Tacho raised his cup.
“Amen.”
“When I was on my master tour of the bowling alleys of the borderlands,” Irma said, rising and stubbing her cigarette out in Tacho’s coffee cup, “representing all of you—representing our home—our fine city—I went alone. What horrors did I face? I ask you. What horrors?” She made them jump when she bellowed, “ALL OF THEM!”
She leaned forward on her hands.
“Worse that I was convicted of one crime: being a woman! My efforts for the homeland were disparaged by your men and by you. Admit it! I fought with my bowling ball for all the women—and the useless men—of Camarones. And I did it alone! Yes or no?”
They muttered, “Yes.”
“Well, I was an illegal.”
Cries of shock. Uproar. Shouting.
She held up her hands.
“I may have a passport now. But then? I had no plans to cross that terrible wire! I was bowling in Mexico! But do you think for a minute that the call of athletics stops at some imaginary political boundary? Eh? What of the Olympics! I was called to bowl in the United States! For the honor of MEXICO!”
Her audience reeled, they rocked in their seats, they thrilled.
“I went into Los Yunaites! By God I did! I was showing them all! Mexican womanhood—I stuck it in their faces! I bowled at the Bowlero! I bowled at the Hillcrest! I bowled at the Aztec Lanes!”
This meant nothing to the gathered witnesses, but it sounded impressive. She could have been saying, “I bowled at the White House!” Maybe she had.
The point was, Aunt Irma had been a champion in Gringolandia, too! “And, like these dear girls, I did it for you, you doubters. You should be ashamed.”
Go, Osa! Nayeli smiled at Tacho. She was incredible!
“Do you think I would send these warriors—these brave girls and this fine heroic boy—into the north with no help? No succor? Are you insane! Good God—you ARE insane! First you ladies let yourselves be pushed around by your useless men for a hundred years. Then you let those men escape. Now you deny the future! To bold young women! You are not the new woman! You are shameful!”
She sat back down. She snapped her fingers.
“Get me some more coffee,” she told Tacho.
“I’m not your maid,” he said.
But he got up and got it.
Irma slurped it loudly and said: “I went there. I bowled Tijuana, you know! How do you think I got into the United States? Hmm? Did I sprout wings and fly? I could have if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t want to! No—I used my brain. Do you have brains? These girls have brains. Tacho… well, I don’t know about Tacho.”
She continued. “Do you think your little husbands, those whore-mongers, were the first to leave Camarones? Do you remember the name… Chavarín?”
Chavarín! He looked like Gilbert Roland or Vicente Fernández! He was their half-Basque fisherman! That mustache! Those two-tone shoes in shades of brown and crème, shoes that allowed him to glide across dance floors like a sweet outpouring of syrup!
Irma chuckled. “I was a mango in my day. Was I or was I not?”
“You were,” María agreed.
“I’ve seen the pictures,” Nayeli said.
“That must have been a long time ago, m’ija,” Tacho said, “because lately —”
Nayeli kicked him under the table.
Irma glared at him.
“I was the handsomest woman in Sinaloa,” she continued, “and Chavarín had the best mustache. He moved to Tijuana in 1963. Did he not? He did! What did I do? I’ll tell you what I did. I looked Chavarín up in the phone book. How many Chavaríns do you imagine there are in any phone book? Not many!”
The gathered populace was amazed by Irma’s brilliance.
“I called Chavarín! I went to his home! And when the time came, he drove me right across the line in his fine Lincoln Town Car. ‘US ceetee-zin,” he said, and I said, ‘US citee por sure!’ and they let us through! He told them I was his wife!”
Gasps.
The audacity of Chava Chavarín!
“That’s it! You need connections to survive and cross that border! I have connections!”
She rose again: all their eyes followed her.
“I,” she announced, raising her finger above her head like Fidel Castro, “have sent a telegram to Chavarín in Tijuana! The destiny of these warriors is already assured!”
They clapped for her. They sighed and spoke among themselves. María took Irma’s hands in her own.
Irma handed Nayeli a scrap of paper with the outdated telephone number LIB-477.
“Libertad,” she noted portentiously.
Ooh, liberty, the aunties thought.
Everything had taken on an air of Revolutionary Mexico.
“You will see,” Irma said. “The Americanos are kind. Friendly people. Generous people. They have quaint customs—they aren’t really, shall we say, sophisticated like we are. You can’t drink the water—it will give you diarrhea. But it’s very clean there. Good food. You’ll see.”
She stopped and pointed at all the girls, one by one.
“Your dead are buried here. You were each born here, and your umbilical cords are buried in this earth. This town has been here since time began! God himself came from Tres Camarones, and don’t you ever forget it. When the Apaches rode down the coast, burning all the cities, they stopped here and ate mangos and fresh pineapples! That crazy gringo general Black Jack Pershing came here looking for Pancho Villa! He danced with my aunt Teresa in the plazuela! In the hurricane of 1958, Don Pancho Mena was carried out to sea by the wind, and he rode a dolphin back to shore! And I won’t have some rude gangsters, or some exodus of weak-kneed men looking for money, ruin my hometown!”
They were in awe of Aunt Irma, which was the way she liked it.
“Why do you think I run this town?” she asked. There was no need to answer.
Nayeli stuffed her backpack with her change of jeans, her panties, her clean socks, and her blouses. Deodorant. Tampons. She was packing lightly. She wore her best fútbol tennies with white gym socks. Garcí a-García had presented her with a paperback copy of Don Quixote, but she couldn’t make sense of it and would end up leaving it on the bus. Then she pulled out Matt’s card and paper-clipped Irma’s Tijuana phone number to it and tucked it into her back pocket.
Her weeping mother came into her room.
“Are you taking your father’s postcard?” she asked.
“May I?”
“You should.”
They stood together looking at the picture of the paranoiac turkey in the cornfield.
“I wish you could go there,” María said. “To KANKAKEE. I wish you could bring him back.”
Nayeli took her hand.
“If I can,” she suddenly heard herself promising, “I will.”
“Oh, Nayeli!” Her mother threw her arms around her and sobbed.
Aunt Irma made travel packs for each warrior. In big ziplock bags, she put toothpaste, toothbrushes, small bars of hand soap, small bottles of shampoo, rolls of mint Life Savers, packets of matches, some Band-Aids, small packets of tissues. She gave each of them chocolates, M&Ms with peanuts, in case they got hungry. In Nayeli’s bag was a small jar of Vicks VapoRub. “I know you get stuffy,” she said.
They were astonished when Tacho arrived at the bivouac. He had chopped his hair into spikes and oiled it up. Even worse, he had dyed it platinum blond. Vampi ran her hands over the spikes. Tacho had a can of pepper spray tucked into his left sock, and his shirt said: queen. He smirked. Nobody in Camarones would ever get that joke.
In spite of the alarming haircut, Garcí a-García, not trusting mere girls to accomplish the mission, pressed $500 on Tacho. Tacho added the money to his savings, 600 more US dollars, zipped inside his money belt.
There was more to come. The town had taken up a collection, and they handed their savings over to the girls. The bank converted the pesos and coins into American greenbacks, giving Nayeli $1
,256. Yoloxochitl had $150 from her family and $65 in pin-tending money. La Vampi had $35. Tacho handed Nayeli $50 of his own. “It’s your tips, m’ija.” She split it with Vampi.
Mothers and strangers gathered in front of the Fallen Hand. Irma’s Cadillac settled on its springs as the travelers loaded the trunk. Vampi and Yolo hefted small shoulder bags onto their backs. Yolo had clothes and books stuffed in her school backpack. Tacho’s duffel was large and heavy, stuffed with discotheque clothes. La Vampi hid a switchblade that El Quemapueblos had once given her in her back pocket. Nayeli carried a tiny gift purse Tacho had given her. Bundles of tortillas were pressed on the travelers. A greasy paper bag of sweet rolls.
Sensei Grey stepped forward and bowed deeply.
He suddenly threw a punch at Nayeli. She blocked it and spun and laid her foot against his jaw. The master smiled and bowed again.
Tears.
Wails of sorrow.
The four warriors waved bravely to the crowd. The girls kissed their mothers and grandmothers. Father François blessed them again. They got into the Cadillac. They slammed the doors. Aunt Irma honked the horn three times, drove around the plazuela a few times waving out the window, and they were gone.
Pepino climbed onto the roof of the Fallen Hand, yelling, “Nayeli! Nayeli! Come back to Pepino, Nayeliii!”
Aunt Irma accompanied them into the Tres Estrellas bus terminal. Poor folks in straw hats shuffled around with paper bags tied with twine. Mothers fed their children beans from plastic containers they were carrying because they couldn’t afford the food on the road. Electronic voices echoed off the cement floors.
Irma bought their tickets.
“Four, one-way, to Tijuana.”
The ticket taker had seen this before.
He smirked.
“It’s not what you think,” she snapped at him.
He shrugged.
“I have no opinion,” he said.
She distributed the tickets like playing cards to her warriors. She bought them all cold sodas and bottles of water for the road. Vampi cadged a rock-and-roll magazine out of her. Yolo had a paperback book called Caballo de Troya VI. The cover announced, “Jesus Christ was a UFO pilot!”
The huge bus loomed outside the window. Their driver was a dark-faced fat man named Chuy. His uniform was crisp, and he wore his bus pilot’s cap at a jaunty angle. Chuy oversaw the loading of their bags into the bins under the bus, then he positioned himself at the door to take tickets.
He eyed the girls. And Tacho.
Tacho said, “¿Qué?”
“Nada,” Chuy replied. “Aquí nomás.”
He took Tacho’s ticket.
He looked at Irma, hovering about, fussing with the girls’ hair.
“I’ll take care of them,” he promised her. “No worries.”
He gestured for their tickets.
Tacho hopped aboard and never looked back.
“Remember,” Irma said. “Call Chavarín immediately. Don’t move one step without him.”
“All right,” Nayeli said, and went to board.
Irma pulled her back.
“Don’t forget—former cops. Or soldiers.”
“Got it.”
“But,” Irma said, “don’t dawdle. In and out. And call me.”
“I will.”
“If there’s any trouble, I’ll fly there and meet you.”
Nayeli stared.
“You’ll… come to Tijuana?”
“Why not?”
Nayeli was a bit put off by this revelation.
Irma blushed. Fiddled with her hair. “It depends,” she said. Her face was bright carmine. Her eyelids fluttered. “It depends, you know, on what Chava says.” She laughed a tiny little laugh.
Oh, my God! Nayeli thought. She’s in love! This was all some kind of bizarre dating service for La Osa!
“You’d better get going,” Irma said.
“I intend to go to get my father,” Nayeli blurted.
It was a day of revelations.
They stared at each other: stalemate.
“We’ll see….” Irma muttered.
Irma would have kissed Nayeli, but couldn’t get herself to lay her lips on Nayeli’s cheek. She popped an air kiss beside her face and shoved her toward the steps.
Chuy took her ticket.
Irma gave Yolo a brief hug and pushed her toward the bus, too.
Chuy took her ticket.
La Osa smacked Vampi’s bottom and said, “Crazy girl.”
Chuy took her ticket and smiled.
“Are you crazy?” he said.
“I am a vampire.”
“Ay, Dios.”
“Make me proud,” Irma called, then hurried away before they could answer her.
They found two rows of seats, four across, near the back of the bus. Yolo and Vampi sat on the left side. Nayeli and Tacho fought over the window on the right. They were all amazed that there was a bathroom at the back of the bus. Then they immediately started to flirt when a flushed American boy got on. He was only going as far as Los Mochis, but that didn’t stop them from working their magical stares, pouts, and blinks on him. La Vampi sighed a lot. Yolo looked stern yet open to suggestion. Nayeli tried her most enigmatic smiles. Tacho—Tacho ignored him completely.
Chuy boarded and hit the microphone: “We are going to Tijuana, amigos! Via Culiacán, Los Mochis, Guaymas, San Luis, and Mexicali. With a few stops in between. If you think you are going to Guadalajara, get off now!” He laughed. He shut the door. He turned on the air-conditioning, which thrilled them all at first, then froze them until they burrowed under clothing and fell asleep to escape the chill.
He released the brakes.
They rolled into dusk.
Chuy drove for precisely forty-one minutes. He pulled off the highway. The bus tilted in the gloom as he drove it into an alley.
“What the hell!” Tacho demanded.
The American boy was asleep behind them.
Voices were muttering: “Where is he going?”
They brushed between bushes and banana trees. The bus rocked over potholes and ruts. Then Chuy pulled up behind a small house.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He opened the doors and hopped out. They craned at the windows to see what he was up to. The back door of the house opened and a woman appeared. Chuy took off his cap and gave her a ravishing kiss. They went inside and slammed the door.
“Ah!” somebody said. “His wife!”
“Or his girlfriend!” someone else replied.
“He’s having supper!” another called out.
“Or his girlfriend!”
They all laughed and waited.
They were already an hour off schedule once Chuy sauntered back from his layover and bowed when the passengers applauded him. They drowsed through Culiacá n—a rustling stop where peasants traded places with other peasants. They carried tin pots of hot beans for the road. Tart goat cheese. Then Chuy sped to Los Mochis, announcing, “Los Mochis, Sinaloa! The most beautiful city in the world!” The girls awoke and regretfully saw the American boy off the bus. He stepped into the moth-crazy night, bright in Chuy’s lights against the whitewashed trunks of trees on the street. Dog barks and donkey brays entered with the hot air, sounding oddly dull and dusty.
“Now leaving Los Mochis,” Chuy said, and slammed the doors shut.
PSSHHT! The brakes hissed.
They rolled.
They were deep asleep when the soldiers stopped the bus. Nayeli was the first to awaken. She sensed the bus braking, the startling lurch as it dropped off the blacktop and stopped. She nudged Tacho awake.
“What?” he said, sitting up. “What?”
Chuy was looking at them in the rearview mirror. He locked eyes with Nayeli and raised his eyebrows, shook his head slightly, made a small calming motion with his palms. Tacho poked Yolo, who snorted awake and elbowed Vampi.
Chuy opened the doors. Everybody on the bus was awake now. A soldier with an
M16 slung over his shoulder stepped aboard.
“Lights,” he said.
Chuy clicked on the interior lights.
Everybody was blinking, covering their eyes.
A second soldier’s head appeared behind the first’s back, peering in at them from the steps. Nayeli saw soldiers standing around the bus, looking up at them in the windows.
The first soldier entered, and the second, then a third. They filled the narrow passageway. They looked as young as Nayeli.
They first stared at an old woman alone in the right front row.
“Drugs?” he said.
“¡Ay Dios, no!” she cried.
He nodded, but he was already looking beyond her.
They came down the aisle, poking travelers with the barrels of their weapons.
“¿Mojados?” the first soldier asked a small group of men in front of Nayeli and Tacho.
“Only when we get to the other side,” one of the men quipped.
“Oh?” the soldier said.
“We’re Mexicans! From Jalisco.”
He nodded.
Moved forward.
He paused and looked at Nayeli.
His eyes fell to her chest.
He smiled a fraction of a smile, then turned his eyes to Tacho.
“You,” he said. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“Wetback,” Tacho said. “When we get to the border.”
“Where you from?”
“Tres Camarones.”
“Never heard of it.”
The soldiers looked at each other and smirked again.
The second soldier said, “This one looks like he’s carrying drugs.”
“Marijuana?” his partner said to Tacho.
“No.”
“Coca?”
“Hell, no.”
The soldier laid his rifle across the seat back in front of Tacho’s face.
“When you leave Mexico,” he said, “don’t come back.”
“Don’t worry,” Tacho said. “I’m on my way.”
What did he care? He’d never see this piece of crap again. But he knew better than to mouth off.
They looked at Yolo and Vampi, and were about to say something else, when they caught sight of a couple huddled in the rear of the bus.
Into the Beautiful North Page 6