And in Huckleberry and Jim, I find Arbo and me, and the others. I’m not suggesting it’s the same. Nobody here is anyone’s slave. But there are striking similarities. They lose their home. They’re forced out into the unknown to find a new life. There’s a bounty on their heads. They get in gunfights. They have to work their way through untrustworthy criminals. They even find a dead man…shot, abandoned, and unknown.
I zip through the pages at a pace as blistering as the light that makes me squint to read them. What strikes me most is Huckleberry’s attitude. To him, it’s an adventure, and he embraces it. His tragedies, his flight from home, all the unknowns, his narrow escapes from death—these are all part of the journey, and he presses forward, shaping his travels as much as they shape him. You even get the sense that it’s fun.
¿Divertido? No, this isn’t fun. It’s tragic. It’s appalling. Huck hasn’t suffered a loss like I have. He doesn’t even like his home all that much. Still, there is something in this for me. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there…
“How’s the book?” Arbo asks in a low, throaty voice.
“It’s good. I’ve only read about half of it. It’s interesting. It’s… Do you ever wonder what we’ll think about this trip later on?”
“If we make it?”
“Yeah. If we make it.”
“I think we’ll always wish it never happened, no matter how good it gets.”
“You think we’ll ever laugh about it?”
“Some of it. Maybe.”
“Like what?”
“Well, we are in our underwear,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess that’s an obvious one.”
“We’ll definitely laugh about Marcos. But only when he’s not around. Unless we want him to punch us.”
“I’d let him punch me right now, if it meant I could see him with a big jug of water,” I say.
“He probably drank it all already.”
“Are you kidding? No, they’ve probably had five sips each, every two hours and seventeen minutes.”
“Yeah. We’ll definitely laugh about that,” Arbo says. He struggles to prop himself up on an elbow and his expression turns serious. “She likes you more, you know.”
“She likes us both, but that’s the last thing—”
“Stop,” he says. “We both know it. It’s not worth arguing about. If I stood in the way, I’d only be doing it to be bitter. And that’s not right. Besides, I could use a little sister. I miss Carmen.” He looks down for a moment, and I reach out to him. He regains his composure. “What I’m saying is that if we find them, don’t worry about me. I want you to know that I’m okay with it.”
“And what I’m saying is that we’re in the middle of an oven, and that’s the last thing you or I should be thinking about,” I say.
“No. It’s one of the first things. I’m sixteen, güey, and I’ve never had a girlfriend. And there’s a good chance I never will.”
“What about Daniela?”
“She kissed me once and then broke up with me two days later. That doesn’t count. So, if we’re going to die out here, we’d better start making things count. If we find them, go for it. You owe it to me. Because finding them doesn’t mean we get out of here, it just means we might, and we get a little extra time if we don’t.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
“Besides,” he says. “It’ll make Marcos mad, so it’s not like I won’t get any fun out of it.”
“Okay. You got a deal,” I say, as if any part of that is a deal.
The shade threatens to leave us again, so I stand and rearrange our clothes.
“¿Te duele la cabeza?” he asks.
“No.”
“Ugh. My head is throbbing.”
This is the worst part of our situation. He hands over his ego to me, and I can’t do anything in return except shuffle some laundry on a tree.
“Maybe you should sleep. It might feel better when you wake up.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
He closes his eyes and goes silent. Again, I watch his chest rise and fall.
I look out beyond our tree and think about Gladys, wondering what she’s doing right now. I miss her. I miss her playful smile. I miss the way I feel when I’m around her. I miss her perspective. I need it. If she were here, she’d be sand-scaping or doing something to search for the positive in all of this, not eyeing our situation up and down and seeing nothing but a bleak and hopeless mess.
I grab the book once more. I turn to the inside cover and look at our scribbled names above the measly sentence about us. Is this it? ¿Es todo que somos? Just names scribbled on a page?
What if we make it?
I consider this possibility.
If we make it across, it should be more than a mad dash that almost killed us. It should mean something. But what?
There are several blank pages in the back of the book. I grab the pencil and write. I write about our bond and the events that fused us all together, even if we’re separated at this moment.
I write, not in case someone finds us—I write in case we make it.
Beneath the Willow
I watch Arbo’s brown skin begin to lighten, like a chameleon placed against a white sheet.
I tap on his arm. He doesn’t budge. I put my hand on his shoulder. I’m startled by how cool it feels. I shake him, softly at first, but soon I’m tugging in near panic.
He makes a noise.
I let out a long, deep breath of air I didn’t realize I had been holding.
He rolls slowly onto his back.
“Arbo?”
“Mmm.”
“Arbo?”
“Mmm.”
“Arbo!” I shake his chest.
His eyes open and turn in my direction. I’ve never looked at a pair of eyes before and been able to tell that they were out of focus. His are.
“¿Qué hora eth?” he asks, in a lisped draw.
“I don’t know. You have the watch,” I say.
“Ah. Sí,” he says and holds his wrist up over his head, swinging it around in unsteady circles.
I grab his arm and hold it still. “It’s two o’clock,” I say.
“Can you pathhh me the water? My throat is tho dry.”
“We don’t have any water, Arbo,” I say.
We haven’t had water in about fifteen hours.
He cocks his head and stares at me as though I’m lying. Then his neck goes limp and his head slumps back into the dirt.
“Ohhh, that’s right. Nooo water.”
“Arbo, are you okay?” I ask, like I don’t already know the answer.
“I think… Thólo nethethito dormir. A little sleep. Just a little more…” He closes his eyes again.
“We have to go find Marcos and Gladys,” I say. “We need water.”
“Yeah, waaater…”
I grab his arm and pull up.
“Come on, Arbo. Let’s go find them.”
He swipes at my arm.
“Arbo. We have to look.”
He props himself up on an elbow, with his head swaying back and forth. He turns on to his knees and tries to push himself up to stand. He doesn’t even make it halfway. With his face down, he blindly points a finger outward. I look. It leads to the middle of nothing, the same as it would in any other direction.
“Water…”
“There’s no water, Arbo. We need to find Marcos and Gladys. Revo wants you to get up right now, Arbo. Think about it. What would Revo do?”
“Sleep a little more. It’s too hot. Solo…una…hora…más. Qué calor…”
I’m crying. Again.
“I’m going to go look now, okay? I’m not going to go far.”
His lids spring half-open.
“Nooo. You can’t leave me. We ca
n’t split. Okay?”
I don’t answer.
“Okay?”
I nod.
His eyes roll backward as they shut.
“Just a little more sleep…”
He’s asleep in minutes.
The sun is high above us, and it feels like it’s still getting hotter, if that’s possible. I look around us. Nothing. No one. Anywhere.
I roll back onto the ground. I consider breaking my promise and leaving. Then I fall asleep too.
• • •
“Arbo?”
I look at his watch. It’s four o’clock. I grab his arm and shake.
“Arbo.”
No response. Again, I start the fearful, wild tugging.
“Mmm,” he says.
“How are you doing?”
“Waterrr.”
“There’s no water.”
He shakes his finger. “Waterrr.”
“We’ll get some in a little bit, Arbo. Okay?”
He puts his thumb up. Then he goes limp again. “Mmm.”
I watch his chest. Still moving, though it’s slower. I don’t know why he is fading so much faster than me, but he is. Arbo is dying. And all I can do is watch. Well, I won’t. I accept that among my final words to him, I may have lied.
I put on my shoes and stand. I reposition the clothes so he’ll stay in the shade, and I stare at him. How long will he last? Will I come back to find him dead?
I want so desperately to do something more, but I can’t. I have nothing to offer.
Or do I?
Living near a desert, you hear stories of desperation. Of nearly doomed people who do outrageous things when there is almost no hope left.
Our hope is dwindling.
I have an idea. I don’t know if it’s a good one. I don’t even know if it will help. But I’ll do whatever I can to try to keep Arbo alive. For at least a few more hours. I need time to find water.
I don’t have a cup. I need a cup. It doesn’t work without a cup.
I reach for the hole in my underwear.
He’ll never take it.
I could just put it there.
Who am I kidding? He’ll never drink it. If he wakes up and sees what I’m doing, he’ll freak. Wouldn’t I? And if he doesn’t wake up, then he won’t drink.
I kick at him lightly. No response. I repeat. No response.
He’s still breathing.
I settle for the next best thing. I pull down my underwear and aim. I know it’s warm, but so is sweat, and sweat cools the body. I need to cool him down.
I release.
I haven’t peed since we left Marcos and Gladys. It’s a dark yellow. It splashes against his body, mostly dripping into the sand below. I squeeze and stop the flow.
This isn’t working. It’s not sticking to anything.
I know what I have to do.
I aim at his head and douse it. His thick locks of hair soak it up. His hand moves up to brush at the drops, but he doesn’t wake. As far as he knows, it’s raining.
“I’m so sorry. I swear I’ll come back.”
I turn and walk up the mountain. I don’t look back. I can’t. I need to focus on moving forward.
The western sun slams against my bare back, feeling more like noon than late afternoon. The slope, having faced the sun for hours now, is like a frying pan. Each step burns through my shoes. I take quick, little hops to try to defeat it, but it only wears me down, leaving me doubled over, huffing breaths of sweltering air. Breathing habanero mist wouldn’t burn this much. I lick my lips and my tongue nearly sticks to them. My mouth feels like it’s coated with clay. I couldn’t spit if I wanted to. I look down at my hands—they’re swollen. It doesn’t make sense how I can feel so thirsty, yet my fingers can be so plump with fluid.
My head soon begins to throb. I think of Arbo’s comment about his head only hours before. Am I merely a few hours behind him? I can’t go crazy out here. I need to make it back to Arbo.
I stop my march upward and turn around. I can still see our tree, baring the small tapestry of our clothes on its branches. I study the view. I won’t make the same mistake twice. It’s the only willow I can see, but I need more of a reference. I spot a saguaro cactus with a broken fork near the top of one of its tall arms, thrust high into the sky as if reaching for rain.
I look back up the mountainside. I find a boulder that’s split in half, like an egg dropped from above.
Up the slope from the split cactus and down the slope from the split boulder. I repeat it over in my head.
I decide I’ll only walk in two directions—I’ll start along the slope to the south, then retrace my path and head north.
I turn south and start walking. It’s the loneliest and most scared I’ve ever felt in my life. But the fear isn’t dying.
The fear is losing my way. My pounding headache gets worse with each passing minute. Confusion lingers so closely that I can feel it creeping into my wandering thoughts, causing me to question what landmarks I’ve seen and in what sequence.
The fear is that I will exhaust myself and will be too far away to go back. Every step I take I’ll have to match on my return. My legs wobble more each minute, making me worry I won’t have the strength to do it. And stopping provides no rest. I can’t sit on the scalding ground in my underwear. The heat doesn’t quit.
The fear is that even if I am strong and aware enough to return, Arbo will have woken to find that I’m not there, so he will stumble out somewhere in the brush to die on his own, his last thoughts being that his best friend abandoned him.
I press as far as I can. I find nothing. No Gladys. No Marcos. Only a long stretch of one disappointing step after the next. I turn around in defeat.
The sun dips lower on the horizon, like an hourglass. The softer light does not relieve my distress. The lower it gets, the more concerned I become.
Will I make it back by dark?
What seems like hours after I began my hike, I find the cracked rock and the split cactus. I stumble back to the willow and collapse underneath it with Arbo. I’ve achieved nothing but exhaustion. There is an hour of daylight left at most.
He is curled on his side. I rest my forehead on his shoulder.
“Mmm,” he says.
“Hey, Arbo.”
“Mmm…”
That’s the most I’m able to get.
This is how it ends.
I place my hand on his back so I can feel him breathe, and I close my eyes.
I won’t leave him. Now. Or later. I won’t abandon him. What good would it do anyway? He may get there sooner than me, but we’re both near the end. There’s not much point in dropping dead a few kilometers away from him. This is our fate. Together.
I begin to feel my own clarity slipping away. My thoughts scatter. I’m not scared. I suppose I’ve had a few days of warm-up for death. There’s a numbness to it. A resignation. Even a curiosity for what, if anything, lies beyond.
But I’m disappointed. In myself. In how quickly the desert devoured us. And in life in general—ironically, for the lack of adventure I’ve had, until now.
Through my eyelids, I can sense the light retreating from the sky. I think about my parents and the others from the backyard and wonder if it would be better to go suddenly, or have time—as I do—to sit and reflect on it all.
I don’t come to an answer. I wait for the stars, hoping that I’ll go beneath their twinkle, rather than face the fury of the sun one more day.
• • •
A guttural roar echoes off the mountainside.
I open my eyes. The sun is gone and its dwindling reflection against the sky is all that remains, leaving everything a dull tan.
I listen for the sound again.
Silence.
A dream?
I
close my eyes once more.
“Auuggghhhh!”
I spring up. I know that voice. And this time, I hear where it’s coming from.
“Arbo?” I say, tugging his arm.
Nothing.
No! No! Please no!
I put my hand in front of his mouth and nose. He’s breathing. I don’t bother checking any further. I stand and sprint south, trying desperately to listen beyond my huffing. I don’t know where this burst of energy comes from, and I don’t question it.
“Marcos!” I yell. “Gladys!”
I stop and cup my hands around my ears.
“Pato! Pato!” It’s two voices. One high and one low.
I race forward.
We scream each other’s names until, finally, I see them.
Gladys charges toward me, wraps me in her arms and kisses me. On the lips. It’s glorious. Absolutely glorious. Marcos is in the distance, but not that far away. I’m sure he sees it.
“I thought you were dead,” she blurts out through sobs.
“No. We’re alive!”
“Where’s Arbo?”
“We need to get back, now. Get water!”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s not good. We need water!”
“How far away is he?”
“A couple of minutes.”
Gladys motions and we run back toward Marcos and the supplies. He’s on the ground with his leg in the air. His hands are wrapped around a small, bloody cloth, pressed against where the cactus speared him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“His leg got infected,” she says, while running.
“Is he okay?”
She doesn’t answer. She speeds up and I struggle to keep pace. We reach him before I have the chance to ask again.
He sits up and wraps a bone-crunching arm around me. I wasn’t expecting it.
“I didn’t think we’d see you again,” he says.
He shoves a jug of water in my face.
“We need to get Arbo,” I say.
“Drink. We’ll get him,” he says back.
The Border Page 13