The Book in Room 316

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  “Mommy, I want to go outside and play,” Alejandro said.

  I guess I should’ve been grateful. Up until an hour ago, Alejandro or Maria wouldn’t leave my side. “Sweetheart, we talked about this,” I replied. I’d had to explain to them about the reporters.

  He walked over to the front window and looked outside at the reporters camped in front of our house.

  “But whyyy?” he whined.

  “Because we’re prisoners,” Miguel snapped, joining his brother at the window.

  “We’re in jail like Mommy was,” Maria added.

  All of this—the whole scenario—was hurting my heart. I was grateful to be home, but I still felt like a prisoner. I’d decided I was going to try and just talk to Paco, maybe convince him to give himself up. That way I wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of turning my eldest son in. The only problem was I had no idea how to find Paco. The number Miguel had called had been disconnected and I had no idea where he was staying.

  I also had to check in with immigration officials once a week while my case made its way through the courts, but that was a small price to pay if it meant I no longer had to live in fear. Then again, it looked like I was still living in fear—fear of the unknown.

  “Come here, kids,” I said, patting the sofa next to me. “Have a seat. Let me talk to you guys.”

  Alejandro and Maria crawled around me. “I am so sorry you all are going through this.” I wrapped my arms around them and relished their scents as they snuggled closer.

  “Is it true what people are saying?” Miguel asked. He hadn’t moved from the window, but he had turned to face me. “That we shouldn’t be here and that Paco is a killer?”

  I reached out for Miguel’s hand. He paused, but then walked over and our fingers intertwined. “Sweetheart, don’t listen to what people say. What do I tell you guys?”

  Maria chimed in, “Sticks and stones can break my bones but words—”

  “But these words do hurt,” Miguel said, cutting her off. When he looked at me, he had tears in his eyes.

  I pushed a loose thread of hair out of his face. “I understand that, son. And I can’t apologize enough for that. It doesn’t matter whether I belong here, the three of you do. It is where you were born, so this is your home. This is where you will always live.”

  “But if they send you away, I want to come live with you,” Maria said, hugging me tighter.

  I struggled to fight back the tears. I’d thought about this all night. If I was forced to go back to Hidalgo, I couldn’t take my children with me. My whole reason in coming to America had been to give them a better life. And I knew Rosa would step up to help me. I would just have to find a way to send her money to help raise them.

  I couldn’t believe I was planning a life without my kids. The thought of being without my children made a sickening feeling rise in my stomach.

  “What are the chances of you being deported?” Miguel asked. He now stood upright, his man-of-the-house demeanor taking over. Miguel was so much like his father, inquisitive and thought-provoking and determined.

  “Miguel, you let me worry about that, okay?”

  “No, Mom,” he replied with conviction. “This affects us all. So I think we should know what’s going on.”

  I was about to protest when he continued. “You don’t want me to wake up tomorrow and you’re gone, and then we’re left trying to figure out what to do. We have to develop a plan.”

  My thirteen-year-old was trying to come up with a plan in the event that I was deported. The tears I’d been fighting back trickled out. When I’d taken that long ride across the border all those years ago, I never imagined that one day I’d be here.

  I took a deep breath, then explained to my son how their life would go on without me.

  + + +

  It had taken some time, but I’d gotten the kids settled in bed. I peeked outside. The camera crews had left, though I was sure they’d return with daylight. I let the curtain fall closed as I slumped down onto the sofa.

  “Oh, Julio, my life is such a mess,” I whispered. I wondered if he were here, what would he want us to do?

  Then a thought struck me. If Julio were here, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. If my husband hadn’t died, my son wouldn’t be wanted for murder.

  I was lost in thoughts of what if when I heard a light tapping on the back door. I sat up as the tapping got louder. I glanced over at the clock. It was just after midnight. If this was a dang reporter . . .

  I walked over to the closet and retrieved Miguel’s baseball bat. I then headed into the kitchen.

  “Who is it?” I hissed.

  “It’s me, Ma.”

  The sound of my oldest son’s voice made me swing the door open. My first reaction was relief. I wanted so desperately to take my son into my arms and just hold him. He looked worn down, like life on the streets had taken its toll. After a few seconds, I couldn’t resist the urge. I took him into my arms, all but yanked him into the house, and then I hugged him as if my life depended on it.

  “Mi hijo,” I cried, plastering him with kisses.

  Normally, he would’ve squirmed away, but it was as if he welcomed each kiss.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, finally shutting the door and examining him from his head to the tips of his expensive tennis shoes.

  He nodded. I peeked outside through the small window in the door.

  “Don’t worry, Ma,” he said. “I made sure no one saw me.”

  I exhaled in relief, and then my eyes asked the question my mouth couldn’t. And my son answered, “Mom, I didn’t shoot the little girl . . .” He paused and let his words hang in the air. Finally, he added, “But I know who did and I have no idea what to do.”

  I wanted to tell him I knew what he should do—turn himself in. But I couldn’t get the words to come out.

  I knew all about the no-snitching creed of gangs, but our situation was bound by a different set of rules. Paco faced prison or deportation. I’d fled Hidalgo to keep the gangs from claiming my son. And now they’d taken him anyway. This story, no matter what happened—would not have a happy ending.

  “Son, just come on in. Rest. We can talk about this tomorrow,” I said.

  My son’s shoulders sagged in relief.

  chapter

  * * *

  35

  The work visa has been granted for a year while your case makes its way through the system. So you have to find your son and give the DA what he wants.

  Mr. Oliver’s words were still playing in my head as I stood with my hand on the phone. He’d called just as we sat down to eat dinner.

  I didn’t kid myself—this wasn’t going to be an easy journey. But at least I was out of the shadows. It had taken nineteen years, and while my faith had wavered, it had never faltered. And I was reaping the fruits of my patience. But I couldn’t rejoice, not when my eldest son’s fate hung in the wind.

  I hadn’t told Mr. Oliver that Paco was here. I needed to talk to my son first.

  “Pass the tamales!” Miguel’s voice snapped me back to the dining room of our tiny home. My family was squished around our small dining room table, but I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

  “Miguel, wipe your mouth, son,” I said, returning to the table and pointing to the tamale crumbs all around his lips.

  “Sorry,” he said, using his sleeve to wipe them off. “These tamales . . . yes, son deliciosos!”

  That brought a smile to my face. “That’s right, mi hijo, they’re deliciosos.”

  He winked at me and my heart filled with joy. There was nothing like being deprived of your family to make you appreciate your family.

  Yet it was my love for my family that had my stomach in knots. The unknown was a terrible place to be.

  “So Mom has you speaking Spanish now, Miguel?” Paco joked. “You’re American, homie.”

  I playfully popped Paco on the arm. And he howled like I had really hurt him, which made the whole table erupt
in laughter. There had been a hostage situation at a nearby school, so the media had moved on and there were no reporters camped out today. That had allowed us all to relax just a little bit.

  “You can love America and not forget your roots,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he chuckled.

  “Here, eat up,” I said, plopping some more black beans onto his plate.

  “Mom, I’m stuffed,” Paco said, rubbing his stomach.

  “You’re skin and bones.” I squeezed his arm. “Eat for me.”

  “Yeah,” Alejandro chimed in. “It’s a party!”

  I pointed the serving utensil in his direction. “Which is the only reason I’m letting you eat your cake with dinner.”

  I took my finger and dipped it in his icing, then tapped his nose. Alejandro giggled.

  I wished we could live in this temporary utopia forever. My whole family gathered together. The problems that plagued us, momentarily forgotten.

  The kids had been so happy to see Paco when they’d awakened this morning. Paco had played with them, then crashed like he hadn’t slept in days. He’d finally awakened about an hour ago—just in time to join us for dinner.

  I started my job at the Freedom Coalition tomorrow, and for the first time since I’d entered the United States, I was legal, even if it was temporary. Mr. Oliver was confident that because of my unblemished past, my future looked bright—if we could work out this thing with Paco. If I could convince my son to tell the police what they needed to know.

  “So, Paco, how’s life?” I asked, taking a seat next to him.

  “It’s okay, Ma,” he said. “Matter of fact,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money and slid it across the table, “go buy yourself something nice for your first day at work.”

  My first instinct was to chastise him. But I didn’t want this day ruined or to push Paco away.

  “No, son. I can’t accept this.”

  “I’ll take it!” Miguel said, reaching across the table to pick up the money.

  I popped Miguel’s hand, then took the money, forced my smile back on my face, and turned to Paco. “No, son. I want you to start a savings account for yourself. One day you may need this money.”

  I knew that with Paco’s situation, there was no way he’d go near a bank, but I had to figure out a way to refuse his ill-gotten money without making him angry.

  It took everything inside me not to preach to Paco. But he wasn’t ready to receive the Word. I had turned him over to God, so I knew at some point, he’d be handled. This past month had taught me that things didn’t come when we wanted them, but if we stayed faithful, they’d come in due time.

  Luckily, the sound of the chiming doorbell interrupted us.

  “That’s probably Rosa,” I said, standing and heading to the door.

  “Are you guys eating without me?” my cheery friend said as she entered.

  Her kids raced past me. “Ooooh, Mommy, they’re eating cake,” her youngest announced when she saw Alejandro and Maria.

  “Can you two not be rude and say hello to Ms. Anna?” Rosa chastised.

  “Hi, Ms. Anna,” they sang in unison, then turned back to their mother. “Can we have cake?”

  Rosa raised an eyebrow at me. “Cake? Really?”

  “It’s a celebration.” I flashed a smile.

  “I guess you’re right.” She held up two bottles of wine. “And I brought the good stuff to celebrate.”

  “Cake, Mommy? Please?” Rosa’s oldest repeated.

  “Go ahead,” Rosa replied to her children’s gleeful excitement.

  Rosa and I headed into the kitchen. She put one bottle of wine in the refrigerator, then unscrewed the top on the other. “I’m so glad those reporters are gone,” she said.

  “For now,” I replied.

  “Are you ready for your new job?” she asked.

  “I am. I’m so excited to be fighting for immigration. I don’t belittle any job I’ve ever had, and I’m grateful for the Markham, but I think this will be so much more fulfilling.”

  Rosa nodded as she removed two glasses from the cabinet.

  “I’m sure it will be. And I am still trying to understand how the woman who gets in trouble lands the dream job.”

  I laughed as she filled both glasses. “And this is a dream. It’s a little more money, not a lot. But it’s a calling. I am so happy.”

  “I’m happy, too. Because this couldn’t happen to a better woman.” She hugged me. “I think I need some of your faith.”

  “Says the woman with two glasses of wine in her hand.”

  “What? Jesus drank wine. Besides, one of these is for you.” Rosa handed me a glass, then raised hers in a toast.

  “To the most faithful woman I know. May we all strive for a little bit of that,” she said.

  We clinked glasses, then took a sip of the wine. After a few seconds, Rosa glanced over her shoulder toward the dining room, then lowered her voice. “I guess since you got Paco here, he agreed to help the police?” she whispered.

  “No, I didn’t get him here. He showed up on his own. And actually, I haven’t been able to get up the nerve to talk to him.”

  “Really, Anna?” Rosa said. “He’s your child. Why are you acting like you’re scared of him?”

  I set my glass on the counter. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to push him away.”

  She put her glass on the counter as well and took a step toward me, her hands on her hips to let me know that she meant business. “Well, you can’t keep your head in the sand. And how long is he here? You’re jeopardizing your own status. And you have those other three kids to think about.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  Before Rosa could finish, Paco appeared in the doorway. My house was small and judging by the look on his face, I was sure he’d heard everything even though we’d kept our voices low.

  “Ma . . .” he said.

  Rosa looked back and forth between us, then said, “Let me go check on my kids. They’re probably eating up all the cake.” She grabbed her wineglass and headed out.

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” Paco said.

  Instinct took over and I pulled my boy into my arms and squeezed him tight. Tears popped into my eyes when he squeezed me back.

  I took a step back, cupped his face in my hands. “Tell me what happened. The truth. You didn’t do what they said, right? You had nothing to do with killing that little girl?” I asked.

  He looked me in the eye, his tears matching mine. “No, I told you,” he said, and my heart sank in relief because I believed him. “But I was with the guy who did. He wasn’t trying to hurt that little girl.”

  “Oh, Paco,” I said, hugging him again. “You’ve got to go to the police. Tell them everything they need to know. You’re a wanted man. You can’t run forever.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  My heart ached as I thought: even if he was able to avoid being charged with the crime, he would still be deported. I wondered if he even realized that was an option. So while I wanted him to turn himself in, I knew that, regardless, he’d either be led to jail or to the border.

  Both options broke my heart.

  “I have a good immigration attorney. Maybe he could . . .” I couldn’t even finish the sentence because I didn’t believe there was anything Mr. Oliver could do. But just as quickly as the doubt set in, I reminded myself of how my faith had just pulled me through the most trying of times.

  “Sweetheart, this is all going to work out,” I told him. “I don’t know how, but it will.” I took a deep breath. “You can’t stay on the run. You have to turn yourself in and tell the police what you know. Help them find the real killer.”

  Paco nodded, though his shoulders sank in defeat. “Ma, I promise, I’m gonna make this up to you. I’m gonna leave when it gets dark, gonna tie up some loose ends, then I’ll turn myself in. I heard what Ms. Rosa said. I don’t want this to mess you up. You have to be here for Al
ejandro, Miguel, and Maria.”

  That brought more tears to my eyes. All this time I had felt like Paco was being selfish, but my son was sacrificing himself for his family.

  This was both the happiest and saddest day of my life.

  Trey

  chapter

  * * *

  36

  Everyone knew that when it came to gangs, there was only one way out. That’s why I’d tried my best to steer clear of the 713 Crips, the notorious gang in my Fifth Ward neighborhood. But while I didn’t want to have anything to do with the gang, they wanted everything to do with me.

  My best friend, Wiz, was the only other boy in my neighborhood I knew that felt like me—and didn’t want anything to do with the gangs. The third member of our crew—this dude named Paco—didn’t care for the gangs, either, but he’d adapted a lot better than me and Wiz.

  We all had been sucked in with seemingly no way out. That’s why the three of us were sitting here on the corner of Lyons and Lockwood Boulevard, doing Monster’s dirty work.

  Monster was the leader of the 713 Crips, and he’d helped each of us out at one point by loaning us money for our families. We’d been paying the price ever since.

  At eighteen, I already knew this thug life wasn’t for me. I just wanted out of the game. I didn’t want to be sitting on a corner pushing black market guns. I didn’t want this to be my life. It had been my past. I didn’t want it to be my future. But I didn’t see any other ending for my story.

  Wiz leaned back against the building, an old, boarded-up gas station where we did a lot of our business. His eyes were a window into a soul that also wanted to be anywhere but here.

  I’d met Wiz when we were both ten-year-olds who had been dumped at the local Boys & Girls Club by our parents. We’d spent every moment outside of school there, and our mentor, Mr. Graham, tried his best to keep us on the straight and narrow. We’d met Paco two years later when his mom started sending him there in hopes that he’d like it better than the streets. But by age fourteen, the streets had summoned all of us, and now we were obligated to do Monster’s bidding.