Her system was starting to shut down.”

  “Then why wasn’t she found?”

  “I don’t know,” Juan said. “An incredibly large percentage who try to cross get caught by the Border Patrol, but we know she wasn’t. For those who don’t, the chances of survival vary according to age, strength, health—even luck. We have to assume she died, but that’s what’s so cruel—there’s no evidence that she did.”

  “And people were searching for her, so soon after. Roberto went back. And that agent, Jack Leary.”

  “I looked him up,” Juan said, “after I got your email. I thought maybe I’d give him a call at Border Patrol headquarters in Tucson, but he’s retired, unlisted number.”

  “I tried the same thing,” Julia said. “Maybe there’s another way to track him down.”

  “How?”

  “Facebook.”

  “A badass border agent on Facebook?” Juan asked. But he did a search, and out of the hundred or so Jack Learys, only one looked weathered and old enough to have been a seasoned Border Patrol agent. His photo showed him and a petite blue-eyed woman with a long gray braid, holding each other tight and smiling for the camera. They stood in a yard, an adobe house and cacti behind them. It said they lived in Yuma, Arizona.

  “That has to be him,” Julia said. “Roberto said they crossed in Arizona.” She reached past Juan, clicked some keys to type her password, and her own page popped up.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “I joined because of Jenny,” Julia said. She quickly typed a message to Jack Leary.

  Hello, you don’t know me, but I’d very much like to discuss one of your old cases with you—Rosa Rodriguez. Please call me.

  She gave her cell phone number and clicked Send.

  “Jenny?” Juan asked.

  “My daughter,” she said, and smiled, and she left it at that.

  She had planned to spend the night in Del Mar, just a few miles away from La Jolla, and return here tomorrow. By then Juan might have responses from the emails he’d sent. But now she had another destination.

  “Will you stay in touch?” she asked, gathering her things. “Let me know what you hear?”

  “Of course,” he said. “It’s an old case, but don’t give up. We’ll do what we can.”

  “Thank you so much for everything,” she said.

  They hugged, and she walked to her car. The sea air was fresh and cool, with a strong breeze coming off the ocean a few blocks away.

  She dialed Lion’s number on her cell phone.

  “Hello, darling,” he said.

  “It’s me.”

  “I know. The beauty of caller ID. How are you?”

  “I’m good. The trip is going well. How are you?”

  “First of all, Bonnie and Roberto are fine.”

  “And you?”

  “Grrrr,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m reading Nabokov. He dedicated Speak, Memory to his wife, Vera. That means he loved her, obviously.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “It burns me that your uncle writes all those scholarly books and dedicates them all to Graciela. It’s like a slap in the face.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s married to her—isn’t that enough? Does he have to proclaim his love in print, too? I’m just an actor—what can I do?”

  “You’ve played some of the most beautiful love scenes on screen with her, Lion. Why are you so sad today?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It gets to me once in a while.”

  “You are loved and adored by many, including me,” she said.

  “That is of no comfort whatsoever. That kind of love is nice, but it doesn’t make you want to get up in the morning, no offense.”

  “Well, I’m calling to say I’ll definitely be away tonight. You have to get up in the morning to feed Bonnie, right?”

  “Oh. No. As a matter of fact, Roberto offered to take over Bonnie duties. He’s such a nice man.”

  “He is,” she said, her skin tingling just because Lion had mentioned his name. “Did he say anything else?”

  “About you? Yes. He was concerned that you’d left without telling him.”

  “Oh.”

  Long silence. She had turned on her engine and was programming the GPS for route guidance to Yuma, Arizona, but Lion’s silence made her stop. She could almost hear him smiling through the phone.

  “Well,” Lion said finally. “I assume you’ll want to call to fill him in on your plans.”

  “Could you do it for me?” she asked. She didn’t want to explain to Roberto where she was or what she was doing.

  “Of course,” Lion said. “But I’m sure he’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  Julia didn’t reply.

  “Darling, when it comes to matters of the heart, I am your man.”

  “Thank you, Lion,” Julia said.

  “Okay, love. Drive safely, wherever you are. And come home soon.”

  “I will,” Julia said.

  After she hung up, she finished programming her GPS and realized that without traffic, Route 8 would get her to Yuma in under three hours. She headed for the highway out of San Diego and saw the Pacific Ocean disappearing in her rearview mirror.

  Roberto

  With the sun setting behind the Channel Islands, Roberto fed Bonnie and took her for her evening walk. He followed the path Julia liked. Working in Malibu, Roberto was mostly focused on the job, all the details of keeping the orchard running. But Bonnie walked slowly, and so did Roberto, so he tried to see the landscape as Julia did.

  It was beautiful here. He looked down the long canyon, shadows painting the chaparral shades of green and gold. At the bottom the ocean spread to the horizon. Waves broke near shore. He saw surfers—tiny black dots from this height—waiting for their chance. Out beyond, the ocean was dark blue with silver currents running through it, like independent pathways to secret destinations.

  The curve of the coast was visible, mountains ranging down to the edge of the sea. He never spent time looking around like this. He’d grown up in the country, surrounded by nature, but he just took it for granted. In Mexico he had worked hard in the fields and orchards, walked home to eat and sleep, or to go to school, and then taken the same path back to work the next day. Landscape was something to be gotten through—crossed, like the desert—not enjoyed.

  Bonnie stood beside him, pressed against his leg. He rested his hand on her head. She trusted him. He wondered about Julia. She had driven off so suddenly he hoped he hadn’t upset her too much. Maybe she had to get away from him. He knew he had offended her by kissing her. Maybe he had misread her signals.

  Bonnie had started walking again, so Roberto followed. They went slowly, and he breathed in the cool sea air, and wondered what it would be like if Julia were here, if she were walking beside him. They rounded the corner, came upon a herd of mule deer grazing. Bonnie chased them, barking.

  Roberto watched Bonnie with admiration. She was bred for herding, and he saw she had a great heart, and in that moment when she ran so bravely after the deer he saw the young dog she once had been.

  He wished Julia were here, so he could take back what he’d said, and filled the spaces with what he hadn’t said. When Bonnie returned from her chase, she looked up at Roberto for approval, and he petted her head.

  “Good dog, Bonnie,” he said in English, because that was her language. “You are a very good dog.”

  Julia
/>   Route I-8 ran due east from Sunset Cliffs in San Diego, and when it dipped south below the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, it practically touched the Mexican border. There was a big sign over the ten-lane highway proclaiming BORDER FRIENDSHIP ROUTE as the road began to climb into the craggy mountains. She passed signs for La Posta and Campo Indian reservations and drove for a while as the sun began to set.

  Descending through a pass between two peaks, she entered the Imperial Valley as traffic slowed down. She saw flashing lights up ahead. As they crept along, Julia saw three state trooper cars, a U.S. Border Patrol SUV, and a Dodge Charger.

  There was an overpass above the highway, and when she drew beneath it, she saw two men in handcuffs being led into one of the police cars. They had light brown skin and their postures made them appear defeated—round shoulders, heads down. She stared, thinking of what Juan had told her, and wondered how many times the men had tried crossing before.

  When she reached Calexico, she decided to stop for the night. She hadn’t heard from Jack Leary, and continuing on didn’t make sense unless she did. The city was on the border, directly across from Mexicali on the Mexican side. Driving into town, she found the strip of motels and restaurants, and through her open window she heard mariachi music.

  Pulling into the Flores Blancas motel parking lot, she saw a stage set up by the entrance. The mariachis were dressed in black, with white braids on their lapels and around the brims of their sombreros, and their guitar and horn music was bright and happy.

  She sat in the car for a minute thinking of Rosa, of the promise Roberto had made her: that they would live near the square where mariachis gathered. Her scalp tingled, almost as if a little girl with lime-green sneakers and a winged doll named Maria was nearby.

  The desk clerk gave her a choice of rooms—all were named for white flowers. Oleander, Lily, Geranium, Rose. Julia chose Rose, and when she reached the room, she saw the theme had been carried forth: from the wallpaper to the bedspread, everything was covered in white roses. She checked her phone in case Leary had called, but he hadn’t. So she headed down to the outdoor terrace for dinner.