The Border

by Steve Schafer

  “What are you looking at?” Marcos asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  The man looks away.

  “Well, you’re looking pretty hard at nothing.”

  Marcos drinks the remaining swig of water from the jug and opens another one they’ve given us. We pass it around, ignoring the taste and taking mighty pulls as if a third one were on its way.

  “We should try to get some rest,” Marcos says.

  We all lie down.

  I consider waiting until the others are asleep to tell Arbo about the man, but I decide against it. He has enough on his mind. Instead, I keep it to myself. After the scene at the motel, I’m sure the man knows who we are, but—even though it doesn’t make sense—I want to trust the person who warned me not to trust anyone.

  • • •

  I wait for Marcos to fall asleep, then I quietly lean over and kiss Gladys on the lips. Her eyes open and she smiles. She props herself up on one elbow and draws with a finger in the sand.

  I think I love you.

  I drop my finger next to hers and edit.

  I think I love you too.

  We hold hands, close eyes, and sleep.

  • • •

  It takes about three hours for the water to kick in. It starts with a small rumble. An uncomfortable gurgle. I shift from one side to the other, unsure of what’s happening. I try to sleep again. I feel someone get up. I open my eyes and see Arbo darting away from the tree. He bolts toward a nearby bush in an antsy gallop, clutching the back of his pants. He collapses behind the shrub, dropping mostly out of view.

  My rumble returns.

  I’m five minutes behind Arbo. I speed past him to another bush and drop my pants just in time. Rockets don’t launch with this much thrust. Every drop of water I drank feels like it’s passing through me. It comes in waves every few minutes. It’s not worth returning to the tree. I cram my back into the scratchy arms of the bush and try to hover under a slender strip of shade.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have drunk that brown crap,” Arbo says. “Water shouldn’t taste like anything.”

  I don’t know what’s grosser, the water or looking at Arbo right now.

  “We didn’t have a choice,” I say.

  My stomach cramps and I double over. It forces me out of the shade and into the full punch of the sun. My hands and forearms press into the scalding earth in front of me. Every part of me is miserable.

  I spot a piece of foil wrapper from of a bag of chips, and I use it to clean myself. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.

  “How are you doing?” I ask Arbo.

  “How do you think I’m doing? I’m th-quatting in a frying pan, peeing out of the wrong hole, and my dad sold drugs.”

  I turn to look around us and lower my voice.

  “He didn’t sell drugs.”

  “Whatever.”

  “There’s a difference.”

  “Good. You can believe it then. I don’t.”

  “What about the guías? What do you think about them? Good guys or bad guys?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They found us dying,” I say. “They threatened us, gave us bad water, and are forcing us to pay them whatever they want if they get us out.”

  “Okay. Then bad guys,” he says.

  “Well, we’re taking their help, aren’t we? And we even paid them.”

  “They took the money without asking.”

  “We told them we had it,” I say.

  “It’s still different.”

  “Is it?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “We need it. If we don’t have it, we’ll die,” he says.

  “What if our dads didn’t have a choice either? What if La Frontera came to them and told them to help, or else?”

  “That’s a nice story.”

  “Or what if they couldn’t find other work? What if they needed the money so much, they had to take the deal?”

  “You don’t know any of this. You’re making stuff up.”

  “I know my dad.”

  “And I thought I knew mine.”

  “He’s still the same person.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s dead. You know why?”

  I let it go.

  When I return to the tree, Marcos and Gladys are gone. I don’t look for them. I know where they are. We all drank the water. I grab a small plastic bag from our stuff and walk it over to Arbo. It’s the best I can do for him. He grumbles in appreciation.

  We pass hours between the tree and the bushes. As the afternoon burns on, Neck Tattoo comes over to check on us. He tells us in an unsympathetic voice, “You’ll get used to the water.”

  We don’t buy it. None of us touch it again, except to use sparse drops to clean ourselves. The sun is still near its peak, and we’re losing water fast enough without flushing our systems dry with that brown muck.

  • • •

  I drift in and out of sleep, though to call it sleep makes it sound more restful than it is. It’s more like I pass out from exhaustion every so often.

  We all struggle, though Marcos appears worse than any of us. He looks drained—when I see him, that is. He spends most of his time in the bushes. It requires less energy than going back and forth. Gladys suggests he take one of the bags from the tree. He does and keeps it propped over him like a small tent.

  I don’t talk much to Gladys. There’s not much opportunity for romance. We give each other space to make the situation as private as possible.

  • • •

  “Vámonos, chavos,” Flannel Shirt says, spurring us all to move with a wave of his arm.

  We’re sharing our final sleeve of cookies and can of black beans, using whatever juice we can pull from a mouthful of beans to muscle the dry crumbs down. We’re trying to fuel up, knowing that we have a full night of walking ahead.

  The group is packing up. It’s easy to understand where all the trash comes from now. Discarded bags and cans now pepper the area, having quickly changed from life-saving vessels to desert carcasses. I grab the cookie wrapper at my side, put it in my bag, and slide the straps around my shoulders. The one benefit of no longer having any food or water is that my pack weighs very little. Still, I’d gladly trade the weight for clean water.

  I try several times to look at the man from the porch, but I can’t catch his eye. I don’t have any specific reason to, other than to try to confirm that he’s on our side.

  Marcos finally returned from the bushes about an hour ago and is now sleeping at our side. Gladys gently rocks his shoulder. His eyes crack open into slivers that slowly scan around him while his head remains still.

  “Come on, Marcos. We have to go,” she says.

  “¿Ahora?” he asks in a croaky whisper.

  “Yeah. I’ll help you get up.”

  She gives him her hand and pulls. He stays down. When I grab his other hand to help, I discover how much that awful water has affected him. His hand is cool to the touch. I’ve been here before, and I know where it leads.

  Watching Arbo wither away was unbearable; seeing Marcos in the same state is a remarkably close feeling, one that comes with disbelief. How could someone so steely and unshakable be reduced to a stumbling lump? It reminds me of the old men in our town. I would hear stories about things they did, colossal feats, like lifting mud-buried ox carts that had tipped on their sides. But they never looked the part. Not when I saw them. They looked old, tired, and creaky. It was hard to imagine them in a different time, in a different body.

  Marcos moves like he’s eighty, or beyond. We get him to his feet, in a wide and wobbly stance. I hold on to his shirt. He takes a few deep breaths, removes my hand, and finds his balance on his own.

  “Vámonos,” he says, as he lumbers toward the others.


  • • •

  We walk behind the main group, separated by a few paces, sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s hard to tell if this happens intentionally or if it’s because we’re slow. We haven’t had any more conversation with the leader of the guías. He walks in front of everybody. Neck Tattoo accompanies us in the rear.

  People walk with jugs of clear water and jugs of brown water. They drink from the clear. It’s apparent that the brown is there as a backup, or to give to the new guys.

  Neck Tattoo gives us more of the dirty water to drink. Reluctantly, I take it. All of us do, except Marcos. I’m soon feeling the gurgle below again.

  We stop periodically behind bushes and then struggle to catch up with the group.

  I can hear Marcos breathe in and out of his nostrils with every step. It’s an agonizing sound to hear, over and over. His limp from the cactus spine—which had almost disappeared—returns. I offer him my shoulder to lean against. He refuses. He simply puts his head down and hobbles. It’s a superhuman effort, but two hours into our march, his humanity wins.

  Marcos collapses onto his knees. He tries to stand and falls again.

  Arbo and Gladys look like they aren’t far behind him.

  Neck Tattoo whistles. The leader comes back to visit us.

  “It’s the well water,” I say. “It’s making us sick.”

  Arbo is behind a bush and provides sound effects to reinforce my point.

  “Can you walk?” the leader asks Marcos.

  “Sí,” Marcos says. He tries again to stand and collapses.

  The leader looks at each of us, then at his watch. It’s nearing sunset. His eyes roll up and off to the side, as if calculating our progress. Then he turns to the group.

  “We’re going to take a break, chavos,” he says.

  “How long?” someone asks.

  “An hour or two.”

  “What?” says a guy who is standing between the man from the porch and the woman with the baby.

  “Relax. We’re okay on time.”

  The guy stomps from the front of the pack back to us.

  “We paid you to take us across, not every pobrecito you find out here. Give them some water, point them in the right direction, and let’s go.”

  “Listen up, pollito, you’re all pobrecitos out here. You paid me to tell you what to do. I’m the reason you’ll survive this trip. I’ve made it twenty-three times. How many times have you? So here’s what I want you to do—sit, wait, and rest. We’re climbing in a few hours. You’ll need it. If I take somebody on, I take them across. You see these guys, they’re with us now. You got it? Or, we can give you some water, point you in the right direction, and see how you do.”

  The man says something under his breath and walks back into the group. I try not to look at any of them.

  The leader grabs the brown water out of my hands. He pops open the top and takes a big chug out of it.

  “Your body gets used to it,” he says.

  He reaches into his bag and hands Marcos a full jug of clear water.

  “But I still hate the taste,” he says, then takes another gulp of the brown and sits down a few paces away.

  We try to make it last, but between the four of us, the water goes quickly. Marcos refuses to take more than his share, but we make sure he gets it by passing it to him more often. He’s too delirious to notice.

  We’re nearly done when the leader whistles to Neck Tattoo.

  “Give them another. You’re on the well water with me now.”

  Neck Tattoo looks at him like he’s ready to throw a punch.

  “You heard me,” the leader says.

  Neck Tattoo gives in and tosses me his jug as though it were a water balloon, hoping it might burst. We start guzzling it immediately, before anyone can change their mind. It’s never enough. We could each get two gallons and still be thirsty. But it’s something. You can’t run on empty. Not out here.

  Neck Tattoo stares at me with contempt while I drink. He paws at his neck as though he’s trying to scratch away his art.

  “Gracias,” I say to the leader.

  He waves back.

  “How much farther do we have?” I ask.

  “You’ll make it,” he says.

  • • •

  The final gasps of daylight fade, painting us all like shadows. We’re nearing the end of our “break.” Arbo, Gladys, Marcos, and I sit in a circle, like we did on the first night out here. We’re separated from the rest of the group.

  I feel the urge to pee for the first time in days. I walk to the other side of the riverbed. I don’t get much more than a few drops, as though my bladder has shrunken from lack of use. I’m about to turn back when soft-spoken words emerge from the darkness.

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  I recognize the voice and turn to face him. The silhouette of his arm gestures toward the main group. “He’s nervous because of the baby.”

  “Is the baby okay?”

  “Sí.”

  “Good.”

  “Is it true?” he asks.

  “Is what true?”

  “About your family?”

  “Sí.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “They came back to the motel after you ran away,” he says.

  “For our stuff?”

  “No. For me!”

  “What?”

  “They saw me talking to you. They wanted to know everything I knew. They even thought I might be with you.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know you didn’t. I’m only telling you so that you know why I don’t want these guys to know that I know you. They put a gun in my mouth, güey.”

  “Why?”

  “To get the truth. Did you kill one of them?”

  “Yeah. They were chasing us. They were trying to get us… And if they did, we’d die.”

  “I know.”

  “They told you everything?”

  “No. I saw the paper they had. So after they left, I went and got it. You’ve got lots of people looking for you.”

  “Have you told anybody else about us?”

  “Güey, I’m just trying to cross the border. The last thing I want is attention.”

  “Thank you. So… Why did you come to talk to me?”

  “I’ve been waiting for a moment to explain myself. I like you. I feel bad for what happened with your family.”

  “Thanks. It’s been…” I can’t find the right word.

  “At least you have your friends with you.”

  “Yeah. Did you meet up with your friend?”

  “No. He sent a message saying that he found another way across. I’ll see him on the other side, I guess. Actually, when I first saw you, for a moment, I thought one of your friends was him.”

  “Which one?”

  “The sporty looking one.”

  My gut sinks.

  It can’t be. It must be a coincidence.

  My mind races to think back through everything I saw.

  “What?” the man asks.

  I’m not good at acting, apparently not even in the dark.

  “Um…”

  “What?”

  “We… We found a dead person right after we started walking.”

  “A guy? And you think it was my friend?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t know how.

  “Why do you think it was him?”

  “He looked a lot like my friend, Marcos.”

  “Oh my God. Where was he? How long had he been dead?”

  “Just a few hours, I think. He had been shot. We saw him a few days ago, right after we crossed over the border.”

  “How many days ago? Exactly.”

 
“It’s all blurred out here.” I pause. “Three days. We’ve been out here three days.”

  “Describe him.”

  “He looked like Marcos.”

  “Do better.”

  “He was maybe a little older, but not much.”

  “What did he have on him?” His voice grows more concerned. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know. He didn’t have a bag, a wallet, or anything on him. He had on a plaid shirt and jeans. Do you know what your friend was wearing?”

  “What kind of shoes did he have on?”

  “Boots. Tan ones. They laced up high.”

  He falls to his knees.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I gave him those boots. They were mine. That’s him. That’s Victor. I know his family. I know his wife. I know his son. He’s two. And he doesn’t have a dad now.”

  I take a seat next to him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “¿Por qué, Victor? Why? I told him to meet me and that I’d handle everything. But he was so concerned about the money. Always trying to look for a cheaper way to go. You don’t mess around here. What did I tell you on that porch in Sonoyta? Do you remember?”

  “Don’t trust anyone.”

  “And how many times did I tell him that?”

  I let the question hang, unanswered, like so much else.

  “Why did you check for his wallet?” the man asks.

  The space between us goes tense.

  “Because we didn’t want to leave him there, you know, without anybody ever finding him. We wanted to know his name so we could tell somebody.”

  “Victor. Victor Aguilar.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  “I know you are.”

  “You don’t think they killed him because he looked…” I can’t finish the sentence. I didn’t even want to start it, but I had to ask. I need to know if his friend died because of us.

  “Because he looked like your friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What difference does it make? If he had stayed with me, he’d be alive. Maybe. Who the hell knows? What’s wrong with these people? All of them. Money. That’s all they’re after. The holy dollar. And screw the people you need to step over to get it. They killed my friend. They killed your family. And they wonder why we don’t want to stay here. All those people over there,” he says and gestures in the direction of the group, “All they want to do is cross. They’re good, honest people, and they paid more money than they’ve ever seen in their lives for a chance to live somewhere they can work hard to make something of themselves, while these cabrones on the border just want to find ways to screw them. To screw us. To screw everybody.” He pauses and releases a long, frustrated breath. “I’m sorry. I’m upset, and I don’t know what to say. And none of it makes a difference anyway. Victor is still dead.”