The Border

by Steve Schafer

  I snap back to here. Present. Grounded. With one last hope…

  “One question,” Rafa’s brother says. “Which one of you shot my brother?”

  Marcos opens his mouth. “I di—”

  “Shut up, Marcos,” I interrupt. “You like to take credit for everything. Not this time. This cabrón gets the truth.” I start laughing.

  Marcos and Rafa’s brother both look at me, confused.

  “You’re too late,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s right over there. That ‘delicate little flower’ shot your brother.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not. And that’s not even the best part. She tricked him into getting on his knees to beg. She said she wasn’t going to do it… Then she shot him in the throat. He suffocated.” I fall to my knees and laugh harder. “You came all the way across the border to get revenge for your brother’s death, and these dirty, filthy birds got to her before you did. You can’t even shoot her now.”

  “You want to bet?”

  He aims the gun and pulls the trigger. He hits her in the head.

  “Ooh, one bullet.” I laugh one more time, with everything I have. “And I almost forgot. She peed on him.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. That ‘little flower’ peed all over Rafa. I think he was still alive too.”

  It’s gross. It’s not Gladys. But I need to push him, hard.

  He takes the gun and fires. Six times. Her body bounces with each shot. It’s surreal. I know she’s no longer there, but with each tiny twitch of her body, it looks like she’s flinching, in pain again, and ripping at my heart, again.

  “Now you’re going to shut up. It’s your turn,” he says, pointing the rifle at me. “Actually, I like you the least. So I’m going to have you watch me shoot him instead.” He turns the rifle to Arbo.

  No! Not yet.

  I look up. The vultures still circle, pointing us out from above.

  We need more time. I need one more small distraction.

  Rafa takes aim at Arbo. He drops to his knees.

  “Why did you do it?” Arbo asks. “Why did you attack the quince? I want to know.”

  “Ask Daddy. Oh wait, he’s dead.”

  He puts his finger on the trigger.

  “No. Tell me! You can shoot me, but I need to know first. Please!”

  I’m desperately scanning the horizon.

  Nada.

  Seconds cling to the clock like the sweat sticking to my body.

  “Didn’t you pay attention earlier? Money, gordo. You’re as stupid as you are fat. No, you’re as stupid as your dad.”

  “I don’t get it. Tell me why. What did he do?”

  “He forgot the number one rule—it’s all about money. Money wins. And you never talk to the police, no matter what.”

  “He went to the police?”

  Rafa’s brother is about to answer when the leader cuts him off.

  “¡La migra!”

  Sirens blast just beyond the bushes. The gunmen turn and we run. There is no discussion.

  Rafa’s brother tries to mount his four-wheeler while firing at us.

  I leap for cover behind the nearest bush. Arbo tumbles into me. Bullets fly through the brush. Engines whine. The four-wheelers race away as two migra jeeps burst into view and turn to follow them, as they all try to weave their way across the dotted landscape.

  I look at Arbo. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  I scan for Marcos. I don’t need to look hard. He’s charging across the area where we were. I know where he’s headed.

  I jump to my feet in pursuit.

  He reaches the gun and points it in the direction of the four-wheelers. It’s already a long shot to where they are. That doesn’t seem to bother him. He takes aim.

  I barrel into him from the side. We both crash into the dirt.

  “No!” I yell.

  “What are you doing?” he barks.

  “It’s time to go. We need to get away.”

  He raises the gun back into the air.

  “I said no!” I grab his arms and force them down, sliding my hands on top of the gun as I do. “It’s not worth it. Do you want to let the migra know there are still people back here? We have to go. Now!”

  We lock stares.

  “Don’t fight me for it,” I say.

  He tries to raise the gun. I push it back down.

  “Let go,” he commands.

  “No. You got your way last time. Remember what happened?”

  He almost punches me. He clenches his jaws so tight his face looks twice as wide. I clench back.

  We both stand firm. The chaotic pursuit resounds in the distance while we remain stock-still. Not blinking, not budging—nothing.

  Until finally, he says, “Fine.” His arms go limp, and I take the gun.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where?” Arbo asks.

  “It’s an easier run in the gully.”

  Marcos goes to get his pack. He kneels over Gladys. We need to hurry, but I give him the moment.

  I throw the gun in my bag and am about to follow Arbo, who is already running away, when I see the little green bill in the sand, crumpled, where it fell after bouncing off my nose. I dart over and grab it. I’ve never held so much money in my life.

  Thirty seconds later, we’re all back in the creek bed, racing once again, away from one danger and toward another.

  Perspectives

  Adrenaline carries us farther than what our thirst, hunger, and exhaustion should allow. The dry creek bed helps, as it’s a hard-packed mix of dirt, sand, and pebbles. But nothing out here is easy. It’s a grueling slog. My legs are still drained from having carried Gladys, and every other body part feels almost the same. The mere thought of water is painful. If I could have only water or air right now, I’d debate the choice.

  We rest for a moment. We can only go for a few minutes at a time. That’s the most we have in us. I put my hands on my knees and look cross-eyed at the sweat collecting at the tip of my nose, then dripping off me to boil on the ground below. It’s like watching a slow leak in a bucket. I put my tongue out to catch a drop. I know it’s salty and I’m not supposed to, but even that one tiny splash in my sandpaper mouth is enough to give a few seconds of relief. Enough to push off my knees and stand upright one more time.

  I listen for the sound of anyone following us. Nothing. Still, we need to get farther away.

  “Come on,” I say. “A little more.”

  Trudge.

  Rest.

  Trudge.

  I turn from time to time to make sure we’re still together. And when I do, for a split second, I look for Gladys. Like some part of me can’t remember that she’s gone.

  Other pain distracts me from the hurt. In spite of its next-to-nothing load, my pack is nearly unbearable to wear. It rubs my sunburned shoulders raw. The shade it gives my back isn’t worth it. I take it off and clutch it in my arms, opting to take on the sun. That’s what this whole journey has felt like anyway—us, taking on some massive, torturous, cosmic force that’s out of our control.

  Rest.

  Trudge.

  Rest.

  Trudge.

  Fold.

  We push until we have nothing left, inside or out. We reach the end of the creek bed. Within a few hundred meters, it evaporates into the desert floor in a lattice of jagged cracks. After many cycles of filling and drying, it’s fully baked, like the crust of a loaf of bread. The bushes thin out and the horizon stretches into nothing.

  We collapse onto the crispy ground.

  “I can’t go any farther,” Arbo says weakly.

  Marcos’s eyes roll up into his head as if to
say the same.

  That makes three of us.

  We’ve given all we have, then more.

  We try to huddle under the thinnest bush I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t help. I push myself up to look for something, anything. There is no substantial shade nearby. No trees, no rocks. There is nothing.

  We sprawl out, depleted and exposed.

  I place my pack over my face. Only for a moment, I think. I pretend it covers my body.

  • • •

  I open my eyes. I don’t know how long they were closed. I don’t remember choosing to close them. I slide the bag from my head. It’s blindingly bright. The piercing rays stab into my skull. Everything is fuzzy and washed out. I put a hand to my forehead to block the sun. Slowly, my focus returns. I see Marcos and Arbo sprawled out next to me, baking in the dirt. They’re breathing, but there are no signs of life beyond that.

  I need to do something.

  There’s still not a scrap of shelter to be found. I sit up. I think I spot a tree in the distance.

  Then it’s gone.

  Then it’s back.

  Shade. Oh, sweet shade. Maybe there’s even fruit on that tree?

  No. Stop. Think clearly. Think clearly.

  I poke Arbo.

  “We need to go, Arbo.”

  He grunts but doesn’t move.

  I press my palms into the flaming ground and push. I make it to my knees and stare at the shimmering skyline. I pause in the slim space between my will to push farther and the temptation not to. The wind whips a small dust devil in the distance. I turn back to see how far away the mountains are, and…

  Wait. There is no wind.

  The air is stagnant, scorching. Dead.

  I look again toward the dusty cloud. I stare at it. Is it real?

  It’s moving. In a straight line. Tight at the front, then bleeding slowly into a long, wispy trail. And just ahead of it…a car.

  A car?

  I watch it slide across the horizon, sure it will disappear like the tree. It never does.

  I stand on wobbly legs and charge toward it, dashing clumsily with everything I have. I feel like Arbo back in the alley in Sonoyta. My limbs don’t work together. They flop, barely keeping me upright. I trip, roll over, and lunge forward again. I repeat.

  I wave my arms and yelp an airy screech. But I’m probably half a kilometer away. It’s a losing battle.

  I trip one last time and watch the car drift out of view. It’s a bitter loss, but not a hopeless one. It was traveling far too straight and steady to be on the desert floor. It was on a road.

  I stumble back to the others.

  “Arbo! Marcos! Get up. There’s a road!”

  They respond with groans.

  “Come on! There’s a road! There are cars! We can get help!”

  I grab Arbo’s arm and yank him. His eyes, half open, look at me as though I’m bothering him.

  “Get up!” I kick at him.

  He shakes his head a few times. “Where?” he asks.

  “Just over there. It’s a five-minute walk,” I say, minimizing the distance. It is only a five-minute walk, but for us, in our condition, it will take longer.

  He throws an open hand toward me. I hoist him to his feet. Marcos sways on his knees. He leans back over the ground.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  He, too, holds out a hand for me to grab.

  Soon we’re all staggering toward the road.

  • • •

  We tumble into a shallow ditch on the side of the dirt road, panting and choking with throats so dry we’re unable to speak much louder than a whisper.

  “What do we do now?” Arbo croaks.

  “We wait,” I say. “For someone to come.”

  “What if it’s la migra?”

  “That’s a chance we have to take.”

  We sit on the side of the road. And wait.

  Hope cools me. Or at least it helps takes my mind off the heat. I turn in shifts, staring to the north and to the south, looking so deep that the tiny ripples of heat morph into vessels of all kinds, all coming to save us. But each time my heart leaps and I’m ready to announce our salvation, the mirage fades, and I have to face the agony of falling back to mere hope. And I do. Over and over. I don’t know for how long. I don’t look at the time. That would only make the wait feel longer.

  After a while, it ceases to feel like we’re waiting and begins to feel like we’re just sitting, cooking, melting, dying.

  • • •

  None of us have spoken for at least an hour. Arbo taps my arm and I turn to him.

  “What did he mean about our dads talking to the cops?” he whispers.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Do you think our dads tried to turn La Frontera in, or do you think the cops came to our dads to try to scare them?” he asks.

  “Right before the quince, my dad said he had a change to tell me about. He said something was going to change.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know. He never got to tell me.”

  We fall silent for a moment, then a faint smile appears on his face.

  “I think our dads knew they were on the wrong side. They tried to switch. That’s why the narcos attacked. That was the change… Maybe they couldn’t even do construction anymore and were looking to do something else. They were going to leave it. Yeah.”

  “I think you’re right,” I say.

  He closes his eyes and the corners of his lips drift upward. Watching this makes mine do the same.

  But it’s short-lived. I look at the three of us, lying in the dirt, passing the time, and it makes me think back to those long, idle stretches with Gladys. Holding hands, sneaking kisses, passing words back and forth. It fills me with regret. I wish I had appreciated those moments more while I had them. I open the book and try to read our notes. I can’t. My eyes won’t focus. I strain, blink, squint, but it’s no use. It’s all a blur. I wish I could go back to when I was with her.

  I feel like I’m crying. Again. I reach to wipe away the tears, but my eyes are dry.

  I’m empty.

  • • •

  “Car!” Arbo whispers. It’s so faint the first time, I barely hear it. “Car! Car!”

  I look in the distance and see the familiar trail of dust swirling out from the road.

  We scramble to sit upright.

  We wave our arms.

  We scream with raspy cheers.

  We wonder if it’s la migra, and we let that fear go. We’ll worry about that after we get out of this place.

  The car nears us. It’s not slowing down. I’m not the only one who notices.

  We stretch our friendly waves outward, as if to shout, Stop! Please! We press our palms together and cross our fingers on our knees.

  The car speeds up. It whizzes by, smothering us in a cloud of dirt.

  “Why?” Arbo asks.

  The question goes unanswered.

  We sit, stunned, as the dust settles.

  I crawl out into the road.

  “It won’t happen again,” I say.

  I stretch out across the center. Arbo follows. I slide to the far side.

  There is no way to go forward, other than to go over us.

  Marcos stays in the ditch.

  • • •

  The sun kisses the earth. We haven’t moved for hours.

  I draw my hand to my cheek. My skin feels cool. I look down my body. I’ve started to turn pale. Am I becoming a ghost already?

  Everything is foggy. I turn my head north. It takes all I have to do so. I stare down the road, wondering where it leads and how long it takes to get there.

  Maybe we should start walking. Night will be here soon. Maybe one last push is all we need to finally ge
t out.

  The thought seems absurd. I can barely lift my head.

  Then suddenly, I do. I press my hands into the dirt, push up, and start moving. My feet are light. Fresh. As if they’re not my own, or as if they are my own, but from weeks ago. I run. I sprint. The ground slides effortlessly beneath my feet. I throw a tight trail of dust behind me.

  Then I remember—Arbo! Marcos! I’ve left them behind.

  How could I be so selfish? I need to get them!

  I turn. I’ve run so far they aren’t even in sight. My spry legs turn to jelly. I fold. I try to stand, but now I can’t even peel my face from the dirt.

  I’m alone.

  Am I?

  I blink and Arbo is next to me again, with Marcos nearby in the ditch.

  And then, they’re not.

  I’m not dreaming. I’m not awake. I think I’m somewhere in between.

  I hear sounds. Familiar sounds, but I can’t tell what they are. My lungs fill with dust.

  “Hola?”

  “Hola?”

  Something icy bursts against my neck. A drip? It throws my whole body into a small spasm.

  Two people hover above me. I stare at them. They look angelic and alien at the same time, looming over me, silhouettes cast against a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of colorful swirls.

  One of them—a man—holds out a bottle of water that drips so temptingly with condensation that it looks like a scene from a television ad.

  “Agua?”

  He leans down and extends the water bottle to me. I grab it, still unsure if this is real. It’s so frigid that it bites my hand. I sling it to my lips. It unleashes an explosion of cold inside of me. I can feel everywhere it goes. I track it down into my innards. I swear it blasts right past my stomach and fills into the rest of me.

  The other person—a woman—says something. It’s gibberish. I can tell it’s a question. Beyond that, I’m lost.

  She looks nervous. Her hands shake. She alternates between glancing at me and at everything else around us.

  I stare at her, confused.

  “Está bueno?” the man asks.

  I don’t feel bueno, I think.

  “No,” I try to say, but it comes out stretched with more vowels than it should.

  Arbo!

  I point to my side, as if they can’t see that someone else is there.