Disappeared

by Francisco X. Stork

  “Perla Rubi—”

  “Do you need money? We can help.”

  “We’re okay. I’m going to take Sara to the United States.”

  “But how? Do you have visas?”

  “I know a place in Texas where it will be safe to cross. It’s a big national park with hiking trails and old roads. We’ll be okay. Someone will meet us at the other end of the park. The important thing is that I’ll be back.”

  “When? When will you be back?”

  “Eight days maybe.”

  “The time remaining on this card is ten seconds,” a voice says in his ear.

  “I better go now.”

  “Call my father, okay? Promise?”

  Emiliano closes his eyes, exhales. “Perla Rubi Esmeralda …” He falters.

  “I know. I love you, Emiliano Zapata.”

  He hears a dial tone.

  His time is up.

  It is almost two when Emiliano returns to Café Rojos. Sara jumps off the stool where she’s been sitting and hugs him. “I’ve been worried to death about you. Where have you been?”

  He lets her keep her arms around him for longer than she expected and then he pulls gently away. “I talked to Perla Rubi. Then I went for a walk.”

  “Okay,” she says. She can see in his face that the conversation was difficult. Did he not tell her he was coming back? He sits down on a stool next to the terminal where she was working and stares at a sandwich on a paper plate.

  “Daniel made it for us. It’s good. You should eat.”

  He nods, but he doesn’t touch it. Instead, he rips a blank page from Sara’s notebook. “I’m going to make a list of what we need. We have to plan this trip carefully. Preparation is everything.” There’s a quiet firmness in his voice, as if he’s determined to erase from his mind whatever he’s been thinking for the past two hours.

  Sara sits on the stool next to him. “I got a lot done, you want to hear? It might affect what we talk about with Brother Patricio.”

  Emiliano stops writing and looks at her expectantly.

  “It turns out that about ninety percent of asylum requests from Mexican citizens are denied. In order to be granted asylum, you need to show ‘credible fear of persecution on account of race, religion, nationality, and/or membership in a particular group or political opinion.’ ”

  “ ‘Credible fear of persecution’? You got more than that. You got actual persecution. They can come take a look at our house if they want.”

  Sara goes on, “Most of the asylum applications from Mexicans are denied because the U.S. doesn’t see persecution from the cartels as persecution for political opinion or against one of those protected groups. Even if you show that the Mexican police cannot protect you, that’s not enough.”

  “What if it’s the Mexican State Police who are after you?”

  “U.S. courts say that persecution by government officials in cahoots with the cartels is still persecution by the cartels. It’s not the same as persecution by a government.”

  “And you still want to live there?”

  She continues reading her notes. “If we get caught, and we plead asylum, we’ll be sent to a detention center while we wait for a hearing in front of an immigration judge. That can take months and even years.”

  “What are the detention centers like?”

  “Well, they’re kind of crowded and not all that pleasant from what I can tell, but some people get released if they have someone in the U.S. who can vouch for them. People even get work permits while they wait for their hearing.” She puts the notebook down. “That’s how Papá will get a chance to make himself useful: He can vouch for us.”

  “You get released if someone can vouch for you?” Emiliano asks skeptically.

  “Sometimes a bond is required. And not everyone gets released. It looks kind of arbitrary, who gets released, who gets deported, and who can stay, but the main thing is that it’s a chance. Even if we make it to Chicago, we can still apply for asylum later.”

  Sara expects him to correct her and say that it would be her and not “we” who would be applying, but he doesn’t mention it. “So,” he says, thinking, “we need to ask Brother Patricio to take pictures of our house full of bullet holes, and maybe get some statements from the neighbors, and you need to get ahold of your threatening e-mails, and have all that with you so you can give it to the Border Patrol if we’re caught.”

  “I was thinking that I would leave all that with Brother Patricio. They’ll let us make a phone call if we’re caught, won’t they?”

  “Put everything on a flash drive and bring it with you, and leave a copy with Brother Patricio. I wouldn’t count on the Americans letting you make any calls. Now let me go back to my list.”

  “What about my friend at the FBI? I could call him if we get caught. He would help us with an asylum request and testify on our behalf. He knows who’s after us.”

  “Listen,” Emiliano says, looking straight into her eyes. “The key to survival is to assume the worst and prepare for it. We’re going to a place where we’re not wanted. Not only are we not wanted, we are hated by many. Get that through your head.”

  Then he lowers his head and continues working on his list.

  By the time Brother Patricio shows up, Sara has transferred all the threatening e-mails from her account as well as all her articles about the Desaparecidas onto a flash drive. Emiliano perks up when Brother Patricio arrives. They close the door to the back room, and after Sara and Emiliano recount again the details of the threat and the events of the previous night, the three of them look at the map of Big Bend National Park that Brother Patricio brought. He’s marked the proposed route in red.

  “The best place to cross is here,” Brother Patricio says, pointing to a red dot in the Rio Grande.

  “Boquillas,” Emiliano says, peering at the map. “How do we get there?”

  “Getting there might be even harder than crossing through the park,” the brother says. “There’s no direct road from Juárez. We need to go south to Chihuahua and then take the highway north.”

  “We?” Emiliano beats Sara to the question.

  “I’m going to drive you,” Brother Patricio says firmly. “Tomorrow morning if that’s okay. I already got Mr. Salas to take my classes.”

  “But …”

  “I’m afraid that’s not up for discussion. Your mother can travel with us to Chihuahua and take a bus to León from there. You get to spend a few more hours with her and we bypass the bus terminal in Juárez, which may be under observation by the very same people who are keen on exterminating you.”

  “Thank you,” Sara says. Emiliano silently bites his lip. Sara remembers that even as a child, Emiliano bit his lip when someone did something nice for him. It’s as if he doesn’t hold himself worthy of the kindness offered to him.

  Brother Patricio carefully folds the map of Mexico. “Now, let’s talk about the route.”

  The route that Brother Patricio has marked will take them from Boquillas to a dirt road on the eastern boundary of the park. The road ends about ten miles from the north entrance to the park. That’s where the hardest part of the trip will begin. They need to head east past the boundary of the park, on open desert and mountainous terrain, to a place beyond the last Border Patrol checkpoint.

  “So,” Brother Patricio says, a worried look on his face, “you’re looking at maybe forty miles of hiking within the park and another forty to get to Sanderson, Texas. I recommend going all the way to Sanderson and having your father meet you there. You can stay at the Catholic church there until he arrives. I already talked to one of the deacons. Going all the way to Sanderson instead of getting picked up somewhere close to the Border Patrol checkpoint will mean another half day of walking, but it’s better than trying to coordinate a meeting point and a precise meeting time with your father.”

  Emiliano studies the map with unconcerned concentration. “What’s here?” He points to the place where Brother Patricio’s red line e
nds.

  “That’s the place that I’ve confirmed is beyond the Border Patrol checkpoint. Sanderson is only twenty miles east of that.” Brother Patricio takes something that looks like an old-fashioned cell phone out of the backpack he carried in.

  “I can’t take that,” Emiliano says instantly. “The Jiparis need that. You know how much we had to save to buy it.”

  “What is it?” Sara asks.

  “It’s a handheld GPS device. And yes, of course you are taking it. If you wish, you can mail it to me from Chicago.”

  Sara turns to look at Emiliano. He has not told Brother Patricio that he’s coming back? Why? It gives her hope that maybe he has changed his mind—until Emiliano dashes it with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  Emiliano and Brother Patricio go over every minute detail of the equipment and the route over and over again. They are engineers carefully constructing a delicate, complicated bridge, accounting for every nut and bolt. Sara has never seen Emiliano like this, protractor and compass in hand, calculating distances and directions.

  At three p.m. she excuses herself, goes to one of the terminals, and writes an e-mail to Ernesto on a newly created e-mail account. In the subject line she writes: Grateful.

  It’s me. Are you there?

  She hits SEND and waits.

  I’m here. Are you safe?

  Yes. Thanks to you. That was a close call yesterday. I still can’t believe Juana would give them my address.

  That was a surprise even for a cynic like me.

  Ernesto, what should I do about the phone?

  Hold on to it for a while. I’m being watched. You won’t believe how many people are looking for you. For me too, but mostly for you. What are your plans?

  I’m going to the U.S. with my brother, Emiliano. The undocumented way, as they say.

  Oh. That’s good. That’s very good, actually.

  Why?

  The Jaqueros have connections in the U.S. who can help with the phone. They’re even better than us. I know, hard to believe, huh? They have more resources than us, anyway, and it will be easy for them to get inside the phone.

  Sara has to wait for a few minutes for the next message.

  E-mail Yoya at crazyfreeyoya@gmail.com when you get to the U.S. She’ll give you an address where you can send the phone or she’ll find someone in her organization to pick it up. She’ll be able to retrieve the information in the phone and send it to us. We’ll know what to do with it. I want to nail Hinojosa and his cronies for good. I wish you didn’t have to carry the phone around. But even if they knew you didn’t have the phone, these people would still want to find you—revenge for turning them in. Be careful. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going!

  Sara writes down the e-mail address. Got it. Thank you, Ernesto. What will you do?

  I’m going to Mexico City. There’s tons of Jaqueros there. I’ll be okay. I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve been digging in Juana’s computer from here. I found statements in her files from a bank in Panama which in turn made some big loans to El Sol. I always wondered where El Sol got the money to stay afloat. Hinojosa uses that same bank.

  Sara remembers the conversation with Juana at the quinceañera.

  Does that mean Felipe is bad too?

  No evidence of that. I think Juana got the loans and didn’t tell Felipe how. I also found correspondence between Juana and Elias. Something was going on between them at some point. Sara, I have to go. It was an honor knowing you.

  It was an honor knowing you, Ernesto. Good-bye.

  Sara stares at the screen, smiling to herself as she remembers Ernesto’s conversation with Guillermo about the quinceañera. She will miss Ernesto so much.

  “Excuse me, Sara?” She turns quickly to see Daniel holding a cell phone. “For you. Estela.”

  “Estela?” Sara says weakly. There’s no saliva anywhere in her mouth. Brother Patricio and Emiliano stop talking.

  “I thought I’d find you there. Hold on. I want to put someone on the phone.” Estela’s voice is upbeat, happy.

  There is a long silence and then Sara hears a voice as familiar as her own. “Sara. It’s me.”

  Sara shuts her eyes tightly, but the tears rush out nevertheless. “Linda. Linda. You’re alive!”

  “I am. Barely, but I am.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. This morning, these grenade things go off. Then there was smoke. Doors bursting open with people in bullet-proof vests. All I could think of was Sara did it. My friend Sara saved us.”

  “Thank God, thank God.”

  “But … Officer Gómez said you were in danger. Will you be all right?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry. We’re going away for a while. Have you been home yet?”

  “They don’t want me to go home. My mom and dad and my sisters. They’re on their way here. Then we’ll go to a safe place. I … need to be myself again. That place, Sara …”

  “It’s okay. You stayed alive. That’s what you had to do.”

  “I’m so full of hate right now. Pray for me, okay?”

  “I will. I will. Don’t worry. Time will heal you.”

  “I hope so. I wish you were with me. That would be a big help. Officer Gómez is making a sign for one more minute. I don’t know how to thank you, Sarita. I messed up your life really bad, didn’t I?”

  “No, no. You made it much better.”

  “Sara, my friend Erica … she took Hinojosa’s phone …”

  “Yes?”

  “She … They killed her.”

  “Oh, Linda.”

  “They were going to kill me too. They waited … for some reason.”

  “It’s okay, don’t cry. It’s okay that you’re alive. God wanted you to live.”

  “Sara, I have to let you go.” There’s a pause. “You’re my best friend.”

  “And you’re mine.”

  Then Sara and Linda say at the same time:

  “Forever and ever.”

  Part II

  United States

  They cross the Rio Grande with the sun still hidden behind the Sierra del Carmen mountain range to the east. Emiliano steps in the river barefoot, his arms slightly outstretched for balance against the tug of the current. When he reaches the center, he turns to look at Sara behind him. She is surprised by the glacial cold of the water and by the soft silt of the river bottom that seeks to swallow her feet. Maybe it is just Mexico not wanting to let go of her. Emiliano waits until he sees her take a second careful step and then continues. When he reaches the other side, he helps Sara to the muddy bank. They climb a rocky slope and then stop to look back at the small town of Boquillas. Brother Patricio, on the other side of the Rio Grande, raises his hand in the gesture of a blessing and Emiliano and Sara wave.

  They arrived at Boquillas the evening before, when the few adobe houses in the village were dark and silent. They followed a dirt road that ran parallel to the river and parked the car in a grove of cottonwoods. Then they waited for dawn.

  At some point during the night, Sara walked a few yards away, spread a blanket on the grass, and tried to sleep. Now and then, when the ruckus of the frogs quieted down for a few moments, she could hear the murmur of Emiliano and Brother Patricio’s voices. She wondered whether Emiliano had finally decided to tell Brother Patricio that he planned to return. All through the trip, Emiliano had acted as if he was leaving Mexico forever. After they put their mother on the bus to León, Emiliano could have told Brother Patricio that his absence would only be temporary, but he didn’t. Why?

  Then again, Sara could count on her two hands the words spoken during the trip. She sat in the backseat with her mother on the way to Chihuahua, holding her hand, listening to her Hail Marys. Now and then she fixed her eyes on the profile of Emiliano’s pensive face staring out the window. What was he thinking? Was his heart breaking like hers? The thought that they might never see their mother again kept coming back to her, no matter how many times she tried to shoo it
away.

  On top of the rock, Emiliano watches Brother Patricio’s car turn into the village’s main street. He sticks his hand in his pocket and feels his mother’s rosary. She should have given it to Sara and not to him. Sara sat with his mother and prayed in unison with her, two voices forming one single prayer. He doesn’t believe that their prayers were heard or had any power other than a calming effect. So why did his mother cup his hand and drop the rosary in it just before she boarded the bus to León? And why didn’t he tell her he didn’t deserve it? When Sara isn’t looking, he slips the rosary over his head and tucks it under his shirt.

  The only sound this early in the morning comes from the river. Sara thinks that if time could make a sound, it would be like the gentle but constant rush of water. In the distance, to the west, from where the river flows, she can see the limestone canyons carved by the river’s patient march. During the eight-hour ride, she read the books on Big Bend National Park that Brother Patricio brought for them. It took millions of years for the river to carve those canyons. She feels so small compared to that immensity of time. And yet, here she is.

  Emiliano begins to make his way through the thick cane growing on the banks of the river. The flutter of a gray dove startles him momentarily. He points at the ground so Sara will see the dove’s nest with the miniature eggs, and they step carefully around it. He stops when they emerge from the band of greenery that borders the river. In front of them rises an embankment. On his right, Emiliano sees a well-worn footpath up the cliff. Many, many other Mexicans have come this way before. He climbs it carefully so that Sara can see where he plants his feet and do the same. He is tempted a few times to offer his hand when she begins to slip but decides against it. Instead, when he senses her struggling, he simply waits for her to find a way up. She’s carrying two gallons of water, weighing about eighteen pounds, plus another fifteen pounds of food, clothing, and other equipment. He made the load as light as possible, aware that after a few hours of walking, thirty-three pounds is going to feel like eighty. He smiles when he remembers the trouble he had convincing her that carrying her six-pound laptop was not possible.