The Border
Page 19
I give him time to continue. He doesn’t. “How well do you know our guías?” I ask.
“I don’t. I went through my same coyote, but it’s my first time with these guías.”
“We’re trying to figure out if they know who we are.”
“I don’t know. I’ll listen. But I can tell you one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“You know the tattoo on that guy’s neck?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a gang tattoo.”
“Which gang?” I ask.
“Who knows? They’re all bad news. I stay away.”
“Vámonos, chavos,” the leader says to the entire group.
“We need to go,” he says.
“I know you said not to trust anyone, but I trust you.”
“I trust you too. I’ll help you where I can, but remember… These guys don’t know that I know you. It’s probably better for both of us for it to stay that way.”
“Okay. My name is Pato, by the way.”
“I know,” he says. “My friends call me Tito.”
He drifts off into the darkness.
I return to my group. I don’t say anything. I can’t risk anybody else knowing. Arbo isn’t subtle, Marcos is a wild card, and the last thing I need is for Marcos to see me telling secrets to Gladys.
We march. Again, the four of us bring up the rear, but the guías have switched places. The leader is now with us, while Neck Tattoo and Flannel Shirt are with the group ahead.
Marcos is better, though not by much. He shuffles and sways, but at least he can walk. That’s progress. Gladys and I don’t talk much. She’s focused on Marcos. I get it. Arbo keeps to himself, either too consumed with the walk or with thinking about his dad to make any conversation.
Physically, I’ve caught a second wind. But mentally, I feel pounded into the dirt. My head is spinning after my talk with Tito. The only thing I can do with these unsettling thoughts is try to get some answers.
“What happens when we get to Ajo?” I ask the leader.
“You stick with me for a little bit,” he says.
“For how long?”
“A few hours.”
“Then what?”
“Then you go.”
“Where?”
“That’s up to you. I just take you there.”
“Can we stay in Ajo?”
He chuckles. “Güey, you want to get out of there. It’s a pueblito. Just a tiny, nothing town.”
“So where do people usually go?”
“They scatter like little chickens. Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. We don’t really have a plan.”
“You don’t have family there? Who wrote you those letters?”
“They’re in Canada,” I say.
“Es bien lejos. Very far.”
“We never talked about how much we’ll owe you.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Twenty thousand pesos?”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Are you going to charge us more?”
“I said, ‘We’ll talk about it.’”
“It’s not fair if you do,” I say.
“Then I’ll charge you less.”
“Really?”
“Sí.”
“Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“But you’re not answering them.”
“There are four of you. You get a discount. And if I charge too much, you’ll try to get out of it. That’s bad for both of us.”
“How much time will we have to pay?”
“You’ll have enough time.”
“But we don’t know anybody. We don’t know how to get jobs. We don’t speak English.”
“Relax, güey. I tell you what. I have an idea. I may know someone who can help you. When we get to Ajo, I’ll call him. He sometimes helps me out by setting people up with jobs. I don’t do this often. We’ll call it a favor. No charge.”
“Who?”
“Just a guy I know.”
“Jobs in Ajo?”
“No, somewhere else.”
“Doing what?”
“Can you wash dishes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ll be perfect.”
“Why did you give us the water?”
“Because you were going to die if I didn’t.”
“And you wouldn’t get paid?”
“You got it.”
“Thank you.”
I mull over everything that he’s said and done. It only adds up when I think about it one way: he knows who we are.
“Just remember, you need to stick with me the whole way.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“In case you’re considering wandering off, the desert is a dangerous place. Things happen out here, and nobody ever finds out about them. You almost died once. You wouldn’t want to do that again.”
We both know what the other one knows.
• • •
The hours peel away in a monotonous trudge. We turn from the riverbed and start to climb again. A few hours before dawn, we reach a point where the slope no longer carries us up. Then I see it. A dim glow. The lights of Ajo lie almost due north. The town looks so close, like I could practically reach out and touch it.
“We’re almost there,” I say.
“Not tonight,” the leader says.
“How far away is it?”
“Ten hours.”
“But it looks so close.”
“You don’t want to try it. We’ve got to go around more mountains first.”
With that, we turn to the east and follow the rest of the group, which has already started down the slope.
• • •
The sun bulges out of the earth like a giant stop sign. We’re back near the desert floor, but elevated enough to appreciate the same vastness and nothingness that we had on the other side of the mountains. It’s the mirror image of where we were when we started following the group—a steep climb to the west and a mind-numbing swath of drought stretched out to the east.
“A little farther,” the leader says.
The words sting. I’m depleted and ready to rest. I could happily collapse right here, in a pile of sand and rocks. And I’m doing much better than some of the others. Despite the clear water, Marcos is still visiting the bushes often. He’s thrown up a few times as well. He looks the part.
But for now, we defy the daylight and continue our slog forward. As I gaze into the baked gulf, wondering how much farther into it we have to walk, I see a brief pulse of light out of the corner of my eyes.
I look toward it. It flashes once more. It looks like a reflection, but I can’t tell what’s causing it. I squint and cup my palms over my brow.
Just as I recognize it, I hear the scream.
“¡La migra! Everybody down! Now!”
We all obey.
“Where?” Arbo asks.
“Out there. It’s a car,” I say.
“You saw it?”
“I think so… It looked like sun reflecting off a windshield.”
“How many?”
“I only saw one.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know. In the distance.”
“Could they see us?”
“How would I know?” I ask.
The same conversation happens throughout the group in a low rumble.
“Everybody shut the hell up!” the leader barks in a low voice.
Again, we obey.
With faces buried in the hot sand, we can see nothing. We have no way of knowing if they’re about to spring out of the nearby bushes or if they’ve moved on.
I don’t know how much time passes. The silence is torture. I think of what being captured means—the consequences get worse each step of the way. A beating. Then back to Mexico, to the home we don’t have. Then facing the gang. Then…the end.
The leader crawls around, peeking from behind bushes and cacti until, finally, he calls out.
“Paramos aquí. Find a spot and stay low. There is too much migra on this side of the mountains for us to walk around in the daytime.”
We crouch and move a short distance away to a large rock. It won’t cover us for the whole day, but for the next few hours, it will keep the four of us in the shade. It also saves us the effort of making any kind of low shelter right now. It’s a trade-off we’re willing to make.
Again, we’re separated from the broader group by a small gap. Neck Tattoo shuffles over to join us with a half-full jug of clear water and a peeved expression. He takes the cap off the jug and guzzles a good portion down. I catch a quick exchange of looks between him and the leader, and it’s clear—the water was intended for us.
He puts the top back on and tosses what’s left at my feet. It’s barely more than a liter now.
“You don’t get any more. Make it last,” he says. “Unless you want more of the brown,” he adds, looking at Marcos and laughing.
He sits alone several meters away. He’s there to guard us, to make sure we don’t leave, or even discuss leaving. It’s concerning, but I’m too tired to care. We’re not in any condition to wander off in the middle of the day. It’s like the water that we don’t have enough of—we’ll deal with it later.
“If we make it out of here,” Arbo says, “I’m never going to complain about being cold. Ever. No matter what.”
“Or about rain,” I say.
“Or any drink, of any kind. I don’t even care if it’s tomato juice,” Gladys says.
“Or—” Marcos starts to say.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” Neck Tattoo interrupts, pulling up his snarled lips enough to reveal his mangled teeth.
“Sure thing, güey,” Marcos says. He shifts his head onto the corner of his backpack.
I stare at him and wish I had the old Marcos back.
• • •
My eyes open. We’re still in the shade, but something is off. I feel a weight on my feet. I look down. My pulse triples.
A rattlesnake slithers across my ankles. I try not to move. My body tenses. The snake stops.
Rattle, rattle.
Normally, people don’t die from rattlesnake bites, assuming they are healthy and they can get to the hospital. But if I—or any of us—get struck out here, it’s a death sentence.
I move nothing but my eyes to see if anybody is awake. I’m turned on my side and can only see Gladys. She’s out.
Maybe if I just wait…
The snake stays put. I move my gaze down and watch its slimy little tongue zip in and out of its mouth. It’s more than a meter long.
I start counting, hoping that it’ll move along. One, two, three…
It doesn’t move.
I can’t stay like this. I’ve never been good at sitting still. All I want to do is shift. It’s painful to remain frozen, like I’m resisting the urge to itch.
What if I kick really hard?
Its head lifts up off the ground and its body recoils slightly. It looks right at me, as if daring me to move.
If I kick, it will either hurl onto Gladys or turn to bite my leg. Probably the latter. It’s faster than me. Much faster.
Rattle, rattle.
I’m at a loss. I don’t want to call anyone’s name. The noise might frighten it, as would any nearby movement. I don’t want it frightened, like me. I move my head slightly.
Rattle, rattle.
It recoils a little more. It turns away from me and looks back at my leg, licking its lips in anticipation.
I’m going to kick. I need to kick.
I close my eyes and prepare. I think about how I’ll need to kick. Up. So that it goes over Gladys. My knee is slightly bent, but I need to bend it more to get leverage. I gently scoot my body down while trying not to move my leg.
It doesn’t like this.
Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle.
This can’t last long. I decide to scoot down and kick in one—hopefully quick—move. On three. Uno, dos…
Bang!
My whole body flails and my legs snap up to my chest in a clumsy panic. Gladys, Marcos, and Arbo all scream at once, along with others in the larger group.
The leader charges toward us.
Neck Tattoo is standing over me laughing. He’s waving a gun at the snake, which is now missing its head. Its scaled body twists like an unwinding rubber band. To hit the snake’s head, the bullet must have missed my leg by next to nothing.
“What are you doing?” the leader demands.
“Rattlesnake,” says Neck Tattoo.
“You want to tell la migra exactly where we are?”
“It was on his leg, jefe. And la migra has already moved on,” he says, smiling at me.
“I don’t care where it was. Do you have any idea how much migra is on this side of the mountains? They’re still out there! Somewhere.”
“You said you wanted them alive,” he says.
The leader gives him an awkward—and angry—look.
“Of course… I want everybody here to make it alive.”
“So, look at him… Está vivo. Alive and well, for now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Until another snake comes to get you,” he says, chuckling and scratching at his scrawny neck.
“Shut up and put the gun away,” the leader says. “We need to move. You don’t make that much noise out here and stay in the same place.” He turns to us. “Pack up your stuff.”
He walks away and delivers the news to the other group. The grumbles are almost as loud as the gunshot. Neck Tattoo turns to fend off the nasty looks.
I lean over to Marcos and whisper, “Give me your knife.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.”
He pulls it out of his bag and slides it to me. I reach for the tail of the snake and make several quick slices. Then I grab the tip and slowly draw it back toward me, careful not to let it rattle. I empty the few remaining things out of my bag and roll the rattle up inside. I put all of it into Arbo’s pack.
Neck Tattoo turns back toward us. I lunge for the snake and fling it away.
“Stupid snake,” I say.
Neck Tattoo claps his hands in delight.
I grab Arbo’s pack, and we all march toward the main group.
“Why?” Marcos whispers.
“I don’t know yet,” I say.
• • •
We walk for an hour, drifting away from the mountains. The morning sun no longer feels like morning. It already feels hotter today than it has any other day, if that’s even possible. But it’s all shades of fire anyway.
Again, Neck Tattoo walks with us in the back. At this point, he’s probably better off back here. The others turn around occasionally and curse us with their eyes, reminding us that we’re the reason they’re walking right now—all of us. Even the baby cries, as if yelling at us.
“My wife needs to feed the baby. How much farther?” the father asks.
“Fifteen minutes,” the leader says.
“Can we stop sooner?”
“No.”
“You only stop for them? Is that how this works?”
“Relax, amigo.”
“They don’t have a hungry baby.”
Nobody is relaxed.
Neck Tattoo turns to me several times during the trek
, scratching at his neck and smiling. It’s creepy. And his scratching isn’t really scratching. It’s more like he’s playing with his…
Tattoo.
He’s not scratching. He’s pointing.
I think back to what Tito said. It’s a gang sign. As I stare at it, I know which one it is. I even get what it means, I think. There are three parallel bars—two thicker ones separated by a thinner bar that runs down the middle. It’s a border. The Border…La Frontera.
Despite the heat, a chill runs down my spine. I know this doesn’t really change anything, but his presence feels more threatening now.
I need to tell the others. We have to get away. But how?
I don’t have answers, and I don’t even have space to discuss it. I feel like I haven’t talked with my friends for days. We’re under the microscope, our every word eavesdropped upon. It keeps us quiet. It keeps us apart. We walk side by side, yet I feel more disconnected from them now than I have at any other point in our trip.
There’s only one answer. I need to wait until we rest and Neck Tattoo goes to sleep. This means I have to do two things that I don’t want to. First, wait. Second, stay awake. I’m panicked, but I’m exhausted.
• • •
He lies down facing us. His guard has become less subtle at every stop. Whereas before, we at least acted like neither of us knew the truth about each other, now it seems like that knowledge is an unspoken given. Neck Tattoo is here to make sure we don’t leave.
His eyelids droop, then the moment I think he’s gone, he looks at me again and fondles his neck. Gladys, Marcos, and Arbo have long since passed out. He’s staying awake because I’m staying awake. It’s now a contest. I need to let him win.
I close my eyes and do the only thing I can think of to keep myself from crashing into a deep sleep. I relive that awful night. I play it back in my head in miserable detail. I imagine horrible thoughts like what my parents’ final words were, or if they were holding hands when they went down. I try to count the bodies scattered across the yard. I hear the shots fire. I listen, helplessly, to the screams again. I’m angered. I’m saddened. I miss my parents so much. But I’m awake.