Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  A mangy dog slept on its side in front of him, didn’t move as Ed stepped over it, uninterested in an American venturing down the street.

  Ed counted down the cross streets until he got to five, and then turned right. He kept his eyes from wandering too much and did his best to walk with purpose. With confidence. As if he belonged there. He felt as if eyes in the shadowed recesses of open doors were tracking his movements.

  He kept walking until he saw, in the narrow corridor of an alleyway, a dilapidated sign over a doorway. Without breaking stride, he crossed the cement roadway, his nerves humming, and stepped inside.

  Too many bad movies had filled Ed’s mind on what to expect as he passed through the door and felt the cool air of shade lap over him. The barkeep was moving boxes in and out of a back room, while two men sat in chairs at the end of the bar. None appeared interested in his sudden appearance. Ed looked around before walking up to the bar, making sure there wasn’t an unseen figure, someone waiting to kick him out into the street for being an American in the wrong place. But despite his overactive nerves, it became apparent to him that he could have robbed the place and no one would have noticed.

  The slow realization of his own lack of importance started to comfort his anxiety. The bartender came back, grunted a sound accentuated in such a manner that Ed took it as a question.

  “Beer, please?”

  The man quickly fetched a bottle and set it down. Ed laid a five-dollar bill on the counter, which the man quickly scooped up and stuffed in his pocket. There would be no change given. Ed wouldn’t know how to ask for it in Spanish anyway.

  He walked over to an empty folding chair and card table near the door of the outer wall and sat down. He was able to gaze through the opening down the alley from which he had come. The sounds from the outside world disappeared—the line of cars moving slowly north, the beggars and window washers working the line for spare change, the yelling drivers who gave up some silver either out of charity or fear—all were muted as he sat in the hollow cool of the cantina.

  He saw a dog in the street slowly rise to its feet, circle around, and then lie back down. At least it wasn’t dead, Ed thought.

  He suddenly felt extremely foolish. He had prepared himself for this short journey meticulously, gone over it again and again in his thoughts. His cell phone, his wallet, his keys, he had left them all in his room in Hurtado. Some loose bills and his passport were all he brought with him, so assured he was that he was going to be robbed, attacked, mugged. But the walk from the border to this shadowed table in a back-alley bar had been as uneventful as any weekend stroll in the park.

  The worst stories are the only stories that climb over the wall. And it was the worst stories that filled Ed’s knowledge of the border. The stories of bodies burned, decapitated heads left in the street, kidnappings, murders. That was all he had heard, and it came as a welcome surprise that he did not have to wade through blood to get to the rendezvous spot Camilla Ibanez had directed him to.

  26

  Ed sat at the corner table until his beer was empty. He went back for another, figuring alcohol was safer than water. He sat with his back against the wall and most of his body in shadow. The tavern was musty, as if the sweat of Pancho Villa still hung in the air after a hard day’s ride.

  Felipe wasn’t showing up.

  Time passed.

  The second beer was nearly gone and the low buzz started filling his head. The knowledge of being an unwelcome guest was eating at his nerves. Being ignored by the three men in the establishment was just as unsettling. Ed could have had a heart attack and died in his chair and no one would bother to look after him for days. That, or a gunman would suddenly step through the door and put a bullet in his head. He didn’t know which would happen, and both seemed a certainty.

  A shadow graced the threshold of the cantina and a small man walked in. He had on a stained fabric overcoat which he wore comfortably even in the oppressive heat. Ed watched the man waddle to the bar, order a drink, and begin to scan the room. When his eyes alighted on Ed, his face softened and he walked over. He sat down and extended his hand.

  “You must be Edward Kazmierski.” His English was clear and only hinted at an accent. “I am Felipe.”

  Ed took his hand and shook it. When the man sat down, his coat opened, revealing for a brief moment a clerical collar around his neck.

  “You’re a priest?” Ed blurted out. The tone was one of surprised relief.

  “Yes, even in this godless place, there is still a need for priests. Maybe now more than ever.”

  “Camilla didn’t mention it.”

  “Camilla is cautious with information.”

  Ed took a sip of his beer and contemplated the man.

  After settling in, Felipe brought his own glass to his lips and set it back down. “So, tell me why you are down here.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me.”

  “No, no, no. I don’t know the why.”

  “Tyler. My son. Camilla called me saying that he was in trouble down here.”

  “Not the who. Why?”

  “I guess to help him.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Not much to tell. I hardly know him myself.” Ed shifted in his seat and stared back at the priest.

  “In this day, my friend, that is not an impossible task.”

  “I kicked him out a long time ago.”

  “Perhaps that was the best thing for him?”

  Ed thought about it. No, it was not the best thing for him, though it seemed so at the time. “What kind of dad does that? It’s starting to eat at me.”

  “Even Peter denied the Son.”

  “Yeah,” Ed said. He hid his reaction behind another sip from the bottle, using the pause to try to remember the story the priest was referring to. “I’ve been denying Tyler for well on six years.”

  “Yes, but the Gospel writers were very generous in only writing about that one night. Now, if they had written about all of Peter’s days, well, perhaps he denied more, and just nobody heard it . . . eh?” The old priest cracked a smile.

  “Perhaps.”

  “So you are here to soothe your conscience?”

  “No.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “To find out what’s going on with Tyler.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I guess . . . help if I can.”

  “Good,” Felipe said with a smile. “That is a noble thing. But now—now you need to ask yourself, are you here to save the memory, or to help the man? If you are here for your boy, then you are chasing at vapor, a mist of the mind. But to be here for the man means putting the memory of the boy to bed, and being willing to rescue that which he has become.”

  Ed took another slow drink. “Are you a priest or a philosopher?”

  Felipe sat back in his chair, smiled, adjusted his collar, took in a deep breath, and started to speak of who he was.

  27

  You remember your son? Maybe when he was little? Yes? Running to you when he had a boo-boo on his knee? That boy is gone. He is not here in Nuevo Negaldo. He is not anywhere but between your ears. In your mind’s eye. Perhaps you think that that memory is still in him, buried somewhere waiting to get out. In that case, you will leave here disappointed. In fact, best to leave now, go back north. Keep him in memory.

  “To rescue that which you love requires sacrifice. I do not know your fate, amigo, but I do know that if you wish to save your son, then a sacrifice must be made. It may be something great that the Lord above has destined for you to lay down, or it may be something small. I do not know. But I do know that a sacrifice must be made. Maybe you will have to sacrifice that memory, those gentle times of his youth, to be able to look at him as the man he has turned out to be, or you may have to sacrifice the man in order to retain the memory of your sweet innocent boy.”

  Ed remained silent as Felipe paused, stretched his back, then continued.

  “You look at me
as if I’m crazy? Maybe so. One cannot live here without being partly crazy. But you and me, we are not so much different. I wrestle with that same sacrifice.

  “I look at my beloved country. You hear about the bloody streets, the barbaric thoughts of men turned loose and brought to fruition on real flesh. But I remember it with that same tainted view as you remember your son. I have my memory of Nuevo Negaldo, the days when children played, when people danced in the streets. When lovers’ vows were proclaimed and celebrated. Now I see the gutter flow with the blood of my neighbors. And yet I still love Negaldo. I love Negaldo because I cannot let go of the memory of what I know it was. But someday a sacrifice must be made. Either I kill the memory of my youth and accept the world as it is before me, or we must kill the Nuevo Negaldo that has emerged in order to honor the memory.”

  The priest sipped on his drink and paused in his soliloquy. Ed wondered how long Felipe had been preparing this sermon. Was it one he recited every week to any parishioner he came across, or was it written solely for him?

  “Or . . . we who wrestle with that will be killed, and the dichotomy . . . will be muted and wiped out from history.”

  Ed looked across the dusty table at the small Mexican priest. “So, are you always this long-winded when you drink?”

  “Yes. Is it so hard for you to imagine a Mexican who can spout grand thoughts and wisdom?” the priest said with a grin as he finished his drink.

  “No, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “And neither did I.”

  Silence again.

  “Camilla said that you could help me.”

  “Yes, I can help you.”

  “Tyler . . . he’s alive?”

  “Yes, very much so,” replied the priest. “Though I do encourage you to think about what I have said. Mexico is not for those with rose-colored glasses. You say that you do not know your son. That may be wise to remember.”

  “He is my son. I won’t leave him down here.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  Felipe stood up, adjusted his coat. “Soon, you will come to Iglesia de Señor de la Misericordia. I’ll have Camilla tell you when. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a couple of days. Your son is recuperating and needs to get his strength back to travel. I also have to prepare the way for you to get him back to America.”

  “Why can’t I just take him back now?”

  “You can’t go through the checkpoint with him. That is another thing you will have to let go of here. You cannot trust anyone. Tyler would not make it near the checkpoint alive. No, we’ll have to find another way. For now, go back and wait for news from Camilla.”

  “What am I to do until then?”

  “Stay in Hurtado . . . relax . . . I don’t know.”

  “But . . . I am to trust you, just like that.”

  “Yes, señor, just like that.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because, amigo, I am a priest,” Felipe replied with a smile and a wink.

  Ed walked out of the cantina after the priest had gotten up and gone to talk with the two men sitting on the opposite wall. He had greeted them like an old friend and quickly sat down, his back to Ed.

  28

  From across the street, Roberto watched the door of the cantina. He had been near the border crossing when he watched Edward pass through. It was painfully obvious that this was the man he had unwittingly put his hopes on. He looked out of place, unsure of himself, and was doing a paltry job of keeping his anxiety just below the skin.

  Roberto followed him at a distance and watched him enter La Terraza. He then leaned against a block wall that provided a little respite from the sun and waited.

  From the opposite direction, he saw his uncle approaching. A car came down the street and passed. His uncle went into the cantina and the street was silent.

  As Roberto waited, a man approached him and begged him for some money. Roberto pushed him away, and the man stumbled back, caught himself, and walked down the road. A block away the man sat down, lowered his hat over his eyes, and appeared to take a nap.

  A half hour passed and the American came out of the bar and started to retrace his steps toward the border crossing. Roberto let him get several yards ahead before he pushed off from the wall and followed.

  The beggar who had been dozing stood when he saw Ed coming. He crossed over and went through the motions of asking for money. Roberto saw the gringo shake his head and wave his hand, then quicken his pace. As Ed moved on, Roberto saw the beggar reach into his boot and pull out what looked like a shiv. The scrap of steel glinted in the sunlight. Roberto ran over, grabbed the man, and threw him against the wall. With one hand he punched his shoulder, with the other he covered the man’s mouth.

  Ed walked on without noticing the commotion behind him.

  Roberto pushed the beggar back toward the cantina, kicking at him to speed the man along. Once the threat was stumbling away, Roberto turned and hurried to catch up to the American.

  Ed was already halfway down Revolución Street when Roberto got to the corner. He watched from this position until Ed was safely in the US customs office. He then breathed a bit easier and headed for home.

  29

  Ed made it back to the wall without incident and headed into the pedestrian customs office, a long glass hallway with a swinging gate halfway in. An agent sat at a podium, his energy sapped by the mundaneness of his task, and waved Ed to hurry up so he could return to his daydream. Another agent walked down the hallway, a dog at his side, its tongue hanging out. The man and dog passed him without care.

  Ed stepped up to the podium and handed over his passport. The agent opened it up and pressed the photo page over a scanner.

  “Are you a US citizen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything to declare?”

  “No.”

  The agent’s eyebrow narrowed as he looked at the screen in front of him. It was subtle, but Ed noticed the movement. The agent appeared to be thinking about what he saw.

  “How long were you in Mexico?”

  “Just about an hour or so.”

  The agent closed the passport and handed it back to Ed, and waved him on.

  Perhaps it was nothing.

  Ed walked the rest of the hallway and was back on US soil. Nothing had really changed in those fifty steps through the border checkpoint. The land was the same, the air smelled the same. The sounds over across the border were muted by the wall, but he could still hear them. But his anxiety diminished with each step as he made his way back to his motel room.

  The customs agent watched as Ed left the office. When he had stepped outside, the agent stood and went to the small office behind the counter. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory. Someone on the other end picked up.

  “It’s me. I think I have something,” the agent said.

  “Go ahead,” the voice said.

  “A name just came through. Same last name as the kid that dropped that load a few weeks back.”

  “Was it him?”

  “Unless the kid is in his forties, no.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Edward. Edward Kazmierski.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Who’s on with you?” the voice said.

  “John and Amos.”

  “They inside?”

  “No, they’re out processing cars.”

  “Keep this to yourself.”

  “Already done.”

  “And Jiménez, we got one coming through at five. Make sure you’re working the line then. A blue Pontiac.”

  “Got it.”

  The line went dead, and Jiménez returned to his seat at the podium, looking through the glass wall at the auto inspection area, at the endless line of those seeking something in the north. Perhaps his keen awareness would line his pockets a bit, and would help his next trip to El Paso be a little more fun than usual.

  30

  Every boy is afraid o
f his father, to some degree or another. A man who says otherwise is a liar. Fear of aggression, fear of disappointment, fear of neglect. Tyler was hiding from the Cartel, had been shot in the back, more than likely sicarios were looking for him, but the thing that was front and center in his thoughts right now was the fear of his old man.

  He lay on the cot waiting for some word from the priest. It had seemed like hours since Felipe had left to meet with his father. He thought it was a fool’s errand. He was aware that his dad had come down to Hurtado, but to cross the border was another thing altogether.

  Eventually, the door to his cell opened and the priest came in, shut the door, and sat down. When Felipe told Tyler that his father had shown up at La Terraza, it was as if his stomach dropped to his feet and the wind vanished from his lungs.

  “He’s here?” Tyler asked.

  “Yes,” said Felipe.

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyler’s dad had never abused him, unless neglect would fall under that category. After his mom took off to California, they pretty much just coexisted in the same general vicinity of each other. His dad would sit in his chair and zone out into his own world. Perhaps he was missing his wife, perhaps he was just a man who had no idea how to raise a kid on his own and thought that providing the necessities of life was all that was required of him.

  In those early years, it was his dad that Tyler missed more than his mom, even though his dad was downstairs in his recliner every night. Eventually, though, the silence became normal, the lack of communication the new reality.

  It was no big shock when Tyler had moved out after high school. He crashed with some friends, the ones who seemed cool at eighteen, but then suddenly become burdens at twenty. He drifted down south, chasing after the next free couch to crash on and the next small job that covered an ever-increasing drug habit. When he got locked up in El Paso, his old man was the only one he had in this world to call, and it was not a surprise that he didn’t get any help there.