Efren Divided

by Ernesto Cisneros

  Efrén searched his pockets, clenched the taxi money in a tight fist, and made his way down the cement walkway full of street vendors—a few as young as Max and Mía.

  No matter how much it hurt him to see, Efrén knew he couldn’t get distracted with other people’s problems. He needed to stay focused. Amá is waiting. Thinking of her helped him quicken his step.

  “¡Taxi! ¡El más barato!” a man called to him.

  Efrén looked up. He was heading toward a row of taxi drivers—all in street clothes—each vying for his business.

  Great. All his life, he’d been told to never get into a car with a stranger. Now, not only was he doing exactly that, he was doing so in a foreign world he didn’t know. Efrén surveyed the men, pausing at the oldest gentleman with the receding hairline. He was just about to approach him when the man took a puff from his cigarette.

  No, thanks. Efrén hated the ashy smell.

  Suddenly, a voice cried out. “Yo, little man. You need a lift?”

  While the voice itself wasn’t familiar, the way the man spoke was. It reminded Efrén of Rafa, back in the neighborhood. He turned to the man, still keeping a safe distance.

  He wore distressed baggy blue jeans and a beige T-shirt that showed off his thick arms. He had a detailed tattoo of a baby girl that curled around his neck and a weathered face that somehow reminded Efrén of Apá.

  “You speak English really well,” Efrén told the guy.

  “Yeah. After twenty-eight years in the US, I’d better.” He looked around a bit. “Little man, you alone?”

  Not sure of what he should say, Efrén stayed quiet.

  “Man, this ain’t no place for a kid like you. Name’s Eduardo—people call me Lalo. Come on, I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  Efrén hesitated at first but knew he didn’t have much choice. “Can you take me to the Arco on Revolución Avenue?”

  Lalo went all bug-eyed. “Downtown? You serious?”

  “It’s all right. I can handle myself.”

  “Nah, man,” Lalo said. “I ain’t dropping off a kid there.”

  “You have to.” Efrén didn’t see any choice but to admit, “I’m meeting my Amá there. She got deported.”

  The guy gave Efrén a quick look over. “Ouch”—he nodded—“that changes things. All right, little man. You got it.”

  Efrén followed him to his car and got into the back seat. Only there was no seat belt to be found, and it made him a little uncomfortable.

  “So,” Efrén said nervously, “you said you lived in the US. What are you doing here?”

  Lalo laughed out loud, really loud. “It’s not by choice, that’s for sure. I got myself deported. That’s pretty much all there is to it.”

  Efrén looked around at the stains and tears on the upholstery. “Why don’t you find a coyote to get you back across?”

  Again, he laughed. “Little man, you don’t just go back. It ain’t that easy.”

  Efrén studied the side of Lalo’s neck tattoo. “Is your daughter here with you?” Efrén could see the man crinkle his forehead through the rearview mirror.

  “Little man, you sure ask a lot of questions. And how you know I have me a little girl?”

  “Your tattoo,” Efrén said, pointing.

  Lalo laughed. “Look, little man, I do what I can for her. She knows I love her. If I didn’t, I’d have my lady bring her over here. So I could be with her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s simple. I love my girl. Want what’s best for her. Look around. Do you really think this is a place to raise her? Nah, she’s way better off in the US. There, she can make something of herself—be someone. Not like her old man.”

  Efrén went quiet and thought about what he’d said. “I don’t get what makes Tijuana so bad.”

  Lalo finally offered a genuine smile. “This place is limbo, man. A place not quite Mexico, not quite the US. La Tierra de los Olvidados—the Land of the Forgotten. You don’t get a name like that for nothing.”

  Efrén tried to distract himself by reading every billboard he passed. Beer. Clubs. Women. That’s mostly all he saw advertised. But he simply couldn’t get what Lalo had said out of his head. What if he was right? What if crossing over wasn’t really an option? If Lalo couldn’t find a way to be with his own little girl, then what chance did—

  Suddenly, the entire city felt even larger than before. The cars. The people. They were all moving so fast.

  Efrén couldn’t let himself finish the thought. “Lalo. I gotta pee.”

  Lalo cut across the busy lane and pulled beside a zapatería and farmacia. “All right, little man,” he said, pointing up ahead. “You gonna cross Benito Juárez Street and make a right. There’s a McDonald’s right there. Use the restroom, and then go across the marketplace. You’ll find the Arco de la Revolución up ahead. You’ll be safe as long as you stay on this street. Be careful—ponte trucha. Do not go anywhere else and don’t talk to no police. They can be dangerous too. Got it?”

  Efrén nodded. “I got it.” He stepped out of the car and reached for the money. “How much I owe you?”

  Lalo scoffed. “No way, homes. You go find your mom. That’s all the payment I need, all right?”

  “All right, Lalo. Will do.”

  And just like that, Lalo pulled away in what was probably an illegal U-turn. Efrén walked past an empty shoe polish stand and smiled as he set eyes on the two golden arches overlooking the entire street. McDonald’s?

  Suddenly, this place didn’t feel as scary anymore. Maybe Apá was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Efrén patted his shirt, feeling for the hidden satchel underneath. And maybe, finding Amá was going to be a lot easier than he’d thought too.

  Thirteen

  Peeking out from behind the McDonald’s was the white Tijuana arch with a wide-screen TV entangled in the center, like a fly on a spiderweb, playing commercials. ¡EL ARCO! This is the one he’d been looking for. Efrén thought it looked like the top half of a Ferris wheel—the kind the church sets up in their parking lot once a year—only this one didn’t have any baskets to ride on.

  Finally. He was so close to Amá he could feel it.

  Everywhere he turned, stores—with their front shutters rolled up—were opening for business. However, even with all the zooming cars and street vendors hollering their best offers, the place felt strangely calm, as if the entire block had prepared for a huge block party and all the guests decided not to show up.

  Efrén sidestepped a gray-haired man dressed in a complete mariachi getup, his eyes wide and friendly, his face full of years. The move caused Efrén to bump into the teenager attending to the newspaper stand. The teen, wearing faded jeans and a red tee, snapped harshly at him. “¡Cuidado!”

  “Oh, disculpe,” Efrén said apologetically.

  He couldn’t look like a tourist; he needed to act like he lived there. But blending in was going to be harder than he thought, especially with all the new and interesting things to see. All around him, vendors held up heavy fleece blankets—perfect for cold winter nights—colorful mesh bags used for grocery shopping, lucha libre wrestling masks, a variety of superhero piñatas, and the always popular Mexican sarapes.

  What they were selling made perfect sense. What didn’t was why they were all calling out to him in English. It was true that he was an outsider who didn’t really belong—but how did they know this? Was it something in the way he dressed? The way he walked? Maybe the way he looked at everything with new eyes. He searched the crowd, comparing the sea of brown skin. The range was huge, an entire color swatch of different shades.

  There were so many vendors there, people like Lalo, struggling to find their place in this strange world.

  Just as a sadness began to grow in the pit of his stomach, a pair of kids, a boy and a girl, cut him off. In their hands was a pair of tin flowers made from stripped slits of Coca-Cola cans.

  “Did you guys make these?”

  Unsure o
f his question, the little boy and girl turned toward each other and shrugged. “¿Ustedes lo—?” But Efrén stopped himself mid-sentence as he looked down at their hands. There was no need to ask in Spanish. The answer was as obvious as the dirty Band-Aids at the ends of their fingers. Efrén remembered the pesos Apá had given him. But the number of pesos he had on him wouldn’t be enough to help these kids. Efrén reached into his shirt and pulled out the satchel with the money meant for saving Amá.

  From the wad of money, he peeled away a pair of twenty-dollar bills and handed them to the kids. It was the right thing to do. Efrén knew Amá would have done the exact same thing if she were there now.

  But that didn’t make what he’d done any safer. Efrén immediately tucked the satchel back under his shirt and looked around for any wandering eyes that might have seen him. Sure enough, he spotted two women staring at him, whispering something to each other.

  What had he done?

  Before giving either kid a chance to thank him, Efrén hurried through the marketplace as quickly as he could. But with each step he took, a little voice at the back of his mind warned him.

  As Efrén made his way out of the marketplace, he thought about how lucky he was to have been raised on the other side of the border. He remembered all the times he’d secretly wished he were one of the rich kids that lived in the Floral Park neighborhood around his school, the times he wished he might have his own room, own TV, own bed.

  None of those things mattered to him anymore. All he wanted was his family at home, in their tiny studio apartment, together.

  Amá and Apá didn’t like to talk too much about why they left their homes so long ago. “For a better life,” seemed to be their only answer. Only now, Efrén was beginning to understand what they’d left behind.

  Just as Efrén hurried past the last stand, something caught his eye. A few feet away stood the ruins of an aqueduct, the arch barely standing. It was the same Roman like architecture he’d read about in his social studies books.

  Wait. Which of the two arches was he supposed to follow?

  He looked over at the giant silver landmark above, but the street under it appeared to end.

  The aqueduct arch led to a colorful street, where he could see a hotel sign up ahead.

  That has to be the one. The Taco Loco had to be nearby.

  Efrén followed the aqueduct arches down the most colorful street he’d ever seen. It was as if each building had somehow been painted in a different fruit flavor. To his left and toward the bottom of a giant lemon-colored wall stood the opening to a tiny shop. Efrén skipped over many of the words on the homemade sign, finding comfort in familiar ones like dulces, jugos, and paletas—all the delicious snacks he’d find for sale in Don Tapatío’s food truck back home.

  To his right stood Hotel Santa Cecilia, painted in the color of the watermelon agua fresca Amá occasionally made in the summertime. This thought made Efrén feel better about where Amá had landed. He pictured her in the marketplace, making friends with the vendors like she did around the neighborhood at home.

  That all changed, however, once he passed the lime colored Río Verde bar. With every step Efrén took, the bright fruit flavor colors on each building grew darker, as if coated by a layer of dirt and ash. He paused, noticing the woman standing at the curb, watching him. His eyes moved to the men across the street watching too. He quickened his pace until he reached the end of the block.

  There, he looked over his shoulder. The men were close behind him and coming closer. Apá’s warning echoed in his mind and panic set in.

  Back in his neighborhood, he knew exactly which fences to climb, which apartments to run to, and which alleyways to avoid. Here, the dangers were new. He’d heard stories of people being picked up off the streets and never heard from again. He’d also heard about drug cartels and corruption.

  He scanned the street, catching a glimpse of a papaya-colored building. The Taco Loco? Hoping for exactly that, he broke into a full sprint. This time around, he didn’t bother to apologize to anyone he bumped into along the way. And still, the people he slammed into acted as if witnessing a panic-stricken kid running through the streets was simply an everyday occurrence.

  Stopping at an Alto sign, he coughed and heaved with his hands resting over his knees. The only other street available looked even worse than the one he found himself in. Again, he looked over his shoulder. The men chasing him stopped as well, breaking into menacing smiles as if they knew something he did not.

  “Hey, little man!” a voice called out.

  He felt a surge of relief when he saw the familiar taxi skid over to where he was.

  “Get in!” shouted Lalo, reaching behind him to swing the back door open.

  Efrén turned to look back at the men who had been following him. They weren’t smiling anymore. He jumped into the car, bumping the back of his head as the car’s acceleration flung his body across the back seat.

  “Whoa, little man. What are you doing away from the plaza? This is definitely not the place for a kid like you.”

  “I was looking for the Loco Tacos . . . to see my mom.”

  “If you mean el Taco Loco, it’s about half a block from the marketplace.” He pointed in the other direction. “That way.”

  Efrén rubbed his temples before looking down at his watch. It was just ten past noon. “Can you take me there now? My mom’s gotta be there waiting for me.”

  “Nah, man. No can do. Those guys are dangerous. In ways you can’t imagine. We better hang low for a bit. Trust me. If your mom is waiting for you, she won’t go anywhere.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry. You’d be putting both our lives in danger, not to mention your mother’s.”

  Efrén didn’t like the sound of that. “Well, what do I do in the meantime?”

  “You can join me for lunch. That okay with you?”

  Efrén’s mind raced. He knew better than to talk to strangers. But what choice did he have? Like it or not, Lalo was his best bet right now. Besides, there was something about Lalo that made Efrén trust him.

  Tijuana was different than Efrén had imagined. He stared out the window, marveling at the scraps of sheet metal used to cover what in some cases appeared to be walls of cardboard. Those homes that were lucky enough to include plywood and cinder blocks looked to have been built on top of each other.

  “Lalo, why are the homes in the hills so . . .”

  “Ghetto?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “This is the land no one wants. On this side of the border, the rich folk here all live on flat land.”

  Efrén’s eyes roamed. This place was nothing like home.

  Lalo’s place wasn’t much different from the rest of the neighborhood. Just a tiny room barely large enough to fit one twin mattress, one rickety bookshelf, and a propane burner to cook.

  “I know it ain’t much, but I mostly just sleep here. Besides, the less money I spend here, the more I can send my little girl.” Lalo turned and pointed at a photo resting over a milk crate beside his bed. His daughter was about the same age as Max and Mía, but she had light, wavy hair and hazel eyes.

  “She’s adorable.”

  “It’s probably my favorite. Anyway, little man, make yourself at home.”

  “You mind if I use your restroom?”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, my stomach acts up when I get nervous.”

  “Well, you good now, bro. It’s just outside, to the right. If the door’s closed, don’t go in. One of the neighbors may be using it.”

  Efrén went out through the back door. The outside area wasn’t much better.

  Over to the side was the outhouse. He stepped inside and slid shut the plank of wood that doubled as a door. He looked down at the bucket of water stored beside the toilet, vowing to never complain about having to wait his turn at home again.

  He layered the seat in toilet paper. When he was done, he picked up the bucket (he’d learned about this trick fr
om Apá once when the water to their apartment was shut off) and emptied it into the bowl. Somehow, the toilet flushed.

  Efrén refilled the bucket and washed his hands with the nearby hose, then hurried back inside where Lalo had prepared a set of instant ramen soups.

  “Bro, you like Maruchan?”

  “Do you have any Tapatío?”

  Lalo pointed to a bottle beside the bunny ear TV antenna. “Come on now. What kind of a homie doesn’t have Tapatío in his crib?”

  Efrén smiled and ate half-heartedly.

  “Hey, little man. Don’t worry. I gots you. How ’bout we go down to el Muro ’til things cool down.”

  Efrén checked his watch. “My dad’s kind of waiting for me across the border.”

  “I know you wanna get back, but waiting around here isn’t gonna get you there any faster. Come on.”

  “All right,” he said, slurping the last of the noodles.

  Efrén followed Lalo back outside and waited for him to unlock the back door of the taxi.

  “Whatcha doing?” Lalo asked, sticking his head out the driver seat. “We’re bros now. You can sit up front from now on.”

  Efrén dashed across to the passenger side and slid back into his seat, cool like Lalo did. “So what’s this Moro you’re taking me to?” he asked.

  Lalo laughed. “The Muro is the iron wall that separates us from the US side. It ends where the ocean waves begin to form.”

  “Beaches? I’ve never heard of any beaches in TJ.”

  Lalo pointed up ahead as he made a turn. “See there. That’s the Pacific. Same water on both sides of the wall.”

  Efrén leaned forward for a better look. “Looks kind of like the beaches at home.”

  “Yup.” Lalo brushed the tip of his nose. “Sometimes I come around here, buy myself a drink, and stare out into the ocean, thinking about my little girl. There’s usually a parent or two running around with their kids. I gotta admit”—his voice broke a tiny bit—“it still hurts. Makes me feel robbed.”

  Efrén glanced over at him. “I’m sorry.”

  He scoffed. “At least I’ve got my memories to keep me company. Memories of me rocking her in my arms back and forth, of me making up baby rap songs about us.” Lalo’s jaw tightened. “You know what I miss most,” he continued, while gazing out at the sea. “It’s the way she used to look up at me . . . like she knew who I was. She didn’t see a high school dropout, didn’t see the tats on my arms or back. She just accepted me—unconditional love, bro. Anyway, my little Abby knew that I loved her and trusted that I would do anything and everything to protect her. Then she’d shut her eyes and be out for like three hours.”