by Hester Young
Yulissa has grudgingly responded to Doña Imelda’s summons and stands sorting boxes of recyclables when I get there, plastic bottles in one box, aluminum in another, scrap metal in a third. She looks none too pleased to be there, and when I see what the other kids are up to—outfitting the old bike frame they salvaged earlier with oversized tires—I can understand why. She’s missing all the fun.
“Hi,” I say. “Yulissa, right? Are you Lety’s sister?”
I have no reason to believe she speaks English, but the girl knows her own name at least. Nods at me, uncertain, like she might be in trouble.
“Yes,” she says in heavily accented English. “Lety my sister.” She points at me. “American?”
“Yes, I’m American.”
She gazes at me hopefully, as if waiting for some kind of invitation. Does she think I’m one of the Sonora Hope workers with something to hand out? I wish I knew what she’s after. What Lety was after, for that matter. All this time I’ve focused on finding Yulissa, and yet now that I’ve succeeded, I have no idea what to do for her.
Albert has ducked into the caretaker’s house, so I can’t rely on him for translation, but I do spot Duardo stretched out under a sunscreen fashioned from cardboard.
“Duardo?” I head over to his would-be awning and squat down beside him. “I need to speak to that girl over there. Can you help?”
He props himself up on one elbow, blinking away the sun. I’ve rousted him from a nap. “Yulissa?” he asks sleepily. “Why? She is only a kid.”
“I want to talk with her about her sister. Lety.”
Duardo sits up, at full attention now. “No,” he says. “Not Lety.”
“Why? Did you know Lety?”
“We all know Lety. She bring money for her sister every week. She pay Imelda to keep Yulissa safe.”
“Is Doña Imelda still taking care of Yulissa?” I ask. “Now that no one pays for it?”
“She try.” Duardo sighs, and I gather that the old lady’s efforts are not entirely successful. “Imelda has a cancer. She have some bad days.” His eyes flicker over to Yulissa, who has filled one of her boxes and now struggles to carry it inside Doña Imelda’s hut. “Why you want to talk about Lety? You make that girl sad.”
“Lety wanted me to help her sister,” I say. “I’m just trying to figure out how.”
Whatever stupidity Lety got herself involved in, whatever got her killed, I must confess grudging admiration for her devotion. At fifteen, I had no one to worry about but myself. Lety had both a little sister and an unborn child depending on her. This girl was tough.
“It sounds like Doña Imelda is Yulissa’s guardian,” I say, trying to work out Lety’s grand plan for me. “If Imelda gets too sick to take care of her, what happens?”
“I don’t know.” Duardo eyes me suspiciously. “You want to put her in a home for orphans? That is your idea?”
“Would that really be so awful?” It’s a serious question. Is a Mexican orphanage worse than living in a garbage dump?
Duardo gives me a look so black I wonder if he speaks from personal experience. “Bad things can happen to the children there. Is better Yulissa stay here.”
“You already told me you can’t wait to get out of here, Duardo. If this place isn’t good enough for you, don’t tell me it’s good enough for Yulissa.”
“Not good. Better.”
“What would Lety have done?”
Duardo’s face turns distant and morose. “She have plans,” he says. “She is just a kid, but she have plans. She want a good life for her sister and her baby.”
“What kind of life?”
He stares at his hands, the stained lines and grooves of his palm. “I tell them about Phoenix,” he says. “About my son. How he was born American. Lety want that, too.”
“You’re saying Lety wanted to have her baby in the United States?”
Duardo’s eyes fill up with tears. “I say I will take them,” he says. “When I go home, I will bring them with me. I make this promise to Lety.”
Call me cynical, but his concern for a young prostitute strikes me as suspect. “Were you two—”
“No! She have a baby growing in her.” His face wrinkles up in horror at the thought, and I think that I’ve insulted his honor as a gentleman until he adds, “That jaina have a dirty body, all the places she go.”
Fair enough, I think.
“I want to help those kids, Lety and Yulissa,” Duardo tells me. “To be a good man.” He crosses himself. “Dios es mi testigo, lo juro.” If he’s lying about the nature of their relationship, it’s pretty convincing.
“I heard Lety killed herself. And the baby. Do you know anything about that?”
Duardo doesn’t answer immediately. He picks at the worn knee of his jeans, a series of horizontal strings stretched across a two-inch hole, and although I can see he doesn’t buy the official story, he says nothing to dispute this version of events. “Lety promise she take Yulissa away,” he says. “Then she die. Yulissa cry so much. You don’t talk to Yuli about this, please. It make her too sad.”
I watch Yulissa, still sorting recyclables with a sour expression. She’s not like Victor, I realize, the boy who wants to live in Tirabichi forever. Like Duardo, she will never be happy here. She has dared to imagine more.
“Duardo,” I ask, “where was Lety living when she died?”
He shakes his head. “Ask Marilena. She come here a lot. She know all the women.”
I remember Albert saying that he intended to visit Marilena after Tirabichi, and I resolve to grill the woman for info. There’s just one last piece of information I want from Duardo, something that might point to the identity of Lety’s killer. “The baby,” I say, “do you know who the father of Lety’s baby was?”
Duardo’s mouth lifts slightly in a sad smile. “How can I know?” he asks. “Lety don’t know.”
I sigh. It was a stupid question. “I guess . . . there were a lot of men.”
Duardo lies down beneath his cardboard sunshade, satisfied I’m not going to harass poor Yulissa and now ready to resume his nap. I wander back to the van, eyes stinging from a potent combination of garbage and failure.
I know what Lety wants from me now, and it’s not justice for her or her unborn daughter. It’s a life for the one still living, an American dream for the sister who must carry on without her. Yulissa’s position at Tirabichi is a precarious one, given Doña Imelda’s poor health. Lety wants her cared for.
But Lety has misjudged me. I already have a child—or two—on the way, and whatever happens with Noah, I can’t raise another needy kid. I don’t even speak Yulissa’s language. Short of adopting her, what can I really do? Smuggle the girl into the United States? I don’t need another run-in with CBP.
Sometimes, I realize with a certain amount of self-loathing, it is easier to lament the dead than save the living.
Twenty-Two
The van skids down the winding, hilly road on its way to the Hotel del Viajero. “Just a quick check-in with Marilena,” Albert says. “To see how she’s handling things.” An oblique reference, I assume, to her lost baby.
From the way Albert and Duardo have spoken of her, I gather that Marilena is Sonora Hope’s unofficial den mother, a mentor to women in the program and an occasional recruiter. I remember her presentation at the Desert Museum of Contemporary Art, remember the history of domestic abuse that left her blind in one eye. As a hotel owner who rose from nothing, Marilena has the kind of compelling story that any journalist would slaver over, but my interest in her is more personal.
She knew my mother. She knew Lety. And, for whatever reason, the man in the pineapple shirt came to visit her hotel yesterday.
From the passenger seat, Albert tries to be a good host, pointing out items of local interest as we pass. A sprawling public mural made by graffiti artists.
A street that has been known to flood and sweep cars away during a monsoon. A metal statue of a gigantic naked man shoving a spear into something.
“That’s El Mono Bichi,” Albert tells me with a grin. “He’s slaying the beast of ignorance.” It all looks rather homoerotic to me, but I nod. Do my best to appear interested, despite the grand conspiracy scenarios I’m silently entertaining.
The death of all these Tirabichi babies can’t be a coincidence, and Duardo’s hypothesis about environmental hazards doesn’t sound so far-fetched. Perhaps the maquiladoras really are dumping toxic waste at Tirabichi, something causing a rash of stillbirths amongst that population, maybe even Doña Imelda’s cancer.
What if the man in the pineapple shirt is employed by one of the maquiladoras? If he works for an American company, that could explain his ease in crossing the border. Maybe Lety stumbled upon proof of his company’s wrongdoing. How a fifteen-year-old stripper/prostitute would secure such evidence, I don’t know. But if Pineapple Guy killed Lety to silence her, it might explain why he saw Noah and me as a threat when we went asking around about her.
And Donna? Couldn’t this provide a motive for my mother’s death as well? Pam, Teresa, and Albert all mentioned how devastated Donna was by Lety’s death, but perhaps her response denoted more than simple grief. Whatever Lety knew, she could’ve shared with Donna.
When we reach the Hotel del Viajero, Carlos double-parks out front. “I’ll stay with the car,” he says. “Just in case.”
“Do they ticket a lot around here?” I ask, and Carlos chuckles.
“No,” he says, “but they break into a lot of cars.”
Albert and I hop out of the van and make our way into the hotel. Today, Marilena mans the front desk, and the air conditioner, now repaired, hums as it pumps cool air into the lobby. In the familiar territory of her own business, Marilena looks far more relaxed than she did at the Sonora Hope presentation. She wears a light blue Mexican muumuu embroidered at the neckline with flowers and a pair of birds, and her hair is pulled back into a long, graying braid. Somehow her drooping left eye manages to convey wisdom and experience rather than a tragic past.
“Albert!” Marilena intercepts him and applies kisses to both his cheeks. The gesture comes across as warm and motherly, despite the fact that Albert is probably the older of the two. Hearing his name, two of Marilena’s children burst through the curtains that lead to the family’s living quarters. The younger child, a girl I’d guess to be in early elementary school, squeals and begins checking his pockets. Sure enough, she finds a bag of Tootsie Rolls.
“Thank you, thank you!” She tears the wrapper off one and offers another to her sister.
Beaming, Albert presents me to the three of them. “This is my friend Charlotte. She’s writing an article that will hopefully attract some big donors.” He doesn’t mention my connection to Donna; I suppose he knows it’s a sensitive subject.
Marilena shakes my hand with unmitigated enthusiasm while her daughters cast me sidelong glances, their mouths full of Tootsie Rolls.
“So,” Albert asks, leaning against the counter, “how is everything?”
“Lo mismo.” Marilena smiles. “Hot. You went to Tirabichi today?”
He nods. “I heard Ysabel lost the baby.”
“A few weeks ago, yes.”
He sighs heavily. “How is she taking it?”
“You don’t worry about Ysabel. Hard now, better later. This is a new start for her. She is going to leave Tirabichi. I talked to Teresa. The program can help her.”
“Good,” says Albert. “She deserves it. Ysabel is so smart. She could do well for herself.”
“Very well,” Marilena concurs.
“How about you?” Albert’s face grows very sober. “I know Ysabel isn’t the only one who—”
“Shhh.” Marilena presses her fingers firmly to her lips. “I have enough blessings. God makes no mistakes.” She bustles away from him, busies herself with a tacky arrangement of plastic flowers by the front window. The window is covered with white metal bars, which says plenty about the neighborhood we’re in, but Marilena’s face brightens when she peers outside.
“Ah! Look here! My friend Quico is coming. Albert, you met him once.” She turns to me. “He is a friend to our work. You can talk to him for your article.”
“Great,” I say.
But when I look out the window and get a glimpse of Quico, I know that he’s the last person in the world I want to talk to. Because, even though his pineapple shirt has been replaced with a garish red hibiscus print, I’m pretty sure I recognize the figure on the other side of the street, waiting for the traffic to part.
My heart begins to pound wildly. I need to get out of here. Can’t let him see me, which means the front door is a no-go.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, half in a panic. Marilena starts to draw back the curtain to her own quarters, but her older daughter shakes her head.
“Rey is still in the bathroom, mami,” she reports.
“Upstairs, then,” Marilena says, handing me a key. “Room two.” She opens a door to the left, revealing a musty little stairwell.
“Thank you!” I gallop up the stairs as fast as my pregnant legs will carry me, not daring to look back when I hear the bells of the front door jingling.
I don’t think he saw me. But I can’t be sure.
On the second floor, I stand outside room 2, trying to catch my breath. The stairwell is hot and smells like spoiled vegetables—not such a bad odor after Tirabichi. From downstairs, the voices of Albert, Marilena, and this Quico character rise and fall in Spanish. Polite greetings and pleasant conversation, from the sound of it.
Maybe Quico won’t know who I am. Maybe I can wait him out.
It’s perfectly possible, of course, that I’m being ridiculous, that I’ve misidentified this fellow or only imagined his role in Noah’s arrest. But I’m not taking my chances. I pat my pocket, ensuring that my passport is still on my person. At this point, climbing out a fire escape and making a dash for the border may be the most prudent course of action.
Unfortunately, the building has no obvious exit on this floor, just the hall, doors to the two guest rooms, and the stairwell leading both up and down. The solitary window is barred, just like the one downstairs—a safety precaution that makes me feel caged, not protected. Do they really need barred windows on the second floor? I wonder. Is there some sort of evil Mexican Spider-Man who scales walls at night? I may have seriously underestimated the criminals of Nogales.
I consider using the key Marilena gave me to enter room 2, but something about that door gives me a bad feeling, makes me feel claustrophobic. I’d rather find the roof.
Up to the third floor, then, where the air is even hotter, even dryer.
I’m instantly disappointed. No roof access. No fire escape. Just another barred window and a pair of locked guest rooms.
Is Mexico undeveloped to the point of entirely lacking fire codes? My frustration mounts. How do I get out of here?
The sound of a door opening echoes in the stairwell below. I hear footsteps, slow and heavy as they move from the first to the second floor. I flatten myself against the wall as best I can, barely breathing, but there is nowhere for me to hide. If someone ventures up another floor, they’ll find me.
I keep my ear trained to the sound of footsteps. A pause. A knocking. Silence.
I wait. Wince as my daughter’s fist or foot pops me just south of my belly button. She can taste my adrenaline. She knows we’re in danger.
Beneath me, footsteps again, retreating to the first floor. The door to the stairwell slams shut, and then I hear nothing.
Was that Quico out there? Was he looking for me? Marilena referred to Quico as her friend, and he seems to make fairly regular stops at her hotel. Is she a part of something bad? Is Albert?
I head
back down to the second floor. As far as I can see, I’ve got two options. I can face Quico with a smile, like I’ve never seen him before in my life, and then find some excuse to get out of there as soon as possible—assuming he lets me. Or I can see what’s in room 2, on the off chance there’s a window with a fire escape. Sneaking out would give me some lead time, an obvious advantage.
It’s a no-brainer, and yet something in me resists the idea of room 2. Something in me knows what I will find.
Marilena’s key fits neatly into the lock. With a quick turn to the right, the knob releases, and I find myself inside the shadowy quarters.
First impression: no exit. The sole window is occupied by an air-conditioning unit. Someone took considerable time to secure the unwieldy device, screwing side panels into the cinder-block wall that will make its removal all but impossible.
The room itself has an L shape, a sharp corner leading to an alcove with a slanted overhang. It’s tidy but shabby, fit for a nun or monk or some other ascetic—an odd look when I perceive the Hotel del Viajero to be more of a rent-by-the-hour establishment than a home for the holy. There’s not even a phone, and the mattress is just big enough to cram two people on.
I rummage quickly around, searching for something I might use as a weapon just in case. An old television, a cheap plastic ashtray, a small ceramic cross with no real heft—nothing helpful. The key I’m holding is probably my best bet. I slip it between my index and middle fingers, the jagged metal end pointed outward like they teach you in women’s self-defense classes.
I hope I’m being paranoid. Oh God, I hope I’m being paranoid.
But there it is, like a low, insistent buzzing in my spine. Something behind me. Lety? I whirl around, but there’s no one there, just the alcove. And, I realize, a door I didn’t see before. A white vinyl accordion door that leads to the bathroom.
