I look at my wrist and notice the bracelet she made from Marcos’s jeans is missing. It must have fallen off last night.
Everything about her seems to be gone.
I close my eyes and weep again, until sleep finally sweeps me away.
• • •
The shade retreats, and the heat jars me from my sleep. I fight it. I roll from side to side, letting the sky and the ground take turns searing me. I take in the burn, on the outside and the inside. Rage fills me. My legs kick, my fists pound, my body twists, my thighs slam down. I try to hurt this beast that’s killing us, knowing it feels nothing and knowing it’s a fight that can’t be won. It’s a fitting end.
But it’s not the end. That’s the problem. When it’s over, when I flush this moment out of my system, I’m still here, lying in the grit, awake, overwhelmed, disgusted, mourning…aware that I need to do something, and unwilling to acknowledge it.
Arbo still lies beside me. I check his breathing and place a hand on the back of his neck. He’s boiling. From the little I know now, this is good. He stirs as I paw over his body.
“What time is it?” he grumbles.
No trace of morning remains.
“I have no idea.”
He doesn’t respond.
“We need to move to the shade,” I say.
He opens his eyes. I watch them track toward Gladys, then close tightly. It hurts almost as much to watch him confirm it.
“Come on, Arbo,” I say. I reach for his hand to pull him up. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he belly-crawls about five meters to a creosote bush with some shade beneath it. I follow. We cram our bodies together into the tight space.
“We’re dying,” he says. “We’re just next in line.”
He’s right. We have no water left. No food left. The only salvation we know of is at least five hours away. And even if we could make it there, it’s teeming with scumbags eager to turn us over to angry narcos. I know that’s what we signed up for when we made our escape from the group, but the naive hope that we’ll all make it is gone now. Reality has trounced optimism.
“I want to let it go, Pato, but I can’t. I’m trying so hard. I don’t want to die angry, but I’m still so mad at my dad.”
I wish I knew what to tell him, but I don’t. My head is too cluttered. I don’t know why I’m able to let go of my dad’s role in this and he isn’t. Maybe I’ve only distracted myself with Gladys.
“All I want right now is to forgive him before I die, and I can’t do it. Every time I look at her, I think that it’s all his fault,” he says.
He balls up like he does when he’s upset, and I watch him suffer. I watch. I can’t believe I just watch. Like I have no other choice. Like I’ve given up and I’m letting whatever happens, happen.
A haunting voice whispers inside my head, pushing me forward. It’s hers.
“Then maybe we don’t die,” I say.
“How?”
“I don’t know, but we need to do something. We have to walk out of here.”
“I can barely move, Pato. I don’t have much left in me.”
“You have to. We have to try.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Arbo says, pointing to Marcos.
“Maybe you’re right, but we can’t leave him,” I say.
“So… What are you saying?”
“I don’t know, Arbo.”
He closes his eyes and leans into the creosote.
“Okay. Let me know when you’re ready,” he says.
I look at Marcos. The last thing I want to do is talk to him. Maybe I should have more sympathy. No, I should have more sympathy. But I don’t have the space for it. I’m still too filled with disgust.
I stand and walk over to him.
I sit down several feet away from him. He doesn’t look up. He sways gently over her, as if he could tip at any moment and join her. His bloodied shirt still lies at her side, leaving his thin frame exposed. I spent so much of the night building him up as the bad guy that I’d forgotten how withered he’s become.
“We need to go, Marcos.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Marcos, we need to go. We can’t sit here.”
Nothing.
I scoot closer.
Then closer.
“We need—”
“I’m not leaving,” he says. It’s a whisper, yet as commanding as a roar.
“Marcos—”
“No!”
“So what, you’re going to die here?”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“Marcos…”
“I died last night,” he says.
“No. She died last night.”
“We died.”
“That’s not what she’d say.”
He finally looks up at me, drilling his eyes into mine. “Cabrón, don’t tell me what my sister would say. Okay?”
“What do you think she’d say then?”
“I’m not playing this game. I’m staying.”
“It’s not a game. We’re going to die if we don’t go,” I say.
“Then go,” he says.
“Marcos.”
He stops answering.
• • •
We continue to roast. I watch Marcos, wondering if he’ll move. He doesn’t.
The lip of shade under the creosote bush slowly retreats. There is no other shade nearby. Soon we will be exposed. Several vultures circle above, reminding us of what awaits.
Her voice, inside my head, won’t quit.
I stand. There’s one last thing I can do. I go back to Marcos.
“You don’t have to listen to what I say. Read what she wrote in her own words.”
I swing the book in front of his nose and point to where I want him to read. He turns his head away.
“Read it.”
“No.”
“Fine. Then I’ll read it to you. This is what she wrote yesterday morning.” My voice trembles. I pause. I didn’t consider how hard this would be. “‘If he dies, I don’t know what I’ll do,’” I begin. “‘He has to live, Pato… I’d trade places with him. I’d die for him. I would. He has to make it. I can’t stand seeing him like this.’” I set the book down at his side with the pages open, pressed into the earth. “She traded places with you, Marcos. And it made her happy. Don’t let her down by being a stubborn pendejo who dies for nothing.”
I walk away.
I wait.
He grabs the book.
• • •
Our shade is gone. More vultures have joined the deathly circle above us, sweeping lower, like anxious chefs, peering in the oven as their main course bakes to perfection.
Marcos has set the book down and picked it back up several times. He doesn’t stop at the page I showed him. He thumbs through more. Then more. I feel as though he’s reading my diary. It’s embarrassing. But if it works, it’s what she would want. That’s what matters.
Of course, even if I get us all to move, it would solve little. There’s still the question of where to move to. And where to find water. For now, I take this one step at a time.
Each time he sets down the book, he looks like he’s teetering on the edge. I’m teetering too. If we’re going to move, we need to go.
I start to stand when a black streak bombs down from the sky.
Marcos jumps back as the vulture lands nearly in his lap. The huge bird latches on to Gladys’s face and rips off a chunk of skin.
I look away.
Marcos screams.
The vulture’s broad wings beat in a powerful whoosh as it makes a quick exit, flaps of flesh dangling from beak and talons.
Another bird swoops down from the sky, crashing into her. This time, Marcos is prepared. As its talons grip, Marcos charges. Wings flap, but
not quickly enough. Marcos drives his foot squarely into the vulture’s chest. The bird tumbles a body length away, landing on its back with a dull thump and an ear-piercing screech, its wings spastically slapping the ground, trying to right itself, squawking in pain.
Marcos takes no pity. His next kick crushes the vulture’s wing into its body. It snaps and feathers explode, launching into the breeze so that they drift into me like a floating, black rain.
The animal hobbles a few paces away, then drops to the desert floor.
Marcos’s eyes narrow on the fowl. He knows he’s won. He draws the knife from his back pocket and slowly approaches. He drops to his knees, shirtless. His back arches, and he raises the weapon until the blade hovers high, glimmering above his head. Then he plunges it down.
More feathers fly.
Again, he hoists the blade and thrusts it into his prey.
Another vulture squawks and dives toward the ground in a steep pitch.
“Marcos!” I scream as the bird lands.
He turns. His face and chest are smeared with blood. His eyes are crimson.
Between us, the vulture spreads its wings and hisses at Marcos. He leaps to his feet and rushes at it. The animal flies away, narrowly missing a punt.
Marcos turns back to the feathery carcass and clutches it by the neck. He swings the limp body around and slams it into the ground.
Half-crouched and scanning the sky, I bolt through a fresh cloud of feathers toward Gladys. I slide onto my knees, nearly crashing into her. Her face is torn open—it oozes, as if trying to bleed. It breaks my heart all over again.
As I’m about to embrace her, Marcos barrels into the tight space between us and swats my arm away.
“Don’t touch her!” he barks. He grabs his shirt and covers her face.
“I’m trying to protect her!” I plead.
“That’s my job! That’s my job. That’s my job,” he repeats, over and over, sinking down each time, until his face is buried in her stomach. “And I couldn’t do it,” he finally says, his words packed with so much pain they’re barely understandable.
He pushes away.
“Everything I did was wrong. And now she’s gone. Because of me. All I wanted was to save her.”
He flops into me. I hold him. His body convulses against mine.
• • •
The buzzards continue to circle, but they keep their distance now.
Arbo asks for the knife. He leans over Gladys and makes a small slice in his index finger. Drops of blood splatter onto Marcos’s shirt, which covers her upper body. He bows his head.
“To the one of us who most deserved to make it.”
He backs away.
I take the knife. My hand shakes as I try to cut.
“To love. Then. Now. Forever. I’ll see you in our stars. Always.”
Marcos follows. “To a little sister with more courage and heart than her big brother could ever hope to have.”
We are—and always will be—bonded together. By tragedy. By triumph. By our very blood.
• • •
Not staying here to die with Gladys is one thing. Leaving her here this way is another.
“What, do you want to let these filthy birds eat her?” Marcos asks.
“What else can we do? We can’t take her with us,” I say.
“We could bury her,” Arbo says.
“With what?” I ask.
“Good point. It was just an idea.”
“I’m not going to turn her into vulture food,” Marcos says.
“We could cover her,” Arbo says.
“They’ll pull away whatever we put on top of her,” I say.
“Not if we use rocks,” Marcos replies.
“We can barely walk and we don’t have any water. We have to go, or we’re all going to be vulture food,” I say.
Marcos opens his mouth to speak, but Arbo cuts him off.
“Do you guys hear that?”
There’s a whining in the distance. It’s hard to identify, but it’s getting louder. Quickly.
“It’s a car,” Arbo says.
“It’s not a car… It’s something else,” I say.
“It’s more than one,” Marcos adds.
We lower our bodies. Whatever it is, it sounds like it’s passing through the creek bed…until, abruptly, it turns toward us.
Engines rev. Bushes rustle.
“Run!” Arbo yells.
We all take to our feet—even Marcos. We sprint away from the noise, as if it could be outrun. It can’t. Within seconds, two four-wheelers blast through the brush.
“¡Manos arriba!”
We freeze.
A cloud of dust floats across our faces, blurring our view. I squint but only see forms. Then the dust passes. There are three men. Each holds a massive rifle. Each points at one of us.
“I said, ‘¡Arriba!’ Now!”
I know the voice. We raise our arms high in the air. He slides off his four-wheeler, lifts his sunglasses from his face, and flashes a victorious grin.
It’s the gunman from the backyard. Rafa’s brother.
“Hola, chavos. Remember me?”
None of us answer.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Funny bumping into you out here.” He looks up. “Vultures never lie.”
I glance at the other two men, who carefully climb off the second four-wheeler while keeping their aim on us.
The leader of the group we escaped from smiles and waves.
“Ah, and I think you know my friend here too,” Rafa’s brother says. “Small world, really.” His smile is at full gloat.
I don’t know the third man, but I recognize what’s on his neck—three bars, side by side.
I scan around us. There is no escape. No options remain. Death is finally certain and near. And faced with this, I realize how much I don’t want to die.
I look at Arbo. He’s resigned to it. I turn to Marcos. He’s looking away in disgust, like we’re about to meet the one end he dreaded most.
I can’t bear it either. I have to do something.
Our gun.
I spot it. It’s on the ground by the creosote bush, ten to fifteen meters from us. I stare at it. Before I even have a chance to try to hatch a plan, I give myself away.
Rafa’s brother turns and sees it.
“Oh, that’s a shame. You have a gun, but it’s so far away. You can go get it if you want. I’ll trade you. You get the gun, and I shoot one of your friends. In the huevos.” He grabs himself, as if we need the reference, and laughs.
My stomach turns thinking about what is mere moments away.
“Do you have any idea how much I’ve fantasized about this?” he continues. “I crossed the border for you. I don’t cross. But for this… Oh, this is going to be worth it.”
We stay silent.
“Hey, look at me when I talk to you,” he says to Marcos.
Marcos ignores him.
“I said, ‘Look at me,’ you pinche culero.”
“You don’t exist,” Marcos says.
“Oh, I exist. Believe me. You’re going to know that soon enough.”
“So do it already and shut up.”
He laughs. “Don’t you wish I would, pendejo. I’m thinking maybe I have other plans for you. Like shooting you in the kneecaps and leaving you out here for them to eat. Alive.” He points up. “Maybe everybody gets a little revenge today,” he says, looking at the bird carcass between us.
Marcos doesn’t respond.
Rafa’s brother walks over to Gladys and pulls the shirt from her face.
“Wow. Somebody got a mouthful. Literally!” Again, he laughs at his own words.
I can hear Marcos’s breathing intensify.
“Ignore him,” I say under my breath. I d
on’t want Marcos to go charging him. Or provoking him at all. I need time to think. To come up with a plan.
“What a shame. She looks like such a delicate little flower. Maybe it’s for the best. I’ve always had a hard time shooting little girls.”
He pulls out a stack of hundred dollar bills.
“And shooting three out of the four of you isn’t bad. But before I do, I want you to see something. This is my lesson to you. This is what it’s all about.” He fans the bills in the air. “Ten thousand dollars,” he says. “Twenty-five hundred for each of you, and twenty-five hundred for the dead girl. That’s what it cost me to get you. That’s what your lives are worth. This. We always win, because we have this. Lots of this. When you see your daddies, remind them of that.”
He walks over to me, stopping close enough that I could take a swing at him.
I ponder it.
He peels away one of the bills.
“Look at it. Smell it.” He holds it in front of my nose, then slowly crumples it into a ball. “Die with it.”
He flicks the money in my face and walks away. He tosses the stack to the leader of the guías, then turns back to us.
“I own you. And now it’s time to die.”
I need to think.
Think.
Think!
It’s not happening. My mind races in circles. It’s all panic, not coherent thought. If we run we get shot, if we stay we get shot, if we charge them we get shot.
I should at least have swung when he was close enough for me to hit him. What did I have to lose?
It ends here.
I stare down the barrel of one of the rifles, and a switch goes off in my head. The fear vanishes. I forget about Rafa’s brother and the others. I forget about everything.
I close my eyes and find her voice.
If this has been my final week on earth, then that’s fine by me. We made the most of what we had.
It’s not apathy. It’s contentment. In some ways, this has been the best week of my life. I open my eyes, look beyond the horror in front of me, and bask in the searing glory that devours me. I, too, now choose to see the beauty.
I look into the sky. My only wish is to see our stars one more time.
A twinkle catches my eye.
I’m awestruck. And bewildered.
Did I imagine that?
It pulses again. This time I see where it’s coming from—the horizon.
The Border Page 22