by Jon Pineda
They had taken him to a spot where they had set up camp. It was near a scattering of things people had dumped and abandoned. This was how they had managed, in the periphery of the jungle, to have in their possession a small card table and even some chairs. This layout seemed extravagant. Otherworldly. The legs of each item refastened and repaired with crude materials.
With only a few chairs, though, some of the men had to stand.
Exequiel’s wrists were bound with twine. They had pushed him down onto his back and then set one of the chairs directly over the top of his chest, so that he couldn’t move from side to side. The oldest man, looming above Exequiel, bent down and asked him if he had any family. Though he was scared, Exequiel would not answer and thought only of Paul and the times they used to take one of their father’s T-shirts and fold and roll it a special way so that it would hold together as a ball. The two boys would kick it around, trying to weave it between each other’s legs, his brother Paul sometimes being generous and letting him win.
The oldest of the men, his name was Nestor, yelled at the others to get their guest some water. Nestor thought Exequiel must be thirsty. When the old man Nestor asked him with an earnest expression, his leathery face softening just briefly for the boy, Exequiel shook his head no, thinking it had been a trick question, that they were planning to throw him in the river should he respond yes. When he saw that they were, in fact, passing around a canteen, Exequiel felt his tongue scrape against the dryness of the roof of his mouth. He wished he had taken this old man up on his offer of water.
The old man Nestor took a long last gulp from the canteen and then leaned close to Exequiel’s face. The boy winced from the stench, the old man’s mouth reeking of wet bread. He asked the boy the names of every man in town. He wanted to know if the boy knew where weapons were kept.
Most especially guns.
The old man Nestor laughed when he mentioned these words, and his eyes, Exequiel could see, had brightened with mischief at the use of this word guns. As if the old man Nestor had become a boy again, briefly, and was conspiring to do something he knew he shouldn’t.
The others wanted to keep moving north along the river. As they openly discussed their plans, the old man Nestor shouted at them from where he sat. He was angered by their stupidity. He quickly chided them all for revealing any information in the presence of this boy.
“So should we wait here for you to come back?” the old man Nestor said to Exequiel. Exequiel writhed underneath the chair. His shoulders were beginning to burn from being held so long in one place. His legs, they had fallen asleep and it felt to him as if they had been thrust into a mound of ants, and the ants were no longer marching but had, instead, chosen to make a home in his skin. So had commenced the dutiful work of burrowing.
“Guns,” the old man Nestor said again, smiling.
He told the boy that if he were released, he must go back and tell no one that they were there. And further, the boy must go to the houses where he knew the guns were and bring them back. Or else the men who stared down at him now would stare down at the ones whom the boy loved, as the boy would be staring down at them all from heaven above.
“Do you understand?” the old man Nestor said.
Exequiel nodded.
“And what happens if you don’t find any guns?” the old man Nestor said, all teeth.
“I come back and tell you so.”
“That’s right. And then?”
“And then you leave here.”
“Good,” the old man Nestor said.
He looked at the others, who nodded, pleased.
The boy was untied and left to recover on the edge of the encampment. He wanted to run, but his legs would not allow it. Then, as if by magic, the movement of his blood resumed and he stood, wobbly at first like a newborn colt, and took off running.
Where were his idiotic friends, he wondered.
They must be hiding. They must have seen at least one of the men. He ran, moving wet leaves out of his way. The humid air lay so thickly in front of him that he felt as though he were running under a damp sheet, one his mother might have hung from a line to dry. When he reached the river itself, he dove in and was immediately pulled downstream by the fast-moving current.
Brownish water seeped in and out of him as he struggled. Paul had forgotten to teach him how to swim the right way, and now his brother was gone.
But then, just barely, he swam.
He was saved by the bend of land that snagged against his body. He was whipped against the land by his body’s trajectory through the current. He nearly vaulted out of the water. He quickly landed on the embankment, where his hands slipped into the mud, along with his knees and his bare feet. Before he could steady himself, he fell face-first into it. He coughed the rest of the river out of his body.
A stray dog with a brindled coat was the first to greet him. It limped over to Exequiel and sniffed the dried mud on the boy’s legs. Exequiel crouched down. He let the dog sniff his hands as well. The dog scooted back for a moment.
Its tail, thin as a foil, began to swipe the air back and forth.
Then the rest of its body was set in motion. Hysterical, the dog bounced up and down as the boy stood now and started for town. Mud cracked in places and fell with each step he took.
But much of the mud remained as Exequiel neared a group of boys crouched in a circle. They were playing a game using bottle caps. They were flipping them against insects from whose bodies they had already pulled off a wing or two.
The youngest boy, wearing only a long T-shirt, stood up and screamed when he saw Exequiel. The others looked up. They laughed at their friend.
“You fell into shit,” one said.
Exequiel only nodded.
They asked him what happened, and he told them about the place where he had fallen asleep and how he had awoken in the river.
“You must have really been dreaming,” one said.
“This was not a dream,” Exequiel said, holding his arms out wide. He tried his hardest to describe the way the land had saved him, as if it had reached out with a hand and pulled him to the shore. He mimicked the action. The entire time he spoke, the youngest boy stood next to him and scraped at the shapes of mud still clinging to Exequiel’s legs.
He let them have their laugh again. Their happiness rushed forward after Exequiel finished talking. It was happiness brought on by a fear that they had almost lost their friend unknowingly. They were grateful he had come back and given them this story.
Even the youngest had stopped giving his attention to the flaking of mud and began to look around at the others and giggle as the boys, the older ones, laughed hard and slapped each other just as hard on the shoulder. Most trailed off, then.
Exequiel was left with Vin, the one in the group whom he had hoped to talk with alone. Vin, a few years older than Exequiel, was smaller, thinner in frame, but his eyes, sunken in their sockets, gave him the appearance of being even older, almost elderly. Each of the boys considered Vin the wisest of their lot.
Vin, in some ways, was like the old man Nestor. The others in the group had only laughed after Vin had started to. It was natural that Exequiel would report the truth of the encounter to Vin. Natural, too, that Vin would see through Exequiel’s initial story and wait for the others to leave, as he had, and then ask his mud-covered friend to tell him what, exactly, had happened in the beyond.
Exequiel wanted to cry at first, but he knew that Vin would punch him for his weakness. Vin put his arm around his friend’s smooth shoulder and walked him behind the nearest house. After the two peered around the corners for good measure and went back to crouching in an intimate huddle, Exequiel found he could speak as he had wanted to all along.
He told Vin about the old man Nestor and the men who were setting up camp not too far from the town. How above all else, it was up to Exequiel to find some guns—one would do—and bring them to the old man Nestor so he could tell the others they were free to move north alo
ng the river and into someone else’s life.
Vin listened and nodded in spots.
Exequiel was grateful to see his friend agree, though he didn’t know exactly what Vin was agreeing to. When Exequiel finished, he glimpsed his friend’s sunken eyes, their ruefulness.
“You know you can’t give them anything, right?” Vin said.
“I have to. They said so.”
“I see. And if they asked for you to suck their dicks, you would do that?”
Exequiel didn’t answer.
“Did you?” Vin said.
“Fuck no,” Exequiel said.
Vin nodded.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said. The boy went on to explain how his grandfather had a pistol that had been broken years ago, long before Vin had been born, in fact. He knew where his grandfather kept the gun. It was in a tin box under the old man’s bed.
“I can’t give them that,” Exequiel said.
“You have to. They’ll go away, right?”
Exequiel considered the plan.
“Come with me then,” he said to Vin.
Vin shook his head. “I’ll get the pistol from my grandfather, but I’m not going with you. They told you not to tell anyone. It’s better this way.”
Exequiel looked at his friend, who immediately looked away.
“You’re scared,” Exequiel said.
“I’m not scared,” Vin said.
“You are.”
“You’re stupid.”
“At least I’m brave,” Exequiel said.
“You’re not brave,” Vin said.
It was almost dark when Vin made it back to Exequiel. Without any ceremony the pistol was handed off from the one boy to the next. Exequiel took the gun and sprinted for the same spot near the river where he had fallen asleep. It seemed like years ago. The mud was mostly gone from him. Only his hair still bore remnants of the dried mess.
He plunged headfirst again. This time it was the draping leaves and tangle. He regretted not asking Vin to bring him a flashlight, if his family even had one, and he regretted not going to his house to tell his mother he and Vin would be playing longer together this evening. So that she would not worry.
But all such regrets were pointless.
How would he cross the water in the dark?
How would he find them once he made it to the other side?
He had not considered these details. He wondered if perhaps they had not considered them either, and that after some deliberation throughout the day, the old man Nestor had thought better of his proposition to the boy and had told the other men to gather their things and begin their trek sooner rather than later.
Exequiel wished for this outcome.
He wished for it in the same way he wished for his brother Paul to be safe, wherever he was. He wished for it in the same way he wished to leave this place for good one day and go find his brother. Instead of using their father’s T-shirt, they would have more money than they knew what to do with. The first thing he was certain they would do would be to visit a place that sold real balls, all leather and perfectly stitched.
Rows and rows of them.
The pistol began to grow heavy in his hand.
He switched it from left to right to left, to distribute the burden of it, but then it was too much. He used both hands. Still, it was too heavy. He stopped running and set the gun down. He stood up for a moment to catch his breath.
It was growing dark where he stood. He walked slowly in a circle. More than nine times around, his age counted out this way. He kept thinking it would be important if he did so. He paused and decided he could do this. He would do this.
He crouched down to pick up the pistol, but now he couldn’t find it.
He placed his hands flat on the ground and felt around in the space beneath him. He widened the perimeter in nervous increments. He could hear himself wheezing. He knew if Vin were here, the older boy would slap the top of his head and tell him to calm down.
As Exequiel scoured the dark, he started to think that this, perhaps, was good luck. The pistol would only signal to the old man Nestor and the others that he had found a stockpile, that he was holding out on them.
Yes, he thought.
After more fruitless rummaging, he had convinced himself. He would go to them empty-handed. They would see he was telling the truth. There was nothing of worth in the town that the boy could find.
He could hear the water. He approached it slowly, knowing there were plenty of places he might plunge down. It was so dark. In some parts he had to feel his way with his feet, his arms outstretched.
Before he could make out the light on the river, a match flared at his right. He turned to see the old man Nestor’s face glow before the flame extinguished. The first plume of the cigarette’s smoke was a white blue.
“The others did not think you would return, but I knew you were smart. I told them so,” the old man Nestor said.
“I couldn’t find any guns,” Exequiel said.
The old man Nestor did not say anything.
“I tried to find some. I did,” the boy said.
“Yes,” the old man Nestor said.
“I thought there was one, but I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
Exequiel didn’t understand why the man was apologizing.
“I have to go now,” the boy said.
“Yes, you do.”
“Okay,” the boy said and turned, but he felt a hand immediately clamp down on his shoulder.
“How many places did you look?” the old man Nestor said.
“Just that one,” the boy said.
“A long time away for just one place of searching.”
The boy did not know how to answer.
The old man Nestor laughed.
“You see, it is an altogether difficult place we have found ourselves in, my young friend. I’m not sure I believe you just yet.”
Exequiel thought he could hear Vin calling for him. He thought it was Vin who was saying, “Did you find him?” Exequiel thought of running, but he had already played the scenario out in his mind. It ended with his mother under the old man Nestor’s chair.
“You can scream. It’s okay if you want to scream.”
The old man Nestor had finished another cigarette and was blowing the smoke to the side before he leaned over and regarded the boy. They had gagged him this time, and Exequiel thought at least they would not have the pleasure of hearing him scream. This thought had a short life, like a lit match. A stupid thought. He twisted in place. The twine on his wrists burned over the wounds from earlier.
The old man Nestor removed the piece of shirt that had been knotted and used to gag the boy. “Do you want to tell us anything?” the old man Nestor said.
“Yes,” the boy said. “Go to hell.”
This made the other men laugh loudly. They slapped each other on the shoulders. There was a lantern with a flame drawn down so low that it had been nearly snuffed out.
“I like this one,” the old man Nestor said. “I like this one a lot. If only I had more of them at my disposal!” He coughed, clearing his throat. He laughed the deepest laugh the boy had heard among these men.
“I will ask you again,” the old man said. “Because I like you.”
He stood up with some difficulty and then repositioned the chair, so that one of the front legs, its gnarled end, rested just above the boy’s right shoulder. The metal was so cold from the damp earth that, when it first touched Exequiel, he laughed amidst the terror of the moment. It was too much to consider.
It was not a dream, though it felt like one. A beautiful piece of memory that could make him cry. Exequiel woke now, feverish. Out of his head. He summoned it, from the faint scar woven in the bottom of his foot. A story hidden in the flesh.
Maybe it had slipped through the long-ago knit vessels, skin’s sheathing, and was whispering him awake, as Paul would have done and had done that one morning he was supposed to be gone. Exequiel had
cried himself to sleep during the night, and Paul had stayed, grabbing him now by both shoulders and asking, almost idiotically, if he was awake—Are you? Are you awake? In truth, Exequiel had come to a handful of seconds before and had the presence of mind to pretend, for just a little longer, that he was indeed asleep, settled comfortably in a dream. What better thing than to have his brother stay?
“Mano,” Paul whispered. He held up one of their father’s T-shirts and rolled and folded it, as Exequiel had also been taught, and now the stale scent of their father’s sweat came between them and hung in the sweltering air.
“I thought you were gone,” Exequiel said, rubbing his eyes.
“I was,” Paul said. “I came back.”
“So that I could beat you one more time?”
Paul laughed.
“Mano, that will be the day.”
“That will be the day,” Exequiel echoed.
“Come on, let’s not wake up Mama. I’ll meet you outside.”
Paul took the ball and, with it, their father’s scent vanished from the small room.
Was it first light that had stepped its way effortlessly through the vacant street, the shimmering choreography of broken glass and gravel? Exequiel watched as Paul negotiated the sliver of field, juggling the cloth ball in and out of a group of shadowy opponents, ghosts of former games.
Then came his brother’s taunts. It was expected.
“Mano, you still asleep? Maybe you want I should get Tia and see if she can join in? Maybe you want to play her instead of me?”
The ball rested on his knee. Then it flew up, spiralling, to perch behind his brother’s neck. The body hunched before him. The ball like a burden to carry for a long time.
Though he wore no shoes, not even the crudely constructed sandals some of his friends possessed, Exequiel sprinted forward to challenge his brother. He shoved him, knocking the ball free. Paul immediately laughed. He was pleased to see the lesson of aggression had been passed down.
