The Border

by Steve Schafer

  Pollitos

  I feel a gentle brush against my forearm. I open my eyes. Gladys is looking at me with her index finger pressed to her lips. She’s lying at my side, holding Huckleberry Finn. She opens the book, grabs the pencil folded inside, and writes in the margin of one of the pages.

  Hi :)

  She hands me the pencil. I write back.

  Did you sleep?

  We pass the pencil back and forth, filling the slender margins of many pages.

  A little. No pillow. Oh, and sand and it’s a million degrees. Sorry I woke you. I don’t feel like I can talk to you when he’s awake.

  She turns the book so the arrow points to Marcos. He’s sleeping.

  No kidding. This is awful.

  I know. Nobody is talking! I want to talk with you. I miss talking with you.

  Me too.

  I’m scared.

  Me too.

  And thirsty. I bet I know what you’re going to write…

  I smile and mouth out, Me too.

  I read what you wrote in here. I liked it.

  I blush, trying to remember what I scribbled down while I was borderline delirious.

  Thanks. I didn't mean for anybody to read it.

  I figured that. But “you have to know when to break the rules.”

  Ha, ha.

  I want to get to know you better. I like how you think, Pato. You’re not like the others.

  ??

  You think. Do you ever get the feeling you were born in the wrong place?

  No. You do?

  Yes!

  Why?

  My mom wanted to be a doctor when she was little. When she grew up, she sewed clothes. Dreams don’t happen there.

  Is that why you want to be a doctor?

  Maybe. I know that I say I want to be a doctor, but I’m not sure.

  So what do you want to be?

  She blushes and hesitates. I grab the pencil back.

  I'm going to guess. What do I get if I'm right?

  I have something for you. A gift.

  An artist.

  She unfolds a small scrap of fabric torn from Marcos’s jeans. Weaved into the cloth is a variety of plant stems, twisted together in an elaborate design, with varying shades of desert green and brown ducking in and out of each other amid the dark blue of the jeans. It’s beautiful.

  She motions for my hand. I hold it in front of her. She wraps the band around my wrist and secures it by tying together blue strands that extend from each end.

  Wow! When did you make this?

  Yesterday. When you were lost.

  It's amazing. Where did you find all the plants?

  They’re everywhere. You just have to look. The world is amazing. This has six different plants. I needed the jeans to hold it together.

  I love the blue in it.

  Thanks.

  I guess you proved my point. You should be an artist.

  It’s a hobby. It’s not a job. Not where we’re from anyway. You work in a factory, you work in a field, you sew dresses. You work. You don’t play with colors and call it a job.

  Who told you that?

  How many artists do you know?

  None.

  Exactly.

  But that doesn't mean you couldn't do it. Look what you made in a place where there's NOTHING. You're incredible. People like you go to college. They move to bigger cities. Your cousins in Puebla did that, right? You could study art.

  I stop and realize that I’m writing about where we’re from as though it still exists for us. It’s hard to let go even when the loss is all I can think about. I twirl the pencil a few times and redirect the thought.

  Besides, your mom's work was art.

  Thanks. I think she saw it that way. It was the best she could do with what she had. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I could have left. Do you ever look at the stars and wish you could go there?

  All the time.

  Don’t you think it’s funny that people think that, and then they never leave the place that they’re from?

  I start to write and notice that she’s wiping at tears.

  What's wrong?

  It’s sad to think that my whole family had to die for me to have the chance to leave. If they hadn’t, I would have stayed there. Maybe I could have left, but I don’t know that I would have. I might have stayed and sewn dresses. Not become an artist. Or a doctor. Or whatever. Now, I feel like I really need to make it. My life can’t end here. It’s got to count. For them. For my mom especially. Because she never had that chance.

  I think you'll be a great artist. I think you're already a great artist.

  See what I mean? I like the way you think. What about you? What do you want to do?

  ??

  No idea?

  It’s my turn to tear up, but I hold it back.

  I always thought I'd work with my dad. Now I don't know what to think.

  I’m sorry. Do you believe what Marcos said?

  I wish I didn't.

  Your dad will always be the person you want to remember him being.

  Have you been talking to Sr. Ortíz?

  ??

  Thanks.

  We’re starting over. You can be anything you want. So…

  I'll get back to you on that.

  Okay. Do you think we’ll make it?

  Yes.

  Are you lying?

  I hope not.

  Me too. We need to think positively. Maybe we should promise each other that we’re each going to make it through.

  I promise.

  Me too. There! Whew…

  I smile.

  And when we do, we have a small problem. I need your help.

  ??

  Marcos thinks we should split up over there. He says that La Frontera might be looking for us on the other side and that splitting up will make it harder for them to find us.

  I don't want to leave you.

  :) Me neither. We need to change his mind, but don’t say anything to him about this! He’ll get mad, and everybody is already mad at everybody (except Gladys and P-P-Pato).

  Pato!

  :) Let’s try to talk about things that will work best when we all stick together. Like renting an apartment, maybe. It’s cheaper with four people. We need to be smart. We can convince him.

  I like the way you think.

  She leans over and gives me a small kiss. As she pulls away, I see Marcos. He’s looking right at me, with eyes narrowed like spears. He rolls over to face the other direction.

  • • •

  “What happens if we go too far north from here?” Marcos asks.

  It’s nearly dusk. We have a little more than a liter of water left. Because of this, we’ve decided not to walk until the sun is down.

  “I don’t know. We might miss Ajo,” I say. Because I spent an extra ten minutes with the letters and can find the North Star, I’ve somehow become the navigation expert. I’ve drawn the most basic of maps on a mostly empty page of the book to help lay out what little I know…or think I know.

  “And if we miss Ajo?”

  “More desert, I’m guessing.”

  “So, you think it’s on the other side of the mountains?”

  “Probably. But I don’t know. Maybe they turn. Or maybe there’s a break in them. They didn’t talk about climbing over mountains in the letters.”

  “That’s because they weren’t chased out of town, so they started out to the east of them,” Marcos says.

  “Maybe. We haven’t seen the lights at night, so I’m thinking they’re blocked out.”

  “You and your Ajo lights,” Marcos says.

  “I’m just trying to help,” I say.

  “And I’m just trying to make sure we do
n’t walk off into the desert with one liter of water.”

  “We’re not going to make it out if we don’t find water.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” Marcos says.

  “Give him a break. He’s only trying to help,” Gladys says.

  “Great. Side with your boyfriend.”

  “Nobody’s siding with anybody. We’re trying to figure out what to do,” she answers.

  “Well, it doesn’t feel like we’re figuring much out.”

  “I’m guessing we hiked about fifteen kilometers the first day, then another fifteen yesterday,” I say. “We’re about halfway there. Which means we can walk for another night along the mountains to see if there’s a better place to cross.”

  “And water?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Great.”

  “Hey,” Gladys says. “We’re all in the same situation.”

  “Then maybe not all of us get it. We have one liter of water. That’s not even going to last until midnight. And then, we die. We need to get out soon.”

  “That’s what I said,” I say.

  “Well, you’re not acting like it’s a big deal.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Marcos bangs his head against the tree. “I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t look like we’re getting out of this place.”

  Arbo starts to laugh.

  “What?” Marcos asks.

  “We finally agree on something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We’re screwed.”

  “I thought we were dead once,” I say. “And we’re not. So we still have a chance.”

  “Whatever,” Marcos says. “Let’s walk.”

  • • •

  Marcos packs his bag. Gladys sits, entranced, staring out into the sunset, as though she’s enjoying it for the last time. In front of her is something new she’s trying. It’s a sand-scaped scene, but it springs up from the ground. A small collection of twigs, shrubs, bulbs, and other bits of nature are carefully stacked onto her three-dimensional canvas.

  A tiny desert flower bulges out of the middle. As the sun drops from view, I watch her cover the petals with sand.

  Marcos walks over to her.

  Taking advantage of our brief separation, I pull Arbo aside.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

  “No, Romeo. I’m not. We’re about to die.”

  “I thought you said you were okay about Gladys.”

  “I am. I don’t know why I said that. I’m just…”

  “You’re what?”

  “Done. I don’t even care if we walk,” he says.

  “You want to sit here and die, like we were doing before?”

  “That’s fine by me.”

  “You want me to pee on your head now or later?”

  I don’t even get a smirk.

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “It doesn’t change who they are, you know,” I say.

  “That’s a lie. It changes everything. Do you know why everybody died? Almost forty people? My whole family? Your whole family? Our friends? Other families? Because of my dad.”

  “And mine.”

  “Fine. And yours. Our dads. Our narco dads.”

  “They weren’t selling drugs, they—”

  “I don’t give a crap. They were in business with them. It was dirty money. Everything we had…dirty. I’m glad it’s gone.”

  “No you’re not,” I say.

  “Maybe you’re not, but I am. I’m done with it.”

  “What would Revo tell you right now, Arbo?”

  “Revo’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “You know what Revo did?”

  “No.”

  “He fought bad guys.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, they won. Actually, they were winning all along, and I had no idea.”

  • • •

  It’s eleven o’clock. We haven’t had a sip of water since we started walking three hours ago. Marcos carries our remaining bottle in his pack.

  The moon, dipping behind a mountain, presses us to an unsustainable pace, as we try to make as much progress as we can while we still have some light. My body is as devoid as the dim shadow lurking beneath me.

  “There’s no point in killing ourselves before we run out of water,” I say.

  “We can make it a little farther,” Marcos answers.

  We slog along for another minute or two.

  “I can’t do it, Marcos,” Gladys says, stopping. “I need a sip.”

  “You know what, fine. I’m not the jefe here. You’re all your own bosses. If you want water, bottoms up. Make it last however long you want.”

  He lets his pack fall to the ground. He puts the flashlight in his mouth, pulls the bottle of water out along with three empty bottles, and carefully fills them each with the same amount.

  We all take sips, except for Marcos, who turns the light on his leg to inspect it. If it’s still bothering him, he hasn’t let any of us know.

  I hold a small swig in my mouth and slide my tongue around, savoring the smooth glide across my teeth. I allow a portion to drop down my throat. I can feel it start to trickle downward before it’s fully absorbed. It never makes it past my neck. I swallow the rest and exhale in delight. Then, as quickly as the relief arrived, it disappears. My mouth turns pasty again, and I eye the bottle, realizing that I could chug all that’s left and still feel as dried up as the wilted bonds that are holding us together. I take one more tiny pull and hold on to it for even longer than last time.

  Marcos tugs at my shirt.

  “Ven conmigo por un minuto,” he says.

  I follow his instructions, walking a short distance away with him. We stop. He leans in close and speaks in a hushed voice. “If I see you kiss my sister again”—I can feel his breath, hot and putrid, punch against my face as he speaks—“I’ll pick you up and throw you into a cactus.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He turns and walks back toward Arbo and Gladys.

  “Hey! We’re not done,” I say in a full voice.

  He stomps back toward me. “Keep your voice down, and yeah, we are done.”

  “No. We’re not even close. I’m not going to wait until your back is turned to talk to her, I’m not going to act like nothing is going on, and if I want to kiss her, I’ll try to do it while you’re not looking, but I’m going to plant one on her. You know why? Because we’re dying, and this is all we’ve got. A few hours. A day maybe. And I’m done pretending.” My voice has gotten louder by the word. By now, there’s no doubt that Gladys and Arbo can hear everything. “So if you need to throw me into a cactus to speed up the dying and prove what a tough guy you are, then go for it. Pick one. They’re everywhere.”

  He takes another step toward me. His nose nearly touches mine. The whites of his eyes hover like two rings, encircling the darkness inside.

  “Don’t. Push. Me,” he says, making each word stand on its own, fully pronounced in a thick, slow, low voice. “I’m her brother, and I’ll do what I have to do to protect her.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I would too if I were you. But what I’m saying is you’re not protecting her. You’re hurting her. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go for it.”

  “How many boyfriends has she ever had?”

  “None.”

  “And have you ever had a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many?”

  “A few.”

  “I’m sure it’s more than a few. How good does it feel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how great does it feel to have another person who wants you like that? Who loves
you without you being family. Who tells you how great you are.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “She’s never had that. Neither have I, for what it’s worth. Not like this. And I think she deserves it. Before she dies. Before I die. Before we all die.”

  Again, he doesn’t answer. He stares, long, like he’s waiting for me to look away at some point. I don’t.

  He turns and walks back to the others.

  I follow.

  A soft hand reaches out from the darkness and squeezes my palm.

  • • •

  I don’t know what time it is. It doesn’t matter. It’s the middle of the night. The moon is gone. So is my water. I suck the air out of the bottle, trying to breathe in the moisture. Others do the same.

  Marcos whispers something and passes his bottle to Gladys. She pushes it away. He shoves it back toward her. Neither will take the final sip.

  We rest for a few minutes, then stand on shaky legs and press on.

  • • •

  Arbo is the first to drop.

  “I can’t keep going. My legs are cramping.”

  None of us complain. We collapse alongside him.

  “Maybe we’ll be able to see something when the sun comes up…” Marcos says. His voice fades in a way I’ve never heard it do. I don’t know what he’s hoping to see.

  I reach into the darkness and grab Gladys’s hand. She clutches back, and I close my eyes. If we’re being watched, I don’t want to know.

  I let go of everything and drift into the night. I dream of a thunderstorm. A magnificent, pounding, rage of nature with gusting walls of water that slap against me, seeping into every pore of my body. As relief gushes in, a bolt of lightning explodes into the middle of us.

  “Did you hear that?” Marcos whispers.

  I wake in the windless night air. The first thing I feel is my thirst returning. It’s not a longing. It’s a pain. Then I hear the footsteps. Not right next to us, but not far away.

  “What is it?” Gladys asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “People.”

  “Shh,” Marcos says.

  We raise our heads and peer into the darkness. Shadows move. Many shadows. There’s a flicker of light. Only for a moment, followed by a soft whistle. The footsteps stop.

  “Shh,” Marcos repeats, though so softly that I can barely tell he’s doing it.