by Sylvia Nobel
One sandy brow crept higher. “Full time?”
“Yes, sir.” My gaze strayed to his nametag that read Hank Breslow, and then back up to meet the unwavering suspicion in his eyes.
“And you are?”
I issued him a bright smile even though my mouth was as dry as cornstarch. “Kendall O’Dell. I’m the editor of the paper. So ah…what’s going on?”
“You tell me.”
I edged a glance at Lupe who stood silent as a stone. I wasn’t sure what kind of a game he was playing and I didn’t really care for his impudent attitude, but I knew we were treading on quicksand. “We came down to do a story on the…um, rally in Arivaca this weekend.” I silently thanked Walter and maintained an expression of stoic calm.
Some emotion I could not fathom flickered behind his steady gaze. Wordlessly, he lowered his eyes to study the driver’s license again. The wind sounded awfully lonesome whistling through the tall straw-colored grass and I was very conscious of our isolation. Suddenly, I felt resentful towards Lupe for putting me in the position of having to lie for her, but then a twinge of guilt chilled me. Hadn’t I voluntarily injected myself into this situation?
“Where did you say you were born again?” the agent asked, finally shifting his attention to Lupe.
“Florence, Arizona.” The falsehood slipped out with practiced ease.
“And your mother?”
“Hermosillo.”
His eyes bored into hers. “Have you got a copy of your birth certificate with you?”
At that, I had to bite my tongue to keep from jeering, ‘Oh, come on. Who carries their birth certificate with them in the car?’
Never flinching, she fished something from her wallet and extended it to him. “I have my Social Security card. Will that help?” The slightest inkling of indolence surfaced in her smoky almond-shaped eyes. She knew she’d won. So did Agent Breslow.
He made a show of studying her card, just to keep her on edge, I think, and then handed it back to her along with her driver’s license. “You ladies have yourselves a nice day,” he said, squeezing out a synthetic smile. A glimmer of skepticism still persisted in his eyes as he climbed into his Chevy Tahoe, slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, revved the engine, and then ever so slowly cruised away.
When he was out of sight, I turned back to find Lupe’s show of bravado dissolving as she slowly slid to her haunches and took in great gulps of air before pinning me with a look of terrified rage. “Where were you?” she screeched.
I felt foolish and impotent. “Well, you see, there was this big bull in the road, and there wasn’t anything….”
“That guy just came at me out of nowhere,” she cut in through clenched teeth. “If you’d been here with me this wouldn’t have happened.” She clapped her hands alongside her head and collapsed to the ground as if her legs would no longer support her. “Holy Mother of God,” she murmured in a quaking voice, “I was afraid of this. Do you know how close that was?”
Stung by her accusation, my face warmed with guilty embarrassment. “Lupe, I’m really sorry. I got here as soon as I could but you see this bull wouldn’t let me get past…” The excuse sounded so silly, I halted my explanation and fired a question at her. “What reason did he give for stopping you?”
She looked up at me ever so slowly. “Reason? What reason would he need other than the fact that I’m Mexican?”
I knelt beside her. “Okay, Lupe, calm down. Fortunately, nothing happened. You’re gonna be okay. I’m going to be with you the rest of the trip.”
“What about when I go home tomorrow night? If we had come in the same car, he probably would not have stopped me.”
I put out a hand to help her up. “You don’t know that for sure. Be realistic. With the situation down here as volatile as it is, you might get pulled over again whether I’m here or not. Anyway, you seemed to have your ducks all in a row or he wouldn’t have dropped it.”
She took my hand and clambered to her feet. “I did do pretty good, didn’t I?” she said, a faint grin brightening her grim features.
“Your acting skills are to be commended,” I agreed dryly, but the heavy weight in my gut reminded me of how tenuous her situation was and could be again any time in the future.
I helped her get her things back into the car and I led the way this time. On the outskirts of town, I noticed a Border Patrol vehicle parked behind a clump of mesquite on a dirt side road. As we drove past, I glanced at the occupant and a feeling of apprehension pooled in my belly. Agent Breslow was sitting inside with his field glasses trained on us. Was he spying on us, making sure our alibi was accurate? I suppressed an impish desire to wave at him, instead refocusing my attention on the road. It would not be wise to piss this guy off.
It was almost one o’clock by the time we pulled into what I’m sure was normally the sleepy little town of Arivaca. But, not today. Among the rows of cars, pickups and motorcycles parked along the main street, vehicles from the Pima County sheriff’s department stood out prominently. Uniformed deputies were out in full force, and only blocks ahead I could hear angry shouts from a sizeable crowd gathered in front of the La Gitana Saloon to my left. They waved placards that read TACO BENDERS GO HOME! THE KNIGHTS OF RIGHT ARE PREPARED TO FIGHT! BEANERS STEAL AMERICAN JOBS! THE ONLY SOLUTION IS WHITE REVOLUTION! On the opposite side, a smaller contingency of counter demonstrators screamed back while brandishing their own signs—AMNESTY FOR ALL! DOWN WITH WHITE RANCHER BIGOTS! DISCRIMINATION IS THE REAL CRIMINAL! A news crew with microphones in hand stood beside a white van sporting call letters from a Tucson television station. Nobody looked very happy.
I glanced in the rearview mirror at the look of fear plastered on Lupe’s face. While the situation presented an enticing story angle for me, I could only imagine what she must be thinking in light of her close call with the Border Patrol. Now she would have to endure the hateful slurs and degradation of her heritage just to get through town. Even with the umbrella of protection afforded by sheriff’s deputies, it did not seem like a great idea. Why hadn’t I thought this out ahead of time? Even though our trip would have taken longer, we could have traveled state route 286 directly to Sasabe and avoided this messy situation. No wonder she’d been so apprehensive. She knew what the score was far better than I did. “What an idiot you are,” I muttered under my breath.
I waved her down a side street, got out and walked back to her. “Due to the ah…circumstances, I think it’s best if you leave your car here and we’ll go on to the mission in mine. We can pick yours up later or tomorrow after this thing breaks up. Okay?”
Lupe angrily swiped at the ribbon of tears trickling down her cheeks. “Why? Why do they hate us so much?” she asked in a voice shaking with emotion. “Why should it be a crime to want to work hard so we can send money home to feed our families? That’s not a lot to ask for! Can’t they understand that people…” she paused, swallowing hard, “that some people are willing to die for such a small dream? I think this problem cannot ever be solved.”
Being a White, legal, well-fed Irish-American citizen whose ancestors traced back to the seventeen hundreds, made it difficult for me to place myself in her shoes. “Hey, never say never,” I said, trying to bolster her spirits, even though I silently agreed that there did not appear to be an equitable solution at hand anytime soon. “You stay here. I’m going to scope out the situation and ask one of the deputies if there’s another way to get to Sasabe other than driving right though the middle of that mob.”
“Okay.” Her voice was faint, devoid of hope.
I left her sitting there with the doors locked and hiked back to the main street. Oh, man. What was I getting myself into? The cries of the assembly grew louder with each step. Dozens of curious onlookers stood about listening to speeches and there was sporadic applause and cheers mingled with harsh rhetoric shouted from both sides. I shouldered my way to the front for a better look and
a little ripple of recognition snaked through me when I read the name on one of the inflammatory signs. ARIZONA COALITION OF RANCHERS SUPPORTS CHAMP BEAUMONT! HELP PROTECT PRIVATE PROPERTY RIGHTS FOR AMERICAN CITIZENS! OPEN SEASON ON WETBACKS!
Beaumont? Wasn’t he the rancher Tally had visited several times these past few months? Could he be the same person Walter had mentioned, the one who was now in legal trouble regarding an episode with some illegals, as well as the target of a lawsuit filed by an advocacy group?
I studied the divergent group with interest. This was not an all male crowd. There were women of all ages present and I was frankly startled to see a sprinkling of dark Hispanic faces among the opposing groups. But then, why should I be surprised? I’d learned during my previous trip to southern Arizona that many of the Mexican-American families also resented the influx of illegals, especially the criminal element. But it was particularly unnerving to note that the most vocal protesters among the throng of Stetson-hatted ranchers were a menacing band of tattooed skinheads. Fists to the sky, they used bullhorns to shout out harsh threats of death and destruction directed towards the smaller group of Hispanics who were flanked by well-dressed whites comprised of men and women that Tally would have dismissed as ‘a bunch of lily-livered liberals.’
The very character of the air had changed. It fairly crackled with palpable levels of hostility and indignation, obliterating the sense of peace I’d experienced such a short time ago. Walter was right. This was a volatile situation that could easily get out of hand. As the noisy throng pressed closer, my claustrophobia began to bother me big time. I looked around for a way out and my heart gave a little jerk of surprise when I recognized Hank Breslow among the sea of faces. My lips tightened in irritation. Had he followed us into town? And, if so, why?
Jostled and shoved as the crowd lurched forward, I had a hard time keeping him in sight. He was in a heated discussion with someone, but I could not see who he was addressing. Just then, a young woman with bright raspberry hair and enormous multicolored tattoos on both biceps shoved a clipboard into my hands. “Sign this, and we’ll throw this wetback-loving bastard out of office,” she snarled, her silver-ringed nostrils flaring. Her T-shirt read AVENGE BOB SHIRLEY’S COLD-BLOODED MURDER!!
Confused, I stared at the form and read the explanation above the signature lines. It was a recall petition for Congressman Lyle Stanley. I remembered vaguely that he’d been pressing to ease border restrictions and that he was also married to a Hispanic woman who was the daughter of the Mexican consul in Douglas. I declined to sign and she hastily swiped it from my grasp.
My apprehension level rose as the expressions of the crowd grew more intense and the shouting escalated. Part of me longed to stay and report on the unfolding drama, but I reminded myself why I was here in the first place. When an egg splattered on the forehead of a guy standing not two feet from me, I decided it was time to go. I turned around and pushed my way to the fringe as law enforcement officers waded into the fray.
With a gasp of relief, I dislodged myself from the shrieking clutch of humanity and started back to where Lupe waited. As I passed one sheriff’s deputy climbing from his patrol car, I said, “Excuse me, sir, is there another road to get to the Guiding…er…” I coughed away the remainder of the sentence, regretting that I’d almost given away our covert destination of the mission. “I mean, is there another way to get to Sasabe other than this route?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the main highway.
He appraised the situation with the crowd before fixing me with a distracted frown. “You could take Ruby Road. It connects with another dirt road that winds through some mighty rough country real close to the border.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked me up and down. “Personally, I wouldn’t recommend that you travel it alone.”
I blew out a sigh of pure frustration. From the first moment I’d decided to undertake this project, it had been fraught with an unbelievable series of problems and roadblocks. Was there a message here?
“See that little church over there?” he advised, pointing to our right. “Turn left behind it and take 3rd Street all the way out to the clinic. Make another left and then a right onto the main road. You’ll intersect with route 286 in about eleven miles. Got it?”
“Yes, thanks.” I turned away and suddenly remembered the wandering bull. I retraced my steps and reported the incident. He didn’t look the least bit surprised and, in fact, I gathered from his apathetic reaction that it wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Oh, well. I’d done my duty.
I trotted back to Lupe, who quickly transferred her bag to my trunk and then locked her car before jumping into the passenger seat next to me. I didn’t say anything, but thought locking it was a futile effort considering that the window behind the driver’s seat had a piece of cardboard taped onto it in place of the window glass.
When we rounded the corner, her features fused into a motionless mask of alarm. She glared at the protesters and mumbled something in Spanish.
“What?” I asked her.
She slid me an uneasy glance and scrunched low in the seat. “I was praying to God that we get to the mission without any more trouble.”
“We’ll be okay now,” I assured her as we left the teeming mob behind us, crossed the main street and drove behind an unpretentious white block building that housed the New Life Community Church. Ah, yes. This was the place where the alien abduction encounter group met. Contacting and hopefully arranging a meeting with UFOlogist Mazzie La Casse would be on my list of things to do this evening.
The little cemetery to our left was well kept in comparison to the series of crumbling brick and adobe houses we passed along the way, many of which appeared abandoned. There were piles of old cars, overflowing trash dumpsters, a mashed-in horse trailer, and the constant din of barking dogs standing stiff-legged in weed and junk-infested back yards. Grimly, I thought that this was certainly not the initial view of town the local chamber of commerce would have approved of.
When the sign reading Arivaca Medical Clinic loomed before us, relief poured through me. Since we hadn’t seen a single person after leaving the main road, I allowed my tight shoulders to relax. As we passed the one-story brick structure, I turned to Lupe with a triumphant grin. “See? Home free. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, my dad always says.”
Instead of returning my smile, she stared straight ahead, eyes bulging with horror. Following her gaze, I thought my heart was going to vault out of my chest. Dead ahead of us, blocking our entrance to the main road was a bright red Dodge 4x4 pickup with monster tires. Lounging alongside were two young guys dressed like cowboys, but the three other men sprawled lazily on the tailgate had their heads shaved smooth as cue balls. Muscle shirts emphasized the blood-red swastikas tattooed on their chests and arms. All had cigarettes and beers in hand. Uh-oh.
I stood on the brake while my fevered brain sized up the scenario in nanoseconds. Five strapping young guys, three of them skinheads, and lots of empty bottles scattered on the ground. Add two women alone in a car, one of them Hispanic, and the situation looked pretty dicey. I swallowed hard, tasting the remains of the Grubstake Special in the back of my throat.
The daring part of me wanted to climb from the car, confront them, and demand, ‘Okay, dudes, how about moving this puppy out of my way,’ but my uneasiness skyrocketed as they stared back at us, their expressions of good-humored camaraderie slowly turning to menace. When one of them reached behind and pulled a baseball bat from the truck bed, Lupe screeched, “Kendall, let’s get out of here!”
I hit the door lock, shoved the car into reverse, but almost jumped out of my skin when a figure loomed behind us in the rear-view mirror. I pulled my foot off the gas so fast, the car hopped like a rabbit and the engine died. Before I knew what was happening, the stranger began pounding the trunk of my car with his fists. “How many goddamn beaners have you got stuffed in here, huh?” he shouted, following his question with a string of
racial slurs and expletives targeted at Hispanics.
What should I do? Just back over him? My hesitation cost me. Before I could decide my next move, the others had surrounded the car like a pack of coyotes encircling their prey.
6
“Do something!” Lupe screamed, clawing at my shoulder. “Get us out of here!”
I wanted to, but surprise and fear held me immobile while two of the guys gleefully poured the remainder of their beers onto my windshield. With wicked smiles plastered on their youthful faces, they then proceeded to lick the foam off while the other four pounded on and rocked my car from side to side. One of the muscle-bound skinheads, with a wild and dangerous gleam in his eyes, brandished the bat at Lupe and shouted his intentions to slay all wetback invaders. As her terrified screams grew louder, in a strange sort of way I felt removed, like I was in a scene from a gang movie. Above the babble of voices I kept waiting for someone to call, ‘Cut!’ Looking back, I can convince myself that their bluster was mostly for show and that they never intended any real harm other than to scare the crap out of us. But, at that moment, I was unsure.
Somehow, I willed my inert limbs into action and rolled the window down a crack. “You morons better back off! I’m calling the sheriff right now!” With trembling hands, I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone and made certain the guy in the black Stetson with his face squashed grotesquely against my window, saw me dial 911. They couldn’t know that the ‘no service’ message was still blinking. Goddamn worthless device.
One of them shouted a warning to the others and they tossed the beer bottles into the air and sprinted for the truck. Hooting and hollering like cowboys at a rodeo, they piled into it and shook their clenched fists at us before disappearing around the corner in a cloud of dust.
