Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  16

  A single beam of sunlight arched across the interior of a one-room apartment several hours north of Mexico City.

  Two men occupied this space today. One was rinsing a razor in a bowl of water. The other was seated, blindfolded, his hands bound behind his back.

  El Matacerdos slowly shaved the face of the man tied in the chair. He carefully worked his way around the throat and chin, below the nose, despite the heavy breathing of the blindfolded man. El Matacerdos knew by now that his captive would not attempt to talk, to yell out, once having the duct tape removed from his mouth. They had been over this several times the past two weeks.

  “I am not your judge, I am not your confessor,” El Matacerdos said the first night after he was required to beat the man into silence. It only took three more days for the hostage to understand that it was no use to plead, beg, or scream. El Matacerdos was not a man you could bargain with.

  El Matacerdos had orders and they came from his cell phone. Only one person had the number. The highest member of the Cartel. This was the voice of the Cartel’s angel of death.

  He did not create the script but merely played his role as it was passed down to him. His phone would ring, he would listen, he would confirm, and he would execute. Whatever the order. His current assignment consisted of sitting in this room with the hostage. Sometimes he was told to remove a piece . . . a finger, a toe. Other times it was simply a beating. The last call was an hour ago. It was to make the man presentable.

  El Matacerdos had washed the hostage and was now finishing up the shave. The swelling in the man’s face was subsiding, though the coloring would take much longer to heal. The shaving now complete, El Matacerdos reapplied the tape to the man’s mouth.

  The chore done, he sat down in front of the television. The images rolled by, but he might as well have been watching static, as none of it registered in his consciousness. He did not daydream, he merely existed. Robotic. Lost in his own world of vast open space.

  The streak of sunlight moved across the room as time passed.

  The prisoner in the chair began to cough, the air trapped in his throat, pushing against the tape. El Matacerdos stood, walked over, removed the tape, and held a glass of water to the man’s lips. The man drank at it doglike, but was able to swallow a few ounces and subside his spasm. The tape went back on.

  The motes danced in the sunlight.

  The cell phone rang.

  Muffled words through an earpiece.

  “Yes,” El Matacerdos replied.

  He put the phone in his pocket and stepped back behind the man in the chair. From his waistband he pulled out his 9mm, aimed, and shot the prisoner in the back of the head. The hostage slumped down as his lifeblood flowed from his head onto the floor.

  El Matacerdos set the pistol on a table as he gathered up his things and stuffed them into a duffel bag. He washed his hands in the sink, turned off the TV, and left the room. As he walked down the hall toward the stairwell, a door cracked open and an old woman’s eye appeared. He looked at her and she slammed the door. He made his way down the stairs, out to the parking lot, and got into his car.

  As he drove away, his eyes grew heavy focusing on the stretch of road before him. He would drive north, closer to where his soul was, and wait for the next set of orders to be given to him. But for now he was again his own man, and his thoughts went blank as he lost himself in a song on the radio.

  17

  Ed stood in front of his bathroom mirror. The bruising on the right side of his face was starting to purple where he had been punched. On his neck he could feel the abrasion from the knife blade that had been pressed against his throat. The whole timeline of the events that he had experienced blurred together. In the past forty-eight hours, he had received a call from a stranger in New Mexico with a cryptic message about his son, was contacted by a federal officer about a drug ring that Tyler was caught up with, as well as being jumped in his shop by two thugs looking for the same answers that Agent Lomas was seeking.

  How had life flipped upside down in so short a time?

  Ed soaked a towel in cold water, pressed it against his temple, and held it there. He had never taken a shot like this before. Part of him felt a little tougher having endured it, like he had earned something by the physical assault and walked away. His nerves were rattled, but it also served to coalesce his determination to go south.

  He walked to the overturned bookcase in his bedroom and from the pile of books on the floor pulled out an old road atlas that hadn’t been used since, well, since how long? Since the trip to Denver. The trip that the stranger had mentioned in the phone call.

  He carried the atlas into the kitchen and laid it on the table. As if by design, it opened on Colorado and there before him, marked in a black pen, was the history of the trip that he and Tyler had taken after his wife left for California. Looking for a way to console the boy over the reality of being abandoned, and also wanting to escape the house that all of a sudden felt hollow, the two had set off on a road trip west to an amusement park. It was the first time that father and son had ever really done anything on their own. Come to think of it, Ed thought, it might have been the only time.

  He flipped the pages over to New Mexico and, with his finger, traced the southern border of the picture until he found the border town of Nuevo Negaldo. It appeared to be a couple hours west of El Paso with no major highway going directly to it. Just what appeared to be county roads. There was nothing around it, just some topographic lines of hills, or valleys or mountains, Ed didn’t know which.

  Going back and forth, he figured out the route he would need to take to get there, and guessed at how long. Twelve hours? Maybe longer?

  With a pen he charted a course on the map, the dark line terminating at the small dot on the Mexico border. He pulled out the scrap of paper he’d slid into his pocket and glanced at it.

  Plaza Motel

  La Casa de Irma

  Ask for Ibanez

  Ed went to his bedroom closet, found an old duffel bag, and put some clothes in it. He set it at the foot of his bed and lay down, the pain in his head resurfacing with the sudden burst of activity.

  Was he actually going to go?

  His life went on without his son just fine. In fact, he found that he hardly ever thought of where he might be, the same as he never thought where his ex-wife had ended up. He had just . . . moved on. Done his own thing. Let people go their way while he went his. Sometimes an acquaintance would ask about Tyler, and he would give a vague answer, and at that point feel a twinge of something in his soul that bordered on guilt of not knowing where in the world his son was, but it would pass just as easily as a light breeze on a calm day.

  But now it was as if he was forced back into considering his progeny.

  And what would he find there? And what, if anything, could his getting involved do to sort out this mess which seemed as violent and corrupt as his imagination could fathom?

  All these thoughts swirled in his head and were ultimately repelled by the growing conviction that he just had to go. He could call Agent Lomas, but again, his gut, which had always served him well, hinted that that was not the right course of action.

  No, tomorrow morning he would go at least to the border. He would go see this Ibanez at La Casa de Irma.

  He would allow himself at least a look into the mystery before turning his back on Tyler again.

  18

  Your father.”

  Those words, no matter how old the man, will always cause a son’s heart to pause.

  Tyler remained on his cot in the cell below the church. He slept, woke and vomited, passed out, woke again, tried to stand, fell back down, and repeated the process over and over. His wound felt like lead, his stomach was raw from the antibiotics, his body was restless from lying prone, his head ached from lack of calories.

  But what brought the most pain to his mind were those words.

  “Your father.”

  This sick m
an’s tomb he was in felt like a magnified version of the principal’s office, the sheriff’s cruiser, the holding cell at the local jail. His whole life flashed before him like a looped script where he was waiting for his father to show up. And that waiting would grind the nerves of his body until he saw his dad and the disappointment and coldness he brought with him.

  His dad had never done much of anything when he arrived, so it was irrational to worry. Perhaps it is written in a boy’s biology to fear the wrath of his father. The anticipation of its arrival far exceeding the action meted out.

  Tyler’s dad wasn’t much for words.

  He wasn’t much for anything.

  When his mom had left, his dad had pretty much shut down. He provided the mechanical duties of home life—food, shelter, clothing. When it came to emotions, communication, that was all but lost.

  Why, then, when the priest said that his father was being contacted, did it make his heart drop?

  It didn’t make sense.

  After all these years not hearing from him, what made him flush with anxiety, Tyler realized, was knowing that he wouldn’t show up. That he was alone in the world, and as Felipe intimated, there wasn’t anybody else in the world who would vouch for him. Who would come to his aid.

  Tyler was scared.

  And what he was scared of was finding out that in this, his most desperate hour, the most desperate he had ever been in, his father wouldn’t show up.

  That was his fear.

  That was his pain.

  19

  Ed was up and on the road by seven the next morning.

  His eye still felt two sizes too big and the bruising on his face had gotten more pronounced overnight, but he downed several aspirin with his morning coffee. He had grabbed his things, locked up the disheveled house, and headed out.

  Kansas blurred into Oklahoma and in turn melted into Texas. The high prairie grass extended in every direction with the occasional black smudge of a cattle herd breaking the monotony. The air was crisp and the sky clear. It would be a rather unexciting trip as far as driving was concerned, which was fine with Ed, as his mind was bending to the point of breaking, thinking about what he was driving toward.

  Fifty years down in his life and all had been quiet compared to the past two days. His life wasn’t a novel. It was just his, and all of a sudden he had been pushed into a story line that seemed as far from his life as any movie that might have been showing in town.

  The radio passed the time for most of the morning, but soon the sounds became more of an irritant on his ever-quickening nerves. He shut it off and let his own thoughts fill the gap.

  Tyler.

  He remembered the day his son was born like it had happened yesterday. Sitting in the delivery room, his hands shaking as they lifted the boy over the partition into his wife’s arms. He was in awe and had no words to express the feeling that was going through his body. That moment in time where all things are possible, a new life with no past and an unwritten future. It was like pulling a new book off the shelf and cracking the spine for the first time, not knowing where the tale will take you. But somewhere along the path, the romance turned to tragedy and the tome was placed back on the shelf, the reader no longer interested in how the tale would end.

  He drove on.

  As he went south, the world seemed to stretch out, the trees along the road grew bush-like, and the blue sky unfolded in an endless horizon.

  He had worked, his wife raised Tyler—until she got tired of being a simple utility in other people’s lives and took off for glory. Maybe he wouldn’t have tried to stop her, knowing that she had checked out long before the day she left. Afterward, he simply worked more that day and arrived home late, Tyler in front of the TV, and cold cuts for dinner. The two didn’t talk much about it, but he did remember hearing his son crying himself to sleep over the next couple of months.

  Ed didn’t know what a child needed. He had convinced himself he didn’t have a clue.

  He drove on, the next mile looking like the fifty before.

  The world was flat, as if his thoughts would roll forever on a continuous horizontal plane.

  He should have gone into Tyler’s room. Should have taken his boy up in his arms and let him bury his tears in his chest. That’s what he should have done. But he hadn’t. He had simply sat in the living room, the TV glow illuminating the dark house, the silent cries of a wounded boy filtering down the stairs. Ed didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know what to do and so he did nothing in the hopes that some solution would materialize to take away the boy’s pain.

  But nothing ever had.

  20

  Camilla made her way through the kitchen, cleaning up the mess from the day before at the same time that she was getting herself ready and presentable. She did her hair, a bit of makeup, dressed, ate, and started packing her bag. The curiosity and anxiety of the past two days had lost their edge. The phone call to the stranger two days ago was followed by a completely uneventful yesterday.

  When she rolled in just before midnight, Roberto was not at home.

  She was tired and went straight to bed. At one point in the middle of the night, she heard him come in and crash in his own room.

  As she finished up her morning routine and prepared to leave for work, she opened up Roberto’s door and looked inside. He lay on his side, facing the wall, a sheet half covering his body. He had slept in his clothes, his shoes still on his feet.

  She walked over quietly to him and bent down to kiss his head.

  The movement of her breath or the sounds of her steps woke him and Roberto darted up, his body pushing itself into the wall like a wild animal cornered by a predator. His right arm was outstretched and his gun was pointed right at her. In his eyes was panic, fear, sleep. Camilla screamed and fell to the floor.

  “Roberto! Roberto! It’s me!” she yelled.

  Her son’s gaze darted across the room, the gun chasing ghosts that raced before his open eyes. His breath was shallow and rapid and he slowly came back to reality.

  “Mama?”

  “It’s me, Roberto!”

  Roberto lowered the gun and sank back down on the bed. Camilla raised her head, tears in the corners of her eyes. He looked at her, threw the pistol down, stepped off the bed, and tried to comfort her.

  She muffled her cries in her throat. She knew who he was when she wasn’t looking, but the sight of her boy as a pistolero crushed her.

  “Mama . . . Mama, I’m sorry. You hear me? I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing her.

  Camilla slowly composed herself. “What is going on, Roberto? What is happening?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me nothing,” she said, standing and pushing him away. Her fear morphed into anger with the speed that only a mother possesses. She wiped her eyes and stared at her son still kneeling on the floor in front of her. “Why do you have that gun? In my house? Tell me! What is going on.”

  “Nothing, Mama. Just go to work. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine, Roberto. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  He didn’t say anything but stood, moved the sheets until he found the gun, and put it in his waistband. He turned and looked at her.

  “Who was that man you had me call?”

  He sat on the bed and motioned for her to do the same. He told the story, leaving out the parts about himself that would solidify her thoughts about his descent into violence.

  “He is the one from El Paso? The one you said helped you out in jail?”

  “Yes.”

  Camilla let out a long breath. “And he’s with Felipe now?”

  “Yes.”

  Another breath. She stood, gathered up her things, and straightened herself. “And what if he doesn’t come, Tyler’s father? What happens to him then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are they going to come after you? Do they know it was you who hid him with Felipe?”

  Roberto looked at her and said not
hing but simply walked past her and into the kitchen. There was a knock on the front door and both mother and son froze still.

  “Roberto! Are you in there?”

  It was Miguel.

  Roberto went to the door and opened it. The sunshine flooded the house and a large shadow in the shape of Miguel’s massive frame fell on Camilla.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Miguel said.

  Roberto turned, gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. “Go to work, Mama. Don’t worry about me. Everything is going to be fine. There is nothing for you to worry about.”

  She watched him go. But the worry he told her not to suffer poured into her heart, and she sent up a silent prayer in the empty house.

  21

  Remember Denver.”

  At the end of one summer, the year that his wife had left, Edward and Tyler had loaded up the truck and driven to Denver. He had forgotten about that trip until the phone call.

  The amusement park was a distraction. Thrill rides giving the pair five-minute reprieves from the repressed feelings they were both keeping bottled up. Late that night, as the park was closing, they had gotten separated. The crowds started thinning out until the only people left were the maintenance and security crews walking between the rides. Ed could not find his son.

  Panic started welling up inside of him as he went from attraction to attraction, asking if anyone had seen his boy, but no one had. Ed could hear Tyler’s name being broadcast on the walkie-talkies as he ran, yelling out in his own voice. Twenty minutes later, he saw Tyler sitting on a bench next to a security guard. He ran to him, scooped him up, and held him tight.

  Ed found that he was crying, and so was Tyler.

  They left the park without saying much, but with a common understanding that they would not abandon each other as his wife had done.

  Unfortunately, emotions spurred by desperation don’t linger long after the adrenaline subsides. Thinking now of the moment, that twenty minutes of panic, Ed could recall the feeling of that night. He realized he hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.