The Border

by Steve Schafer

  Was this supposed to be Marcos? Did he die because of us? What if they’re here, watching us right now?

  I turn away from the body and begin scanning the land around us. The rising heat makes everything move in a menacing sway.

  “¿Está vivo?” Arbo asks.

  “I don’t think so,” Marcos says. “But he hasn’t been dead long.”

  Almost in unison, the others turn and do as I do, search for any sign of company.

  “How long?” Arbo asks.

  “Not very long.”

  “About two hours,” I say.

  Eyes that were scanning the horizon turn back to me.

  “Look at the shade,” I say. The shadow from the tree slices across his body at an angle, leaving most of it exposed to the sun except for his head and part of his upper chest. “He was trying to stay in it…until he died.”

  “Well, professor,” Marcos says, “that’s pretty good. What else do you have?”

  “He looks like you.”

  I wasn’t going to say it. Why mention it? What good would it do? Scare the rest of us? But his smug delivery knocked the restraint right out of me. I almost felt like I was hitting him when I said it.

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “Oh my God, he does,” Arbo gasps.

  “What, because he’s got short hair?” Marcos asks. “He doesn’t look anything like me. And so what if he does?”

  “So what? So why do you think he’s dead?” Arbo asks.

  Gladys turns away, cupping a hand to her mouth.

  “See? She even thinks so.”

  Marcos stares down at the body.

  “We need to go,” he says.

  “Hell yeah, we need to go,” Arbo answers.

  “Now,” Marcos says.

  “Wait,” Gladys says. “We need to find out who he is.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a person. He has family somewhere,” she says.

  “No. We need to go now,” Marcos says in a low voice, as if to make the point that we might not be the only people in the area.

  I think of Sr. Ortíz’s son. I look up at the vultures, and I consider where we are—in the middle of nowhere. Whoever this is will never be found, at least not by somebody who cares.

  “She’s right. We need to look,” I say.

  Marcos huffs. “Then go for it, güey.” He motions toward the body with a sickly gesture.

  I kneel over the man and swat at the flies. They storm my head, trying to enter me like they had entered him. I hold my breath and pat lightly against his front pockets. Nothing.

  I know the next place to look, but I back away before doing it.

  “Come on. We need to go,” Marcos says.

  “Hold on.” I take a deep breath, move in, grab his belt and his shoulder, and pull. His body rolls toward me with a sucking pop, as if it has been baked into the desert floor. Caked blood and dirt cover his backside. I cringe and poke a delicate finger at his back pockets, hoping I’ll find something and fearing I’ll have to fish it out.

  My fears win. He has nothing. I roll him back over. His head knocks against the side of the tree and I almost say, “Sorry.” It’s hard to think of this as merely a body. A person yesterday, a corpse now, and a ghost tomorrow. Known to nobody.

  A murky river of thoughts washes over me. All at once, I see the backyard, Sr. Ortíz’s son, even the driver of the truck that chased us in Sonoyta slumped over the steering wheel.

  It’s overwhelming.

  How many people have to die? How many people die like this? Alone, devoured in the belly of the desert, leaving nothing except haunting questions for others. Hundreds? Thousands?

  Will I be one of them?

  I gaze at his boots and think of the care that went into lacing them, the thought that went into picking these for his trip. All for nothing. They aren’t shoes you wear to the store. They’re for a long, rugged journey. I wonder if it occurred to him as he threaded them up that it might be the last time.

  “Hey, we have to go. You understand?” Marcos says.

  “Just give me a chingado second. Okay?”

  I grab the young man’s hand and clutch his rigid fingers tight in my palms. In my mind, I swear I’ll try to help him. But I know I can’t. I can’t ask him his name. I can’t take his picture. Even if by some miracle I were to talk with his mother, I doubt I could describe him well enough for her to be certain it was him, or even begin to guide her back to the spot where he lies.

  This is his funeral.

  Gladys places a hand on my shoulder. It’s time to leave.

  We walk away and a few minutes later take our first sips of water, with Marcos’s guidance on how much we should drink. We are all still thirsty.

  “Hey Pato, do you really think they killed that guy because they thought it was Marcos?” Arbo asks in a low voice as we continue our march.

  “No,” I say. And I believe it. “But someone killed that guy, and that person is out here. And so are we.”

  After that we prod along in silence, taking advantage of a dipping sun, listening to the sounds of the Sonoran wild…and listening for any other sounds too.

  Bonded by Blood

  Marcos takes the knife from his bag. A sliver of moon hangs low near the horizon, giving enough light to guide him as he makes a small slice in his index finger. He hands the knife to Arbo to do the same.

  “You can pass diseases doing this kind of thing,” Arbo says.

  “That’s what you’re most worried about right now?” Marcos asks.

  I don’t like to admit when Marcos is right, but it’s a valid point. Given what we’ve seen and where we are, this is the least of our worries. We risk more by not pledging ourselves to each other.

  Arbo doesn’t answer. Marcos reaches for the knife.

  “No, I want to do it. I’m just saying…”

  “Then do it.”

  Arbo winces and cuts. He hands the knife to me, and I gently slide the blade across my finger. It’s not easy to cut deep enough to draw blood, but shallow enough to stop the loss quickly.

  Gladys follows.

  We each squeeze a few drops onto a bent tin lid from the can of beans that was our dinner. Marcos delicately swirls the mixture together, then visits each of us, smearing streaks of our communal lifeblood across our cheeks.

  “To the other side,” Marcos says, wiping the final streaks on his own face.

  “To us,” Arbo says.

  “To our families,” Gladys says.

  “To the unknown—may we see it coming,” I say.

  Bonded by our blood, we all fall deep into thought. We’re sitting in a circle, resting after having trudged through the last available light of the day. The stars wheel slowly around us, except one.

  “Which one is it?” Gladys asks, looking up, breaking the silence.

  “That one,” I say, taking my finger out of my mouth to point to a bright spot dead north in the sky. “It’s called Polaris.”

  “How do you know that’s it?”

  “You know what the Big Dipper is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Draw a line from the two stars on the right side of the cup. Find the brightest star on that line, and that’s it.”

  “Where did you learn that?” she asks.

  “My dad,” Arbo answers. “He used to say that if you only knew one star, that was the one to know.”

  “It’s good that you know it. We’re going to have to do most of our walking at night,” Marcos says, like this is a command he’s passing down to us. It isn’t. We talked about it together back at Sr. Ortíz’s house. We talked about it several times on the miserable trek out here. None of us expected how exhausting it would be to plow through the desert during the day. Even limiting our water, we drank more than we planned. And we’
re still thirsty. We’ll boil before we make it, if we don’t get spotted first by any one of the countless groups of people who are looking for us. Traveling at night is a known. Like leaving Mexico, it’s our only real option. It’s classic Marcos to call it out as his own decree. And I’m getting pretty sick of it.

  The pale glow of the moon at my back reflects off Arbo’s eyes as he rolls them at me. It’s enough to calm my nerves. I put my finger back in my mouth and taste blood once more.

  “We’re never going to see it again,” Gladys says after a while.

  “See what?” I ask.

  “Mexico. Home. Our families. Everything we’ve known.”

  “Whatever home was, it’s not that anymore,” Arbo says.

  “I know,” she answers. “That’s the saddest part.”

  Heads nod, but none of us answer.

  “I’m trying to be positive, but…it’s hard,” Gladys continues. Her voice shakes. “I can’t stop thinking about that guy under the tree. Who was he? Where was he from? Was he feeling the same things as me? Trying to let go of his past? Trying to find a way to move on? Because it didn’t make any difference. Someone shot him and it was over.”

  “We don’t have to let go of the past,” I say.

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “There are some things we can only keep in here,” I say, pointing to my head. “But they’re still there. You know who told me that?”

  “Yup. That makes it a really good point,” she says. “I have an idea. We should each say one of our favorite memories from back home.”

  “Anything?” Arbo asks.

  “Yeah. One thing that you can think back on and always smile about because nobody can ever take that moment away.”

  No one speaks. I suppose it’s one thing to mash our blood together and wear it, but it’s another thing to actually open up to each other.

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll start,” she says. “My mom sewed. She loved to sew. She would make these beautiful dresses. I know you guys know that.” She looks at Arbo. “She made Carmen’s quinceañera dress.”

  Arbo nods and bites his lip.

  “That was her favorite thing to do. Somebody would tell her about their daughter’s quince or wedding, and she’d immediately smile. You could look at her and tell she was thinking about how to make the perfect dress for that person, for that special moment. She’d be so excited, she’d stay up half the night working on it. I used to stay up with her to watch. The way she worked, the joy that would pour out of her, the different music she would listen to for different dresses, the smile she had when she hummed along, the dancing with the cloth to make sure it felt right, the way she stored clips and pencils in her hair like a tool belt, the way she’d always lose something up there too, and it didn’t bother her because she was lost in what she was creating… Then she’d shake her head and a pair of scissors would fall out, and we’d laugh about it. It was art. I was watching an artist. She would tell me where to sew a button or what type of stitch to use, and most of the time, I’d do it. Because it was right. But sometimes, I’d see it differently. And she’d listen. And then it would become our dress. Our art. Something we made with each other and nobody else in the world. She’d make me part of it.”

  I’m entranced. She sniffles and wipes her nose along her sleeve. I’ve never seen her so beautiful.

  “That’s my moment. No matter what happens, I’ll always have that. It’s the perfect way to remember her too. It’s so…who she was. I didn’t have a quinceañera. I didn’t want one. It’s not me. But I was so nervous to tell her. I was sure she had been dreaming about the dress for years. And when I finally built up the courage to tell her, she almost looked happy. She said that anybody who makes art—of any kind—should listen to themselves first and do what they think is right. I miss her.”

  “I remember hearing Arbo’s mom tell someone about it,” I say. “She talked about how happy your mom was because you made your own choice.”

  “Thanks. I know she was happy.”

  We sit in silence, waiting for someone else to step forward, which isn’t easy with a story like that to live up to.

  “Mine is easy,” Arbo says. “It’s the day I came up with El Revolucionario. Which was also one of the worst days ever. Everything about that day sucked. I got made fun of because of the way I talked. One of the teachers said I was too gordito, and she took away part of my lunch in front of everybody. We played some stupid game after school and divided into teams. I wasn’t even the last person picked. I wasn’t picked at all. We had an odd number, and I was the only person left at the end, so I couldn’t play. I just sat on the sideline like a loser until somebody kicked a ball and it drilled me in the head.”

  We all laugh. He means for us to. Nobody can talk down about Arbo like Arbo can. I think it’s a defense mechanism. He beats people to the punch.

  “I got home, found a flashlight, and crawled into a closet. Which was great, until about five minutes later when I started to get bored. But I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to see anybody. Plus, I had told my mom I was never going to come out. I couldn’t give up after five minutes. So I looked in my book bag and found a pencil and paper. It was like, here’s something I can do. Here’s somebody who’s not going to make fun of me. And if anybody does, here’s somebody who can kick their butt!”

  Again, he gets a laugh.

  I turn to Marcos and Gladys as they react to Arbo’s story. I smile. What I like most about this moment is that they’re learning to appreciate Arbo for who he is. Not everyone does. Not everyone gives him a chance.

  “I know he’s made up. Duh. But he’s also not. I don’t think of him that way. I think of him as somebody I know. A friend. Family. Someone like that. It’s almost like he talks to me sometimes. Even though I know it’s only me talking to me, it feels different. Anyway, that day—the second half of it—that’s my moment.”

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll draw him for you,” Gladys says.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You told that story just so I’d offer to, didn’t you?”

  “No. But I should have!”

  “When we get out of here, I’ll draw him. I promise.”

  “You’d better. He can’t wait.”

  “Oh boy,” Marcos sighs.

  “I’ve got mine,” I say.

  They all turn and look at me.

  “One time I stayed at Arbo’s house, and we spent all night on that old back seat in the desert behind his backyard. It was almost three years ago exactly, because it was right after Carmen’s birthday… We snuck into the kitchen at some point and ate the rest of her cake. We spent the whole night on that bench, counting shooting stars, making up stories about what Revo might do if he went to the moon, looking for eyes in the dark, scared that some chupacabra was going to leap out and eat us. We talked about life, about girls, about how far away the stars were but how we could still see them, and about how close the beach was but neither one of us had ever been to see it. It was the best conversation of my life, with my best friend.”

  Arbo nods next to me, as if this easily could have been his favorite memory too.

  “Then we fell asleep. When I woke, it was just before dawn. Right when you can see only a tiny glow of light. Arbo was still asleep. I didn’t wake him. I had seen sunrises before, but I had never been in the middle of one like that. I had never listened to it. It was like the earth was waking up. Things rustled, little things, tiny animals running from one bush to another. I saw some, but I didn’t see most. Birds started chirping. Slowly. Softly. Like they were warming up, one at a time. I saw a rattlesnake—a big one—sliding along as though he was taking his usual morning stroll. I didn’t bother him and he didn’t bother me. It was like I was watching all of this, and my presence wasn’t disturbing any of it. I remember thinking, this is how it happens every morning, only I’m not here t
o see it. It was like walking into your house and finding another room you had never seen before.

  “Then I heard footsteps. It was Arbo’s dad coming out to us. I thought he might be mad, but he wasn’t. He waved and took a seat. Arbo woke and the three of us watched the sun come up. He said that he and my dad had done the same thing one night when they were about our age. That’s the first time I remember thinking about how much I loved where we lived. Because it was our home. It was where we belonged. And I had this vision of me walking outside one morning to my son and Arbo’s son, watching the sun rise over the desert. And now. Well, you know…”

  I stop. I don’t want to make it about what can’t be. That’s not the point. It’s about what we remember that’s good.

  “It’s still a great memory,” I say. “The best. It doesn’t get any better than that night and that morning.”

  Gladys puts a hand on my shoulder. Real or imagined, I can feel both Arbo’s and Marcos’s expressions shift.

  Marcos clears his throat to speak. I can hardly wait to hear what game-winning goal he’s going to share to enlighten our lives.

  “Our dad played soccer,” he starts.

  Oh boy.

  “And he was good. No, he was great. When he was a couple of years older than me, he played for Morelia for a season. Midfield. He could score, but more than that, he was fast. When I’d meet the guys he played with, they’d still talk about how fast he was. They called him Humo—they swore he left a trail of smoke behind him. Morelia put him in the starting lineup. He traveled all over Mexico. The guy came from dirt. He didn’t even have a toilet in his town where he grew up, and here he was signing autographs, staying in fancy hotels. His life was about to take off. Then a defender slid into his knee during a game. Sideways. Broke everything. In a second, his career was over. The next year, he’s back in a town without a toilet. The only good that came out of it was that he met my mom.”

  Gladys is crying softly. He puts an arm on her shoulder.

  “I promise, I’ll get to the good part. So, I’m the only son. I’ve had a soccer ball near me since I was born. Dad put one in my crib. Seriously. I didn’t have a teddy bear. I had a ball named Don Balón. Don’t get me wrong, I love the game. I do. When I’m out on the field, it’s like… I’m a better me. I’m doing what’s in my genes. I’m at my best. But that—my best—was never enough. In seventeen years, my dad never said I had a great game. Not once, no matter how many goals I scored. No matter how hard I ran. He always said, ‘Here’s what we need to work on.’ ‘Nosotros,’ he’d say. It wasn’t me. It was us. I was playing for us. And for my dad, that was never as good as him playing for him.