Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  There, on the gate to the churchyard, hung Felipe, in cruciform pose. His throat had been slit, and his tongue had been removed. His body bore signs of other mutilation, a testament to those who would dare cross the Cartel in the future. From Felipe’s right hand dangled a rosary, wet with blood, the silver cross spinning slowly. On the ground below his left hand was a crucifix. Pinned to his chest was a sign . . . TRAIDOR.

  Roberto fell to his knees.

  He couldn’t breathe. All the air was sucked out of his lungs and he gasped for oxygen. He had seen carnage before, but never against his own flesh and blood. His uncle Felipe was not murdered, he had been butchered. Had been used not as a priestly example, but as a Cartel signpost.

  Rage filled Roberto’s body. His anguished sob turned to a bellowing scream as he stood, pulled his pistol from his waistband, and waved it at the crowd.

  “¡Vámonos!” he screamed at them, pointing at one face after another. “Vámonos!” he yelled as a tear came down his cheek.

  The small crowd dispersed in every direction, racing away like rats.

  Roberto turned back to his uncle. He stepped up, untied the ropes holding him up, and took him down from the gate. Blood slopped on his hands and shirt. Miguel now came to help.

  “What is going on, Roberto? Who would do this?”

  “Salazar.”

  “But why?”

  Roberto looked at Miguel. Now with the blood of his uncle on his hands, he hesitated to bring another person into the knowledge of what he had done. His fear and paranoia over the past several days was well-founded. They knew that Tyler was here. They knew that Felipe had harbored him. For all he knew, Salazar’s men had grabbed Tyler and dragged him off. He couldn’t bring Miguel in on it.

  “It is best if you go, amigo. They are after me now.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Miguel shifted on his big feet.

  “Whatever happens, Roberto, you my boy.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You have no choice.”

  “All right then.”

  Roberto and Miguel picked up Felipe and carried him into the church. They laid him in the aisle before the altar. It had been a long time since Roberto had stepped foot in his uncle’s church. The altar of El Señor de la Misericordia loomed large over them. Roberto crossed himself, the once natural act now feeling foreign to his muscles. He bent down and kissed his uncle’s cold forehead. From his pocket he pulled out the coin with the Holy Mother on it. He placed it in Felipe’s hand.

  Help Me to Alleviate All the Suffering

  and Misfortunes in the World

  “I will avenge you, mi tío.”

  Roberto took Felipe’s rosary and put it around his own neck.

  He stood, walked out of the church with Miguel behind him. Sirens could be heard coming from somewhere in the heart of Nuevo Negaldo, late as usual. The two got in the car and Miguel pulled away from the church.

  “Where to, amigo?” Miguel asked.

  Where to exactly? If Salazar already had his hands on Tyler, then it was game over. But if Tyler and his old man had left the church, then they would be on the next leg of their escape. He knew where that was. There were dozens of launching points for running people across the border, but he was confident he knew which one his uncle would have sent Tyler to. And if that was the case, then the men who killed Felipe, the men who Roberto would make pay for what they did, would be on their way there also.

  Roberto told Miguel where to go, and Miguel hit the gas.

  53

  They walked through the morning, single file through the scrub and rock, dust kicking up at each step. They made their way into a patch of mesquite where the shade provided a place to rest. Trash littered the ground all around them, the remnants of countless travelers who had gone before them—old clothes, empty bottles, wrappers from energy bars long since consumed. They lay down and made beds of the earth as best they could.

  Snoring from the Guatemalans drifted through the branches, coughing from the Salvadorian. Julio had disappeared into the thicket, and for all Ed and Tyler knew, the coyote was staring at them from a hidden vantage point.

  “If you need to sleep, go ahead, I’ll keep an eye out,” Tyler said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “No, I mean it. We are going to be laid up here for a little while. It’s best to get the rest as you can get it. You’re carrying two packs. And besides, you look like you could use it.”

  “I was young once,” Ed said, almost apologetically.

  “Just get some rest.”

  Ed adjusted his back on the hard earth, his backpack under his head. He was so fatigued that he cared little for what might be crawling around in the undergrowth. His body was not ready for this march. The others in their party looked like they were built for labor, but his softness around the middle and his lack of regular exercise were soon apparent not only to him but to the others as well.

  Tyler, even recovering from the bullet wound in his shoulder, still benefited from being young. The tap of unearned energy had been shut off for Ed many years ago. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

  Tyler took off his shoes and socks and checked his feet for blisters. They were holding up all right, but more than likely they wouldn’t be by the time they hit I-8. Then again, he didn’t have to worry about working in the fields soon after. He would find a nice quiet spot to hide out, rest his body, and make his plans on what to do next. He looked over at his father asleep next to him.

  The scenario before him was one that he never in a million years would have imagined. For most of his adult life, his father had been a stranger. After leaving home, he never saw him. Never interacted with him. Never thought about him unless he was in a jam and had no one else to call. He had made that call several times when he needed cash for bail or for a fix. But the last time he called, when he was jailed in El Paso, his old man had hung up on him.

  Tyler was sure at that time the two of them would never speak again. Life would roll on to its end, neither being the wiser to the fate of the other.

  After El Paso, then to Nuevo Negaldo, he’d wandered through life.

  He sometimes wondered about his mother, if she was still alive in LA. When she left, he had missed her, but now she was more or less a mental curiosity. His dad, however, he found he thought about less. Maybe it was because, during all those years together after his mom had left, they had learned to live together without noticing each other.

  But now, here he was. His father. Trekking through the borderlands back into America via a path for unwanted people and castaways. Tyler knew that that was what he was, or what he was to his father. A castaway. Unwanted.

  So why was his dad here now?

  He looked at him lying on the ground. He looked old.

  Yesterday, when he was standing in the cell of the church and saw his dad walk in, he wasn’t sure what to think. He had created a hatred for his old man over the years, a hatred seated on the idea that he had been abandoned. Had been set adrift in the world without any support.

  But to his surprise, deep down in his gut, he also was filled with a sense of comfort. A feeling of home. A feeling that even as a grown man, his father was there, and where his father was, safety was too.

  It wasn’t a sentimental fairy-tale feeling that washed over him, but a deep-rooted assurance, a calmness. A memory that as a boy, where his father was, he was protected. Perhaps that was a feeling that never died and existed to old age. Whatever it was, Tyler was glad his old man was here with him.

  He had convinced himself that he did not need his father. But now, together in the borderlands, he wouldn’t wish him away to save his life.

  Tyler took a swig of water from his dwindling supply and gazed north past the group of men. They were all pushing north for the dream of better things. Better lives. In the north, there had been no life for Tyler. He
had burned all bridges, scorched all the past that he had had by means of crime and drugs and resentment. But his future was not in Mexico. He could not go back there. He would not survive a week.

  He was a man stuck between two worlds, two different worlds that he neither belonged to nor could hope to survive in.

  No, there was no future back in Mexico. The only way forward was to go back home.

  And the only way he could do that, he knew, was with his father behind him, watching his back. It was the only reason to keep moving forward. He had nothing else. He had no one else. And for this moment he would take what he could.

  His dad might turn his back on him again. Might shut down into himself. Might kick him out and shun him once this was all over, but for now, he was with him, by his side, and he would use that feeling for however long it would last.

  “I don’t trust him,” Ed said.

  They were sitting across from each other resting their tired legs, the tree above them that took root a century before providing a bit of shade. The wood was petrified gray and stood like bones stuck up amongst the rocks. The sky overhead was cloudless and the white sun was climbing low on the horizon.

  “Julio?” Tyler said. He sipped a small amount of water, enough to cut the dryness of his chapping lips.

  Ed nodded.

  “Best not to,” Tyler said. “These coyotes would bury their own mother under a rock if it meant they would gain by it.”

  “Have you seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Never? I mean . . . with all the people you were running?”

  Tyler looked at his father with serious eyes. The look was accusing but also filled with a sense of astonishment at Ed’s lack of understanding.

  “I never ran people.”

  Ed just stared.

  “There are hundreds of people like Julio in Mexico. And hundreds more to take his place if he ever dies out here. He leads these poor people north not out of some mission but simply for cash. He doesn’t care about them. He’d turn tail and run south at the first sign of trouble. Probably done it before. It really is the wolf leading the sheep.”

  “I just don’t like the way he keeps eyeing us,” Ed said.

  “Probably thinks we are worth more than what he is getting paid.”

  “What do you mean?” Ed asked.

  Tyler looked toward the group of migrants seated about ten yards up the wash from them. Julio sat perched high on the berm, his usual vulture-like gaze looking down at them all.

  “He’s probably making a couple hundred a head to get these guys up to I-8. They’ll jump in a car and head off to wherever they are designated—Chicago, New York, LA. Julio will then cross back over, get paid, and wait for the next run. It’s decent money down here. But guys like that are always looking for a better score.”

  “That a problem?”

  “Depends on how much Felipe paid for our transport. The coyotes see white skin, they figure they can pinch some money on the side if they feel like they’re getting shorted on the deal. Russians, Ukrainians. They sometimes come through here. Can’t imagine he’s seen many Americans though.”

  “Do we have anything to worry about with him?” Ed asked.

  “Not as long as he thinks we ain’t scared of him.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “No,” Tyler said.

  Ed thought about the situation. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he was scared. The wilderness surrounding them was filled with a deadly assortment of nature’s creations that could kill by bite or sting. Up on the ridge sat a man who looked ready to cut their throats. But what made Tyler so calm? He appeared to be at ease in the company of these men, as if this was a walk without peril.

  “Can I ask you something?” Ed said.

  Tyler nodded.

  “You ever . . . have you ever . . .”

  “What?”

  “Killed someone?”

  Tyler looked at his father, then turned and looked at Julio, then back again. He brought the water bottle up to his lips and took a slow deliberate drink. He capped the bottle and placed it back in his bag, stood up, and offered his good hand. Ed took it and got to his feet.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Tyler said. “He’s not going to try anything. And if he does, I’ll take care of it.”

  Tyler stepped off and headed back to camp. Ed thought about what his son might mean. “I’ll take care of it.” To what extent was his son capable of protecting him? It made him nervous to think that he and Tyler were vulnerable, but it made him just as nervous to think that they weren’t. That Tyler was willing and able to violently take care of himself. Ed slung their packs on his already aching back and started for the trail.

  By noon they reached the base of the mountain they had been pushing for and made their ascent. The rocks slid with each step and Edward’s quads and calves started to burn and stiffen until he thought he couldn’t go on anymore. Soon they came into a clearing with a sharp overhang and Julio instructed everyone to stop. They would camp here until dark. To the north, the range spilled on.

  “There’s America,” Tyler said as he sat down.

  It was impossible to tell where one country stopped and another began. Fatigue won out over curiosity, and the snores returned to the group.

  Their bodies slept beneath the shadow of stones, their minds kept walking in their dreams, one step in front of the other, an endless trek north through the boot heel of New Mexico toward a magical road that would carry them to their future reward.

  Ed had never felt so old. His body ached, and even though he was beyond exhaustion, he found he could not sleep longer than a few minutes at a stretch. The others snored on and he realized he was from a different world than theirs, one that a walk such as this would not make the same. These men bored through the world like diamond. Their strength was hewn into their bones from birth. They did not complain, or if they did, they kept the words inside. On the trail they were quiet. In their sleep, they rested with contentment on their faces as if they were back home in their own beds.

  But the earth did not comfort Ed. The rocks seemed to shift under his body, poking him in his back, his legs, and he struggled to get comfortable but found no relief.

  Tyler sat with his head down. His vigilance to keep an eye on Julio had disappeared along with his ability to keep his eyes open. The coyote was asleep higher in the rocks, his feet stretched out into view above them like half a corpse sticking out of stone.

  Across the plain, rock formations and mountains sprouted up like islands in a sea of prairie scrub. How many groups of men were huddled up in the crevices waiting for night to fall to make the journey al norte? In his mind’s eye, Ed envisioned hundreds of men sleeping in the wild, a smorgasbord of meat for any wandering carnivore that would go against its nature and venture out into the heat.

  Sleep came.

  Sleep left him.

  Ed stared into the cloudless sky.

  Here, the day passed without recognition as it had for many years of his life. Ed never imagined this place existed, but it would go on existing until the end of time. Tomorrow, another person would lie where he was now, gathering their strength for the coming night’s journey. And the day after. An endless train of wanderers desperate for a life with more abundance than from whence they came.

  His life had been easy, he thought. What struggle had he actually had?

  He looked at Tyler. His son in this place as a consequence of his own choices, yes, but also helped along by Ed’s shunning. And here they both were, on the side of a prehistoric rock formation, hiding from the rays of the sun, walking north like refugees.

  54

  Roberto and Miguel drove into the staging area of the migrant farm. There was a vehicle parked in front of the bunkhouse and several men were offloading their packs and milling around in the shadow of the building. The endless stream of travelers, the next batch collecting and readying themselves for their turn to cross the wire. Robe
rto drove his car behind the bunkhouse and parked. He sat there until he saw the owner walk out of his house and stare at them. Roberto got out of the car and waved him over.

  “Roberto, it’s been awhile,” the owner said nervously. He always had a subtle crack in his voice when one of Los Diablos or Cartel members came out to his place. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Felipe.”

  The owner steeled his eyes and waited for what Roberto had to say.

  “Did he send you somebody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they still here?”

  “No, they left last night.”

  “Who was the coyote?”

  “Julio,” the owner said.

  Roberto’s gut tightened. Julio was scum. Loyal to no one, not even Salazar. Miguel had gotten out of the car and walked around the bunkhouse. Something had captured his attention.

  “Has anyone else been out here since they left?”

  “Anyone like you?”

  Roberto nodded.

  “No.”

  Roberto looked at Miguel. His partner was staring at the dirt road winding through the desert. He turned to see what held Miguel’s stare. Two black vehicles were approaching. These weren’t traffickers or locals. They didn’t use nice cars to transport the human fodder that were being driven north. These were Cartel vehicles.

  “Anyone call you, asking about Felipe.”

  The owner now was becoming more uneasy.

  “No. Nothing. Roberto, what is this about?” the owner said. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he too saw the trucks pulling into his property and his nerves came undone. “What did you do? What did Felipe have me do?”

  Miguel hurried back to the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out two guns. He hollered at Roberto and tossed one to him. The owner started backtracking to his house, stumbling over his feet, and crashed through the front door as the trucks skidded to a stop, a dust cloud falling over the bunkhouse, the migrants inside staring out at the scene unfolding before them.

  The doors of the first truck opened and Roberto saw Vicente step out. He knew these were the men who killed his uncle. He knew it like a dog knows when food is out for the taking. Vicente spotted Roberto eyeing him from behind the bunkhouse, raised a weapon, and started firing.