“About the same thing I told you.”
“Yeah.”
“Your father’s number is on my desk in my office. You might as well use the phone in there.”
I started toward the house, wondering what I was going to say to my father, and then I remembered Hinojosa’s cell phone. “Can I use your computer? I need to send an e-mail.”
“Yeah, sure. You’ll need my password. GERTRUDE. All caps.”
“Of course.”
Why wouldn’t Gustaf’s password be the name of the one person he loved and missed the most?
It was crazy, but there, sitting at Gustaf’s cluttered desk, I actually had the urge to call Perla Rubi. It was crazy to want to call her because I knew that, accidentally or on purpose, she told her father where Sara and I would be crossing into the United States. She was the only person other than Brother Patricio or my mother who knew the location. She knew because I told her. And I told her because I trusted her and because I … loved her. It felt very strange to put that word in the past tense.
Gustaf had written down my father’s number on a white napkin. I recognized it as my father’s cell phone number from the times he called my mother and Sara. He even tried calling me directly a few times, but I just let it ring and then erased whatever message he had left, without listening to it.
“You have to admit that he never totally abandoned you,” Sara used to say to me. “He writes you, he tries to call you, he sends you money.”
I exhaled. I picked up the receiver, held it against my ear and mouth, and then put it down again. Besides not calling my father, I had also been avoiding contacting Yoya, the hacker in the United States who would help us open Hinojosa’s phone. There was something evil and scary about that cell phone and everything connected to it that made me want to stay as far away from it as possible. But I could no longer put off the promise I’d made to Sara. Quickly, I turned on Gustaf’s computer. It was an old desktop with an oversize screen. It looked as if the Internet connection was through a cable outlet on the wall beside the desk. I typed in the password and then maneuvered my way to Gmail, where I had an account. I had Yoya’s address memorized. I took a deep breath, then panicked. What was Sara’s friend’s name. The IT colleague at El Sol who told her to call Yoya about Hinojosa’s phone? Ernesto. But what was Ernesto’s last name? I tried to regain some kind of calmness. I didn’t need the last name. Ernesto would have told Yoya about Hinojosa’s cell phone. Just keep the message short and to the point, I told myself.
Hello. I am Emiliano Zapata from Ciudad Juárez. Sara Zapata is my sister. She worked with Ernesto (the Jacquero) at El Sol. Ernesto told us to get in touch with you when we got to the U.S. Ernesto said we should give the phone to you. Can you help us? Can you give me an address where we can send you the phone?
I read the message one more time. I wasn’t sure whether it was can or will you help us? I didn’t know whether I should say more about the cell phone, like the kind of information it was likely to contain and also that people had already tried to kill us for it. But those were things I could tell Yoya later, if she had questions. After reading it a few more times, I added the following line:
Can you respond right away if you are there? It’s urgent.
Then I hit SEND.
* * *
I sat there staring at my list of e-mails. For a moment I was tempted to read the last e-mail I had received from Perla Rubi, but I stopped myself when I saw that I had a new e-mail from my best friend, Paco.
Estela Gómez from the State Police told us not to try to communicate with you, but I’m going to do it just this once. I know you man. I know you’re probably going to try to come back from wherever you are. Don’t do it! You’ll be killed if you do!!! Bad people have been asking everyone around here about you and Sara. There’s a black car on your block with some nasty dudes inside just waiting to see if someone shows up. Please listen to me for once. You’re a dead vato if you return.
Okay man, this is my last communication. It’s better if you don’t try to get in touch with anyone here.
Tu carnal,
Paco
I had never read anything from Paco that did not contain a single attempt at his silly humor. I could only imagine how afraid he was to write what he did, and I felt responsible for what I was putting him through. Paco knew me better than anyone other than maybe Sara. He was right that there was a part of me that was still hoping to return to Mexico. When Gustaf talked about knowing where you belonged, it was my run-down house in Juárez that immediately came to mind.
I was daydreaming about my room back home, the posters of Mexican fútbol players on the walls, when the phone rang. I don’t know why, but I was certain that the phone call was for me. It was probably my father again. I let it ring one more time. What was my decision? Chicago or no Chicago? Going back home was out of the question. Give that dream up along with all the other dreams you’ve had to give up, I told myself.
“Hello,” I said, expecting to hear my father’s voice for the first time in five years.
“Emiliano?”
I was momentarily stunned by the sound of a young woman’s voice.
“Emiliano!” This time the voice was like a sharp slap, waking me up.
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
“This is Yoya. You just e-mailed me.”
“How did you get this phone number?”
“That’s what I do, and I’m very good at it. Now, you said Ernesto gave you my e-mail address and told you to call me. What’s this about?”
“You haven’t talked to Ernesto?”
“Not in a long time. But he’s a friend, so I’m listening.”
“I have the cell phone that belongs to a very bad man in Mexico. His name is Leopoldo Hinojosa. He was involved in kidnapping young women and using them as slaves. Ernesto told my sister to contact you when we were in the United States so that we could give you the phone. That you would know how to open it and use the information in it. It must contain important information. His men almost killed us trying to get the phone back. I’m sure they’re still looking for it.”
There was silence that lasted so long that I thought Yoya had hung up.
“Hello. Hello.”
“I’m still here. I’m thinking.”
“If you give me an address, I will send you the phone as soon as I can.”
“No, that won’t work. I see that you’re in Sanderson, Texas, at the home of Gustaf Larsson. Is your sister with you?”
“No. She sought asylum. She’s in a detention center at Fort Stockton.”
“All right. Emiliano, I need to do some research now. I’ll try to find out if there is any chatter on the web about you and your sister. A couple of things. Don’t ever e-mail me again. It’s dangerous to me and to you. Do you have caller ID on the landline phone you are using?”
“What?”
“Can you see my telephone number on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, write it down as soon as we hang up and use that number to call me, but only from a burner phone. You know what a burner phone is?”
“Yes. One with prepaid minutes.”
“You got it. Buy a cheap one so you can throw it away after a few calls. Are you going to be at this location for a while?”
My mind froze. Was I going to be with Gustaf Larsson for a while?
“Emiliano?”
“I’m not sure.”
“If you have the option to go to a metropolitan area, that would be better. We have more resources and can work better with you in a big city.”
I had to decide. Now.
“I can go to Chicago with my father.”
“That’s good. We’ll get this done in Chicago. And if people are after you, you’ll be safer in a big city like Chicago. Your sister should be safe in that detention center. Call me tonight or tomorrow. Day or night, it doesn’t matter. I’ll answer. But remember, burner phone only. Bye.”
I sat there with the
phone against my ear for a few moments. What had just happened? When Yoya asked me if I was staying with Mr. Larsson for a while, what came to my mind was Sara’s words out in the desert when I was thinking of going back to Mexico: You can’t let all that I’ve done be lost. And then when Yoya said that a big city would be better, it was clear to me that I must go to Chicago. Because all that Sara had done to save the missing girls, all that she had sacrificed, all that she was going through at the detention facility, all that could not be lost.
Brother Patricio claimed that we all had an invisible moral compass inside of us that pointed us in the right direction if we but let it. I had been struggling with whether to go to Chicago for days, but it seemed that, when I finally let it, my invisible compass pointed north. Yoya saying that I would be harder to find and that she could help me better in Chicago confirmed that it was the right thing to do.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number that Gustaf had written on the small piece of paper.
“This is Emiliano,” I said, when I heard the voice that, despite the years, I recognized as my father’s.
“Oh, thank goodness, son. I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
I had no words. Not one word came to me.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come before.” My father spoke quickly, as if trying to fill the awkwardness of my silence. “I had to go all the way to Odessa to borrow money for the bond we thought Sara was going to need and then I had to meet with Mr. Morgan, Sara’s lawyer. He’s appealing the decision to deny Sara a bond.”
There was a pause.
“I’m glad Mr. Larsson found you.”
There was warmth and concern in my father’s voice. It was the same voice that used to comfort me when nightmares woke me in the middle of the night.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“You can come pick me up.”
“Good, Emiliano. That’s good. I will be there in an hour.”
“Do you know how to get here?”
“I know how. I got directions from the owner of the motel. Everyone here in Sanderson knows Mr. Larsson. I would have come earlier except Sara insisted I call you first. She thought it was important … to give you a chance to … decide … on your own. So, you want to come to Chicago with me?”
How was I supposed to answer that? Want? Did I want to go to Chicago with my father? Yes and no. I wasn’t even sure that want was the right word. Then I remembered Yoya’s words: We’ll get this done in Chicago. And if people are after you, you’ll be safer in a big city like Chicago.
“Come anytime. I’ll be here.”
I hung up. I was totally drained. It felt like after one of my soccer matches when every ounce of effort had been given to the game. When that happened, when I knew I had given everything I had, it almost didn’t matter if we lost.
But in this game, if I lost, I would be sent back to Mexico, where I would be killed.
The van, a modern-looking vehicle with an aerodynamic roof, went around the driveway in front of the house and stopped in the direction it had just come from. The driver’s door stayed closed and Gustaf walked toward the house. My father was sitting in the driver’s seat, talking into a cell phone. When he saw me, he smiled apologetically and stuck his hand out the window, fingers waving.
I stood by the side of the van, reading:
Able Abe
Commercial and Residential Heating and Cooling
Year Round 24/7 Maintenance and Repair
Below that was a website address and a phone number. On the top right-hand corner of the van, there was a portrait of a robust, smiling man in his sixties.
After a few minutes of standing there, I started to walk back to the corral. What phone call could be more important than greeting the son you left behind five years ago?
“Emiliano!”
I stopped and turned, slowly. My father had filled out, but he was still the same handsome man. There were patches of white on his temples, which made him look successful. With the cell phone still in one hand, and before I could react, he embraced me. “God almighty, I’m so glad you’re safe.” I let myself be hugged, arms limply by my sides. The body pressed against me had the same strength that I remembered, but it was also different, softer somehow.
When he finally let go of me, I muttered, “Hola.”
“Hola, hijo!” He held me by the shoulders so he could get a better look. “Dios mío. You grew up on me. You’re a man now.”
“Un poco,” I said, loosening myself from his grip.
“Y yo, más viejo.” My father touched the white hair on his temples. I did not return his smile. He went on. “But listen, from now on, only English, okay?”
I stared at him for a few seconds. Was I going to let him tell me what to do? Could he not see that I was no longer twelve years old? I exhaled, softly. “Okay. English, then.”
“Perfect. Because the better your English, the better you will do. You know?” My father looked at his cell phone briefly as if realizing that it was still in his hand. He stuck it in his pants’ right pocket and then looked away, as if he wanted to ask a question but was afraid of the answer. “So? You ready?”
I turned to the horse, who whinnied and stomped the ground. The horse was telling me not to go; that’s how I interpreted his movements.
“I’ll go get my backpack,” I said without looking at my father.
My father rushed to my side and put his arm around my shoulders. “I know this is hard for you, but it’s going to be all right.”
Just then then the muffled sound of “La Bamba” came from my father’s cell phone. He made an expression as if to say that it was a call he had to take and dug the phone out of his pocket.
The old, green canvas backpack was the same school backpack Gustaf’s son had used all through high school. In it were a pair of pants, a cowboy shirt, a few pieces of underwear that had belonged to Gutierrez, the belt with a bucking-horse buckle that Gustaf insisted I take, a toothbrush, and at the very bottom, the metallic bag with Hinojosa’s cell phone. I reached down and felt the phone through the bag. How could something that weighed so little contain so much evil? I had carried heavy backpacks in my desert hikes with the Jiparis, but I suspected that none would be heavier than the one I was about to carry now.
Gustaf came out of the kitchen, holding two brown mugs of coffee. He nodded when he saw the backpack in my hand as if to let me know that it was the right thing to do, hard as it was. We walked out of the house side by side.
“Ahh, Mr. Larsson, so good to finally meet you! I’m Bob, Emiliano’s father.”
Bob? Yes, when I looked at him again, my father seemed more a Bob than a Roberto. He was stashing his cell phone in the pocket of his neatly pressed blue pants and stretching his free hand all at once. “I want to thank you so much for what you did for Emiliano. You saved his life!”
“Naah, the horse did that.”
“What is it with the horse?” My father looked at me quickly and then back at Gustaf.
“It’s a long story. Emiliano here can fill you in.” Gustaf winked at me.
“Ahh.”
A strange look appeared on my father’s face. As if he envied the closeness that had developed in the past ten days between Gustaf and me.
“I can put this in one of those plastic cups. I think there’s some in the kitchen,” Gustaf said, still holding out the brown mug.
“No, no. Don’t bother. I’ll drink it quick,” my father said, reaching for the mug carefully with both hands. “Emiliano, I don’t know if you know, but all the roads going north have Border Patrol checkpoints. I needed to come up with a way to get you past them.” He sipped from the brown mug and then placed it on the front porch. He opened the back doors of the van and climbed inside. Gustaf and I moved closer and peered. The van was filled with pieces of air conditioners: belts, corrugated filters, propeller-looking blades, rolls of electrical wire, tubes of soft aluminum. My father pushed his way to the front, moved two large, hea
vy boxes that apparently contained air-conditioner units, and opened the hatch to a big metal box at the front of the van. “This is for tools, but Emiliano can fit in here if he lies sideways and bends his knees a little. There’s ventilation. I had one of our boys in the shop ride in it for a couple of blocks to make sure no exhaust went in.” He waited for us to respond, but I didn’t know what to say and, apparently, neither did Gustaf. Finally, my father said, “Emiliano, you want to try?”
I looked at my father with disbelief. Did he really think that was going to work? For a moment there, I thought maybe he was trying to send me back to Mexico. I wouldn’t have minded so much except that now I had to get to Chicago and call Yoya, and there was also the small matter of me getting killed if I returned to Mexico.
“Won’t the Border Patrol inspect the back of the van?” I asked. “I would. And that toolbox there would be the first place I’d look.”
“They have to go through all the stuff.” My father pointed at the clutter of air-conditioner parts. “And the two big boxes here will cover the handle to the toolbox.”
I didn’t know how to respond. If I were a Border Patrol agent, I’d make my way through the van and move the boxes. “A heating and cooling van with Illinois license plates? I don’t know. That would make me suspicious.” I looked at Gustaf to see if he agreed with me, but he only scratched his chin and smiled. Clearly, he thought my father’s scheme would not work. But this was something I had to work out with my father, adult to adult.
My father closed the hatch to the “secret” compartment and bounded out of the van. “I thought of that too!” he said, beaming. He led me and Gustaf to the side of the van and pointed to a spot just below the phone number. “All our other vans have the company’s address in Aurora, but I took it off this one.”
Gustaf and I moved closer and bent to better examine the place where the address used to be. Sure enough, there was a patch of white where the address had been painted over. Gustaf and I looked at each other and I know we were thinking the same thing. The repainting would be the first thing the Border Patrol would notice.
Illegal Page 2
