by SL Hulen
No matter how she pushed, her arms weren’t strong enough to turn the tube around. Victoria continued moving, watching her father wrestle against the current, knowing she was in for big trouble when they got home.
In a few moments, he reached out and grabbed the tube. They were just beginning to paddle back when she heard a pop; the inner tube quickly began losing air, and Papí’s grip loosened. Near his shirt pocket, she saw something awful, and heard Mamí screaming over the babbling water.
“Swim as fast as you can,” he panted, “and promise me you won’t look back.” He smiled weakly and gave the tube a big push. “Modesto will wait...”
She crawled up the deserted riverbank thinking Papí would be right behind her, but he was gone. On the opposite side, trucks drove into the clearing, their headlights turning night into day. The patch of grass where their picnic baskets had been now swarmed with police. From across the narrow river, Victoria watched one of them grab her mother’s arms, twisting them behind her until she dropped to her knees, sobbing. She heard the venom in the agent’s voice, and her entire body shook with fear.
“We know you’ve been aiding these enemies of the government. Now you’ll get what you deserve, señora. Maybe I’ll even give you something more,” he chuckled, squeezing the front of her skirt and grinding his hips into hers. “A child and a husband in the same day. Què lastìma; this needn’t have happened. Don’t worry, though. Where you’re going, you wouldn’t have seen them anyway.”
Until that night, Victoria’s worst fear had been that Panchito, her dog, might get hit by a car.
The Modesto family reached the opposite side of the river ahead of her and vanished; men in trucks took her mother and some of the others away. Victoria wandered the bank, searching the fast-moving water for Papí.
At sunrise, she crept close to the water for a better look. In the grass behind her, something moved. Giant arms lifted her, kicking and screaming, desperate to stay in the place she had last seen her family.
Other than the blanket they wrapped around her, which reeked of desperation, sweat, and urine, Victoria didn’t recall much about the ride to the detention center. In a cell with other mojados, she refused to eat or speak and pressed herself into a corner, trying to disappear. In the middle of the day, they were forced outside to walk in a chained enclosure where she saw the only reminder that she was still alive—the sky.
Often she couldn’t understand anything the Anglo immigration officers said; other times, they spoke perfect Spanish and asked her name, where her family lived, and if she knew of relatives living in the United States. She did not. A woman claimed the eightyear-old as her daughter, insisting that at the time of her family’s unfortunate capture, they were on their way to meet her American father. She grasped Victoria’s hand and patted her with rough, unfamiliar strokes.
In an office with drab green walls, an officer questioned them further. “You don’t favor your mother, do you? No, your features are completely different. You were traveling to see your father, is that right?”
“¿Mi Mamà?” Victoria asked, her voice quivering with hysteria. “My mother is Estima Duarte de Barrón, and because of me…” She had been too distraught to explain further. A few hours later she saw Elias for the first time, composed and seated behind a thick sheet of glass. “The little one, that’s her!” he exclaimed, jumping up and pushing against the glass with both hands.
The officer, who had almost been fooled once by the woman claiming to be Victoria’s mother, asked, “Do you have any proof?” From inside the holding area the officer held her chin up, examining her face as though she were a prize calf. “The federales claim her father ran a smuggling ring. Apparently they have a lot of information on him—his wife, also. Your name is mentioned in their reports, which is how we were able to contact you. Luckily, you weren’t linked to any criminal activities.”
A tear ran down Elias’s cheek as he removed a photo from his jacket pocket, placing it against the glass for him to see. “These are her parents. Look at her eyes, her nose. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on her, but nonetheless she is unmistakably a Barrón, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Everything happens for a reason,” Marta would say over and over as she sat up with her during those first grief-filled nights. “You must not lose faith, Victoria. Try to be happy. Live a good life and, who knows, the answers may come one day.” Removing a small, golden cross from around her neck, Marta pressed it into Victoria’s palm. She would always remember the softness and warmth of that hand. “This has always brought me comfort,” Marta had told her simply. “I hope it will do the same for you.”
More than twenty years later, Victoria was still waiting for resolution, for her mother to magically appear. Maybe there was an answer for Khara, too—why had fate seen fit to drop this woman on her doorstep?
“You could choose to stay,” Victoria offered, following Khara to the patio.
Khara stared at the pink and orange streaks of sunset. Without turning, she asked, “Leave Egypt to Menefra? Abandon the wishes of my father? There will not be a moment’s peace for me until I return.”
“What if it’s not possible to get you back?” Victoria’s voice cracked. “I hope you understand that’s the most likely scenario. And have you considered that if we managed to work a miracle and return you, your sister is probably waiting to finish you off?”
“What’s a ‘miracle’?” Just like that, she ruined Victoria’s concentration. “Something we’re going to need lots of, I’m afraid.”
“I know only this: the answers we seek can be found nowhere but Egypt.” Victoria sighed. “Then that’s where we’ll have to start.” That evening, Khara insisted on seeing a map so she could determine exactly how far west Texas was from her homeland. Scrutinizing the oceans and expanses of land while Victoria explained the continents, her face went white.
“But there is no time to travel so vast a distance! I have only seventy days from the day of my father’s death to return.”
“You never said anything about that.”
Khara took a sip of tea, stood, and began pacing. “The ritual to prepare pharaoh for the journey into the afterlife takes seventy days. Even now, the embalming process has begun. The government is prohibited from performing any official activities during this time. Once my father’s tomb is sealed, the new pharaoh will step forward. It must not be Menefra.”
Victoria cleared her throat. “It will take only one or two days, at most, to arrive in Egypt.”
Khara halted mid-step and clapped her hands. “Can it really be so?”
“I may have made it sound too simple. The difficulty is in the preparation,” Victoria said officiously. “We’ll need documents— passports and visas. That alone will take time, even if I can find a sympathetic expert to forge your documents.”
“What is necessary to accomplish this?”
“Something I wish I had more of at the moment. I’ll need to see about getting my hands on some cash.”
“Cash?” Khara turned her back on Victoria.
“Money. Currency. We’re going to need some.”
She turned around holding a small, stained pouch. “take these, she said, removing several bracelets from the small bag and placing them in Victoria’s lap. “No doubt they will bring— cash?”
Tracing the intricate red and white crowns overlaid in gold, Victoria’s breath left her. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” she whispered. She held them under the lamp’s glow, spellbound by the vivid colors and inlaid stones.
Khara took the thickest one and clasped it around Victoria’s wrist. “Three bracelets. Each is significant. This is the double crown, symbolic of a unified Upper and Lower Egypt.” Sliding the second one onto her wrist, she continued, “Each green stone honors a single year of my father’s rule and the successful inundation of the Nile. These,” Khara pointed to spaces where there were settings but no stones, “would have observed the years of joint rule and been filled
with my own blue stone. See how they are meant to fit together?”
“And this?” Victoria inquired of the last, most delicate bracelet. “Ahh, she is my favorite, the goddess Nephthys. Her name means ‘Lady of the Castle.’” She snapped the third bracelet into the other two. It provided a female bust on which the crown sat, surrounded by outstretched wings.
“The first and second pieces are easy; they represent your nation and your family. But the third one, the Lady of the Castle. Is she you?”
“She is who I aspire to be,” Khara confessed, smiling. “Will they be enough?” Victoria handed them back. “Do you understand that, in this time, these bracelets are priceless? I can’t possibly—”
“This is not the time to argue.” She wrapped her hands around Victoria’s, closing them into a fist. “It is a question of necessity, is it not? Sell them and let us be on our way.”
Chapter Twelve Victoria
At nine o’clock on Monday morning, Gracie waltzed into the office with a mug of coffee, sat, and looked across the desk with probing eyes. “Judging from the dark circles under your eyes, I’d say you had quite a weekend. Here,” she offered, pushing the coffee toward Victoria. “You need this more than I do.”
Victoria didn’t answer right away. She was busy making a list for herself and another for Gracie. When she did speak, she said, “The situation with Khara—it’s more complicated than I thought.”
“More than on Friday? This I’ve got to hear,” Gracie remarked, eyeing the lists suspiciously.
“I’m in a hurry, Gracie. We’re leaving town for a few days, and I need you to look after things.”
“We? Before you go anywhere, you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Victoria wanted to tell her everything, but the phone rang, dispelling the fleeting desire to spill her guts.
Gracie pressed the intercom button. “She’s busy, take a message!” she snapped, and then looked at Victoria with a troubled expression. “This is not like you,” she challenged, snatching one of the lists. “Changing court dates is no big deal, but you’re withdrawing your presentation for next Thursday’s immigration forum? Have you lost your mind? After all the work you’ve done to get a meeting with the governor? You’ll never get another chance, Vicki. How long have we been preparing?”
“Four years.”
“And just like that, you’d throw it away?”
Gracie was right. For a full minute, Victoria said nothing as she thought about how many hours she’d spent writing letters, relentlessly pursuing anyone in Austin who would listen. To her surprise, those efforts had eventually evoked a cursory answer from the governor’s office, the first step of a long, uphill battle fought five hundred miles from the capitol—and she was forfeiting it all. Victoria had been working on a speech she hoped would challenge the stereotype of immigrants in this country. It would never be heard now.
“When I get back, I’ll try to get another meeting. Look, I really need a few days, okay? In the meantime, you’re in charge. Reschedule clients and, most important, say nothing about where I am.”
“Why all the mystery?”
“Just being careful.” Victoria picked up the phone, and Gracie took that as her cue the conversation was over. She leaned across the desk, thrusting her exquisite face, as smooth and white as porcelain, so close that her flowery perfume stung Victoria’s eyes.
“And just what do you expect me to say when Marta calls?” Black eyelashes fluttered against the paleness of her cheeks like a Mexican geisha. “You don’t pay me enough to lie for you, especially to an old friend.”
“Tell her what I’ve told you: nothing.”
Though she was a heavy-set woman, Gracie could spin on a dime. “It’s your funeral,” she muttered before slamming the door.
When she was convinced Gracie wasn’t eavesdropping, Victoria put the handset down. She searched her desk until she found an empty book of matches in the top drawer and stared at the number written tidily inside. Clearing her throat, she picked up her cell phone.
A twangy, impatient female voice answered. “Bernal Boot Company.”
“May I speak to Mr. Murgat?”
“Employees aren’t allowed to use the phone during their shift. I can take a message and give it to him.”
“Thanks,” she replied, disappointed. “Please tell him Victoria Barrón called.”
Early in the afternoon, she began to think about getting something to eat. Sometimes Gracie picked up lunch for her, but after the way she’d slammed that door, Victoria knew better than to ask. The place down the street wasn’t bad, and a walk and a meal might quiet her rambling brain.
As she stood in line, trying to decide between a salad and a burger, a voice hissed into her ear from behind.
“You’re badgering me again. I’ve been on the right side of the law for almost two years. On the straight and narrow— that’s me.”
Victoria turned, astonished to see an unsettling smirk plastered across Murgat’s pointy face. Greasy hair hung over his sunken, chalky-brown eyes. He followed her as she stepped out of line. “Look, I didn’t call to bother you; I have a client in need of documents, and everyone agrees that you’re the best.”
“Hah! This sounds like a setup. I’m outta here.”
Victoria grabbed the sleeve of his navy work shirt as he turned to leave.
“Wait! I’m taking just as big a risk by seeking you out like this. I’m willing to pay whatever it costs. You’re not doing this for me, it’s—it’s for someone truly in need. A client with no other option.”
“You wearing a wire?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Prove it.”
Victoria took a step back, remembering what Gracie said about it being her funeral. She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye, running her fingers down the center of her chest as inconspicuously as possible to show nothing was there.
“All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“Someone I know—”
“You said it was a client.”
“Okay. A client of mine needs to take a trip overseas. For reasons that are no fault of her own, she has no passport, no identification of any kind. She needs to take this trip as soon as possible, and her documents need to be convincing.”
Murgat stepped close, patting her waistband in several places so quickly that she had no time to react. As repulsed as she was at his inappropriate behavior, Victoria understood; he had to convince himself she wasn’t wearing a wire. Apparently satisfied, he asked, “One way?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your friend is only leaving the United States? No plans for a round trip?” There was just enough curiosity in his voice to make her feel hopeful. “Yes.”
“Piece o’cake. The government cares far more ’bout people coming into the land of opportunity. They’re only too happy to see ’em go back to wherever they came from.”
“Then you’ll do it? What’s your fastest turnaround? How much?”
“Whoa, there, I didn’t say I’d do anything.” He made arcs across the linoleum floor with his kelly-green hightops. “And if I was a thinking man, you’re the last person I’d forge anything for. But then, times are hard, and some cash would get me away from that stinkhole job my probation officer set me up with. But it’s going to cost you—plenty. You might as well know that up front.”
“Never mind the lecture, just tell me how much.”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” he replied, as calmly as if he was ordering lunch, “for everything your friend’s gonna need. It ain’t open for discussion, neither.”
No wonder he never had trouble finding a lawyer! Twenty thousand dollars put a new spin on things she’d done to help out a client. Usually she could console herself with the idea that the end justified the means, but this was a deliberately criminal act, and she found herself wavering.
“Hey!” Murgat snapped, startling her from her thoughts, “I don’t have all day. W
hen you’re serious, call me. And remember, I’m doin’ this for the money, missy; I still don’t trust you worth a damn. This transaction puts our relationship in something of a different light now, doesn’t it? You remember that. Someday I might need something from you.”
“Twenty thousand dollars is considerably more than your normal asking price. My client’s going to need a few days to get the money together. Once that happens, I’ll be in touch.”
“You’ve got a week, not a minute longer.” His eyes moved up and down her body and settled on her face. “I’m still trying to figure you out. Why me?”
“Your work is matchless,” Victoria explained, pushing past him to get outside, “and I’ve seen you handle yourself in a courtroom—that shtick about how your artist’s soul can only be expressed through the creation of meticulous credentials.” She rolled her eyes.
He let out a noxious breath but said nothing. Victoria hoped that her flattery had worked.
At that moment, a dented black car half-covered in primer, creaked around the corner and stopped. Without another word, he jumped in.
Her breath of relief turned to dread as the car, which had been driving away, backed up. Murgat opened his door. “How’d you get my number, anyway?”
She looked him in the eye without answering.
“Seems I’m not the only one who’s good at what I do.” Murgat drove away, but not before she noticed the acknowledgment of professionalism that crossed his face.
Still hungry, Victoria returned to her office, pleased to have avoided a near disaster with Murgat. Even better, his was the kind of discretion she could count on. Despite Gracie’s warning, there would be no funeral any time soon. But her gratification was short-lived—obliterated by the thought of twenty-thousand dollars.
Late that afternoon, she twirled the bracelets across the desktop; they were all that remained of Khara’s extraordinary life. Victoria had checked her bank balances twice, hoping that something had magically changed. She could sell her car for less than she owed on it or, if she was lucky, take another loan out on her business, which didn’t always bill enough to cover costs. A couple of payrolls were already to blame for the lofty balances on her credit cards. Face it; you’re tapped out, she thought glumly. As she often did when she needed a distraction, Victoria left early to stop at the museum.