Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  Tyler walked over to the truck and, with his good arm, managed to slide into one side of the opening. Only the soles of his shoes could be seen as he shimmied around to try to find a comfortable spot. This was going to be a hard ride, Edward thought to himself.

  Felipe grabbed two backpacks sitting next to the door of the church. He shoved one between Tyler’s exposed feet. He handed the other to Edward. “Good luck, I will say a prayer for you both.”

  “I’m not sure if I should say thanks about all this.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just keep doing. Keep moving.”

  Ed nodded, shoved his pack onto the truck, and prepared to get in the hideaway. His eyes went back and forth between the truck and the doorway where the priest stood half in shadow. Something was telling him that this ride into the wastelands would be one he wouldn’t survive. He wanted to run back into the relative safety of the church. He thought about how he would be sitting at home about this time, in his leather chair with the TV on the local news.

  “Go on.” Felipe motioned. “You’ll hit the migrant shelter in a few hours. My friend is expecting you. You should be in the norte by tomorrow.”

  “Alright,” Edward said.

  Felipe raised his hand, gave a motion of the cross, smiled slightly, and then closed the door.

  Edward climbed into the truck next to Tyler and the suspension squealed as both of them adjusted themselves on the rotting metal of the truck bed. The driver returned from the far end of the alley, pulled a thick canvas tarp over the entire load, and secured it with bungees. Ed could feel the heat of his breath and the claustrophobia set in as the driver raised the tailgate and locked it into place. There was no getting out of this. They were here until the driver let them out, dead or alive.

  The driver got into the cab, put the truck in gear, and headed down the alley. The sound of grinding gravel under them soon succumbed to smoother concrete. The truck groaned with each bump as if it wanted to fall apart.

  The combination of the sun baking the tarp over him and exhaust fumes from below forced sweat to pour out of him. Edward felt the suffocating air wrap around his body, and he wanted nothing more than to tear out of this junk-pile sarcophagus and suck in fresh air that lay just beyond the walls of the truck. The anxiety built up inside him as his mind raced.

  He would die under here. He would die out there.

  His head turned to the metal wall of the truck bed and he could see the faintest glimmer of illumination in a hairline crack. Ed managed to reach his hand up and feel the area. He pressed his fingernail into the crack and the material crumbled, a shaft of light hitting his eyes. The small hole had been patched with brittle resin and came apart with little effort. Thank God for shoddy bodywork, he thought as he placed his face closer to the opening and did his best to breathe in the outside air.

  Edward tried to enlarge the opening over the next several minutes and was mildly successful, it costing him a few drops of blood from beneath his fingernails.

  He was able to put one eye close to the peephole and saw the cinder and adobe buildings pass, block after block, crossroad after crossroad. The shadows falling off the buildings gave evidence that they were driving west, and the city of Nuevo Negaldo moved past until empty spaces began to increase more and more as they neared the edge of town. Here on the outskirts, the homes and hovels of block were replaced by abodes of scrap material, wood, aluminum, cloth. The slopes of the western hills populated with a trash-heap existence. In the distance Edward could see large trucks dumping garbage onto giant piles and people milling through the stacks. Like ants on a corpse, they were looking for anything that might add the smallest remnant of value to their scrabbled lives.

  The ladder of poverty always has a lower rung if one was willing to look.

  The truck drove on, and soon the trash people were behind them and the open desert stretched far to the south beyond imagination. They were out amongst the scrub and dust and rock—whatever might exist out in this scorched earth did so by the most violent of means. They pushed on to the west, on and on, the heat melting his mind as his sense of time escaped him.

  “Tyler?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How far do you think we’re going?”

  “The farther we go, the better our chances.”

  It was too hot to keep talking. The only thing Edward wanted was to climb out of the truck and pour cold water on his face. He thought that he would be driven insane. But then the truck started to brake and turned north off the asphalt highway. The vehicle rattled and moaned as it drove up a country trail, the ruts pounding the truck’s suspension and all but breaking Edward’s back. The rocky trail smoothed out, and through the peephole, Edward was able to catch a glimpse of a collection of structures clustered together near a dry arroyo. The driver steered them there and parked the truck. He got out, lowered the tailgate, raised the tarp, and walked off to replay the scene of willful negligence that he had enacted back at the church.

  Tyler and Edward jimmied out of the compartment and put their feet on solid ground, Edward’s balance taking longer than his son’s to come back to him. He stepped away from the truck, wanting to be free and clear from the death trap as soon as possible. His hands on his knees, his breath slowly coming back to him.

  “This is it,” Tyler said. “Come on.”

  Tyler instinctively went to grab for his backpack and suddenly he snarled in pain. He kicked the bag and stepped off, his right hand rubbing his bandaged shoulder.

  “I’ll get ’em,” Ed said.

  Tyler nodded and headed for the camp.

  Ed grabbed both packs and followed. By the time they reached the first blockhouse, the driver had already returned to his truck and pulled out, heading back down the trail to Nuevo Negaldo, most likely glad to be free from the load he carried.

  The two gringos walked into the camp, the sun casting the enclosures of the blockhouses in oranges and deep shadows. Several men wandered in and out of one of the buildings, food in their hands, their eyes following the newcomers with suspicion. The air was a suffocating mix of offal and a dryness that leeched the moisture out of Edward’s sinuses.

  It was midday when they had left the church, but now night was coming soon to the valley, the western mountains cutting an hour from the daylight. Tyler motioned for his dad not to lag.

  Toward the back of the compound was a large house, and on its front porch stood a portly man with a clean shirt and giant cowboy hat. His face was round and deep-colored behind a well-established and cared-for moustache. He stood erect over the gravel yard and waited for the men to approach. Tyler stopped and Edward came to stand next to him.

  And there they stood, Edward and Tyler across from the owner of this migrant shelter, each waiting for the other to make sense of the situation in which they found themselves.

  46

  The owner looked at the gringos and finally spoke.

  “Felipe’s men?”

  Ed nodded. “Yes, my name is—”

  “I don’t want to know,” the man said with a wave of his hand. “I also don’t want my name on your tongue. If you get caught, I do not want you saying it when they rip it out of your mouth. I agreed to give you shelter for Felipe’s sake, but that is all.”

  “Okay,” Ed said.

  “There are beds inside for you.” He pointed to one of the blockhouses. “Five dollars each. You rest up. Tomorrow morning, you will go with the next group. Get you out of here.”

  “Where is here?”

  “About ten miles south of the border. This here is my place. Migrant hotel.”

  The owner turned and walked away.

  Tyler headed off toward the bunkhouse and Ed followed with all their gear.

  The building was brick with dirt floors, and several bunk beds were jammed inside with barely enough room to maneuver. Several of the beds were occupied with haggard men who stared at the gringos as they walked in. The room fell silent, apprehension thick like fog. The o
wner suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “Over there, against the wall,” he said. “You take those two.”

  Ed nodded and stepped over. Tyler took the low bunk, propped his feet up and stretched out as if it was just another day in the life of a world traveler. Ed looked toward the opposite side of the building. All eyes were on him. His nervousness kept building. Not a word was said by his new roommates. They just studied him from the shadows.

  “They think you are criminals,” the owner said. “Why else would two Americans be here?”

  “I guess there is no use telling them we’re not,” Ed said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Tyler grunted.

  “I don’t care. If you are or not, you will both be gone tomorrow.”

  Edward kept his gaze on the vagabonds across the silent space.

  “Are we safe in here?” Ed asked.

  “Of course you are,” the owner said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. You see, these men here, they are not criminals,” he said in a sly tone. The owner stepped out, leaving Ed, Tyler, and the migrants to blink at each other over the chasm of foreign thoughts and customs and fears.

  47

  Felipe walked up the aisle of the church, his footsteps sliding across the tile filling the vaulted space. The church was practically empty except for the errand boy who was putting things away in a side chapel and an old woman lighting a candle at the votive table. Evening was coming on and the duties of the past several days had worn on him. He was tired, and so he sat down in one of the pews in front of the altar. Tomorrow would bring about another chance to do a good thing, whatever or whoever might bring it his way.

  The boy who retrieved Ed from the hostel walked over to where Felipe was sitting and asked if there was anything else the priest was in need of.

  “No, I believe that is all for today,” Felipe said.

  Before the words were out of his mouth, Felipe heard the trucks pull up in front of the church. Most of the parishioners arrived on foot, so the noise was noticeable as well as out of the ordinary. The roar of the engines reverberated in the catacomb of the cathedral. He couldn’t tell how many there were, nor how many people were in each vehicle. The sound of slamming doors told him there were many of them. All come to serve justice to the traitorous priest.

  It was destined to end like this, was it not?

  The boy’s face transformed, a mix of fear and guilt in his stare as he looked toward the entryway. The large mesquite door swung open and two long shadows were cast down the aisle, the headlights of the trucks flooding toward the altar and illuminating the young boy’s eyes. Footsteps, a closing door, more footsteps. Felipe thumbed each bead of his rosary in cadence with the advancing men. The sounds stopped just behind him, and Felipe turned slightly and saw a tall man kneel, cross himself, and then sit down in the pew behind him. A larger man stood in the aisle gazing at him.

  Arturio and Vicente.

  He had known these boys when they were younger. Now their younger selves were gone, executed by the killers they had become.

  “Forgive me, Father, but you have sinned,” Arturio said.

  Felipe said nothing. He said nothing, but looked up at the boy. The boy looked back.

  “You can go home. And remember, whatever happens, you are forgiven.”

  The boy wilted under the words, the change in his pocket turning to lead, his guilt not only transforming his eyes, but also weighing down his slumping shoulders. The boy ran down the aisle and out of the church. Felipe closed his eyes in prayer.

  “Perhaps while you are at it,” Arturio said, “you can ask your God how he felt about Judas.”

  “The boy is not a Judas.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the boy, padre. It is you. The traitor. The friend who betrayed with a kiss. For that is what you have done, is it not? Betrayed us? It is, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

  “You are right to be afraid. Now, I can’t imagine that the word in Nuevo Negaldo did not reach your ears all this time. That one of Salazar’s shipments was dropped.”

  “I pay no attention to the dealings of Salazar,” Felipe said.

  “I doubt that is true. You have heard this, yes? Of course. It was your nephew who was assigned to . . . eh . . . ,” the tall man crossed himself again, “. . . disposal duties. The men who tried to steal from Salazar. But it seems that a very odd occurrence has happened.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It seems,” Arturio said, “a father has come to Nuevo Negaldo. And for some reason, he came here. To your church.”

  “Many people come here.”

  “Not too many gringos, I bet.”

  “I have helped many of those in need in my time here. It is my duty to do so,” Felipe said. His shaking hands continued counting the beads.

  “Is it your duty to betray Salazar?”

  “My duty . . .” Felipe breathed deeply. “My duty is to help those in need.”

  “I am in need, can you help me?”

  Felipe turned in his seat and faced Arturio, “If you truly seek help from God, then yes, even you.”

  “No, padre. I do not believe that God can help either of us today,” Arturio said as he sat back in the pew, arms spread out as if reclining someplace less holy, scraping the crud off his boots with the kneeler. “Now, I am only going to ask you once. Answer quickly, and Vicente will be merciful. Comprende?”

  Felipe turned back toward the altar and bowed his head again in prayer. He focused on the martyrs, thinking upon them for strength to endure what he knew was inevitable. He prayed to keep his silence, to be strong in his own martyrdom . . . but his ears were tuned to Arturio. He nodded.

  “The Americano . . . why was he here?”

  Felipe exhaled. The church was breathless.

  “Where is he now?”

  Felipe shook his head.

  “Vicente!” said the tall man, snapping his fingers.

  Vicente moved quickly for his size. He seized Felipe by the shoulders of his frock, dragging him from the pew as the priest tried to get his feet under him. Before Felipe could stand, Vicente drove his fist into his stomach. An explosion of pain tore through the priest’s innards, and he dropped to the floor. He gasped for breath and saw blood spittle on the tile as he clawed for air. Vicente followed up with a swift kick that flipped Felipe over on his back.

  “What was he doing here?” Arturio yelled. His voice echoed off the stone walls.

  “Please . . . ,” Felipe gasped, “. . . all I ask . . . is not here. Do not do this here.”

  Arturio held up his hand to halt Vicente from another strike. “Where is he now? Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “Then where did he go?”

  Felipe said nothing.

  “Take him outside.”

  Vicente bent down, grabbed Felipe by the collar, and proceeded to drag him down the aisle. With one hand gripping the priest, he pushed open the door with the other. There were more men outside waiting by the trucks. Vicente went outside and the doors closed behind him.

  Arturio leaned back in the bench and put his feet up on the pew in front of him. From the corner of his eye he saw the old woman cowering next to the votive table. Her face was to the floor, her hands over her ears. Her body may have been present, but her eyes and ears would prove no witness. He grinned sadistically at her, put his feet on the floor, stood up, and walked over to her. He picked up a lighting taper, lit the end, and then tossed it on the floor before her.

  “Chiquita! Light another candle for Felipe, yes?” He laughed at her as he turned and walked outside to join in on the activities.

  48

  Salazar sat in his chair, the cigar smoke creating a gray cloud that wafted in the dark room. He looked out the window of his study over the city of Nuevo Negaldo. It was his city. His plaza. He had earned it. And now it was all unraveling. He could feel it. The tension in his shoulders was creeping in from a fear h
undreds of miles away.

  It was all but time until the boss came knocking, and every minute the pressure increased until Salazar was at a point of boiling over. When his phone rang, his stomach turned. He knew who it was before he spoke.

  “Yes.”

  “Why has this not been fixed,” El Aguila said.

  “I have it under control,” Salazar said.

  “From what I hear, you are losing control. I gave you Nuevo Negaldo because you led me to believe these things wouldn’t happen.”

  Salazar thought about the words. Even though he told himself this was his plaza, it never really had been. He had just been the warden. He had climbed only so far.

  “Where is the load?”

  “We will find it.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “I need more time.”

  Over the receiver, Salazar could hear El Aguila clipping the end of a cigar, the sound of a powerful butane lighter igniting it, and the deep inhalation of the man on the other end.

  Salazar had mimicked the same action in his own little fiefdom. His little plaza. He felt hollowed out, like he was just playing boss.

  “The Americans did not seize all of it, Salazar. If they did, not only would I already know, but so would half the world. They would have paraded it on the news like a trophy. Where is that extra truck? No small-time pendejos have it. They would not be able to move that load without me knowing about it. That leaves only two options, Salazar. Either the load is sitting out there somewhere, or perhaps . . .”

  Another deliberately long toke on the cigar from the boss.

  “. . . perhaps you are sitting on it yourself.”

  “I am doing no such thing,” Salazar shot back furiously, then checked his tone. This was El Aguila. One always had to respect him if they wanted to stay in good standing. “I would never steal from you.”