The Crossroads

by Alexandra Diaz

  “I think those two are going to work out just fine, Tom,” Meester George said once Tomás returned from closing the gate.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I feel bad for them. Their ranch had been in the family for hundreds of years, originally in Mexico and then became part of New Mexico in the Hidalgo Treaty. But a bad investment by Mel’s brother and they lost it all. Mel said she’d work as hard as it took to get her old place back.”

  “She told me the same thing,” Tomás replied.

  Meester George wiped the sweat from underneath his gray felt hat. “Assuming first impressions last, I think it’ll be in our best interest to keep them as permanent hands. They’ve got their own mounts, know their cows, and have some good ideas for improving and marketing the herd. I hope they want to stay on for a few years.”

  Jaime listened intently to Meester George. Many words still didn’t make sense, but he understood the last line perfectly. Jaime hadn’t finalized his plan to save the old foreman, but it didn’t seem fair to give up yet. He knew with a bit more thought he could make the plan work.

  “You no think Don Vicente come out,” he said to the boss man. Didn’t even phrase it as a question.

  Meester George hiked up his jeans but his belly prevented them from rising more than a centimeter. “This has nothing to do with Cente. This is the man’s home and he deserves to be here. His arrest has made me realize how much he’s needed. Good help is hard to find and I want people who I trust and will stay on for a long time.”

  The rancher looked over at Quinto, who stood near the barn with a cigarette and a bored expression now that the rodeo show was over. The wheelbarrow remained empty and the horse paddock contained at least two additional piles.

  “Walk with me, boys.” Meester George waved his hand and they shuffled along the corral with the pretense of checking the fence. Vida strolled with them, her nose to the ground and her tail ready to wag.

  “Tom, how many years have you been with me?”

  Tomás’s shoulders tensed up. He shifted his weight and took a deep breath before answering. “Eight this summer, sir.”

  Meester George gave a fence post a good shake and it wobbled a bit from side to side. “Let’s reinforce this post here. Tell me, when does your work visa run out?”

  Tomás stopped dead and Jaime noticed his eyes widen. Even Vida sensed the fear and trotted back to her humans’ side.

  Work visa. The documents Tomás had to live and work here in El Norte legally. As long as those papers remained valid, Tomás could stay as long as he wanted. Or as long as he was wanted. Jaime seemed to understand more English than he desired.

  The Adam’s apple on Tomás’s throat moved up and down a few times before he finally answered Meester George’s question. “It expires at the end of the summer.”

  “And what are your plans for the future?”

  Again Tomás swallowed. Jaime glanced at the horizon. The dust hadn’t settled from the cattle herded by the cowgirl and cowboy. People who Meester George said had lived here for generations. People who didn’t need visas because they had been born here. The realization hit Jaime like a punch in the gut. Mel and Lucas weren’t replacing Don Vicente. They were replacing someone who wasn’t born in this country, and wasn’t born a cowboy. They were replacing Tomás.

  “I, uh, was hoping to renew the visa and stay here. If you’ll have me, sir,” Tomás choked out.

  The boss man kept his focus on the fence and the needed repairs. “But do you like being a rancher? Working with cattle? Be honest with me Tom, I know this is not your dream job.”

  Tomás rubbed his scruffy cheeks while he considered his answer. Jaime leaned over to get some comfort from Vida. The dog rubbed her one-eared head against his leg and gave his hand a reassuring kiss. If  Tomás stopped working for Meester George, they’d all have to leave the ranch. Jaime didn’t need a lawyer to tell him that without a job, Tomás wouldn’t be able to renew his visa. All of them, including Vida, would be left with nowhere to go.

  Tomás opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and finally said what was on his mind. “I once thought it’d be fun to work in the movies. Not as an actor, but in the crew, building sets or repairing machinery, anything really. But that was a silly boy’s dream and not realistic. I am happy here, working with cattle, working for you. I would like to stay, sir.”

  Now was Meester George’s turn to say nothing. He stopped checking the fence to stare in the distance at the mountain that once had been a volcano. “I’ve been talking to my lawyer about Cente and you came up.”

  Jaime stopped breathing.

  “I want to help you get your green card. And legal status for the two kids.” Meester George turned away from the mountain to look Tomás in the eye. “The lawyer said there’s a program the kids can apply for called Special Immigrant Juvenile Status. The process can take a few years to go through but the chances of getting deported are very low during the application time.”

  Jaime looked from his brother to the rancher. Too many words, too many possibilities of what they could mean. Maybe he didn’t understand as much as he thought. Meester George seemed happy about what he was saying, but Tomás still had that tense and stupid, mouth-open look.

  “The world is too unstable right now,” the rancher continued. “After they took Cente, I realized I didn’t want to risk losing you too. If you agree to work for me another eight years, just like you have been with your usual salary, I’ll cover all the costs of making permanent residency happen for you three. What do you say?”

  Tomás blinked two more times before snapping out of his stupor. “That would be fantastic! Yes, of course. Thank you, sir!”

  They shook hands, making it a done deal. Jaime’s eyes shifted from one to the other, still not 100 percent clear what had transpired, and whether he should be excited too. Something about many years and money, and did “permanent residency” mean ciudadanía?

  They continued surveying the corral, though now Tomás’s shoulders were relaxed and a lopsided smile brightened his face.

  “Are you serious about wanting to work in the movies?” Meester George asked once they’d made it back to the barn. Jaime noticed Quinto still hadn’t done any work.

  This time Tomás’s face reddened. “I love movies and I thought it might be fun to work on them, but it’s no big deal.”

  “Let’s look into that once Cente is back.” He pulled out his wallet from his sagging back pocket and began thumbing through business cards he’d acquired. “There’s a big film industry here in New Mexico. I’ve got a buddy who’s rented out his ranch for movies. He once told me you can make big bucks having your cattle on the screen, but I never had the time. Maybe we can get you in, be the wrangler. Haul the cattle out to location and care for them on set. Earn us both a bit of extra money.”

  “Definitely! I would love that.”

  The men shook hands again and Meester George nodded over to Quinto standing by the barn wall as bored as ever. “Have him help you reinforce those loose posts on the corral and let him know he needs to start working harder if he wants to stay with us.”

  Meester George released the flip phone clipped to his belt to check the time and reception, then headed to the big house.

  Tomás waited until he was gone before letting out his breath. “With good news comes the bad,” he said to Jaime in Spanish. “If there’s one thing I hate about working here, it’s having to tell people their job is on the line, and worse is having to let people go. Wait here.”

  Jaime crouched down to pet Vida, who immediately flopped over on her back to have her belly rubbed. She had been found half drowned, half starved, and almost completely dead. It was great to feel that her ribs were filling in and belly had gotten quite round. A little bit more and some would say she’d need to go on a diet. Some, but not Jaime. Bellies (when they weren’t full of worms) were a sign of good health and he was proud that he himself had put on some weight too.

  Swearing
came from the barn and when Jaime looked over, Quinto stood with his feet wide apart and a demanding open hand in front of Tomás’s face. Tomás went into the barn office while Quinto yelled, “I’m out of here! My cousin earns three times as much and he doesn’t have anyone nagging him all day long.”

  Tomás came back with some money, which Quinto yanked out of his hand and made a show of counting. Without another word, he scuffed out of the barn and into his car.

  Tomás came back from the barn with a couple of shovels and poles to replace the rotted ones on the fence and two gallons of water clipped to a rope around his waist.

  “All I said is that Mr. George wants to see a stronger work ethic from him and he demanded his pay. Can’t say I’m sorry to see him go.”

  The cloud of dust from his car had already settled as if Quinto had never been there. “Don Vicente didn’t like him either.”

  Tomás put his arm around his brother and led him to the work zone. “So I guess it’s up to you, my young delinquent, to help me fix the corral. You keep saying you want to help, right? My guess is that you’ll be begging to go back to school tomorrow.”

  Not likely, Jaime thought. Though not having Diego there for a few days would be an improvement.

  “What was Meester George saying about being a permanent resident? Is that the same as citizenship?” Jaime asked. A chill in the desert air caused him to shiver despite the hot sun.

  “Permanent residency is a step toward citizenship. He said he’ll pay all the legal fees for the three of us if I agree to work for him for eight more years. It’s a good deal. Lawyers are very expensive and from what I hear, it could easily take that long to get everything finalized.”

  “But if you do that, you’d be like an—” Jaime tried to remember the word Meesus had used in social studies when talking about different ways people immigrated into a country, and the ways the immigrants were often taken advantage of. “¿Cómo se dice? ‘Intent servant?’ ”

  “Indentured servant,” Tomás corrected as he removed the fencing from the first post they had to replace. “We call that trabajador sin remuneración. That isn’t what I’m doing. Indentured servants aren’t paid for any of the work they do. It all goes to paying back what is owed to their boss for the person’s passage into the country. Bosses often keep the indentured servants working much longer than the original agreement. I’ve heard of people whose children or even grandchildren had to keep working to pay off the debt.”

  Jaime remembered Meesus saying something about that. As much as he loved his brother and owed him his life, he didn’t think he’d be happy being forced to stay on the ranch forever. “What about me and Ángela?”

  “This is an agreement between Mr. George and myself,” Tomás reassured him. “You two are free to come and go as you like. University, art school. Marriage even, though I’d recommend you wait until you can at least shave for that one.”

  Jaime forced a smile, though his mind continued repeating clippings of the boss’s conversation—legal status, citizenship, eight years. His feet felt heavy, as if held by invisible iron manacles. “I don’t think I want to become a citizen of los Estados Unidos. I don’t want to belong to a place that locks away men because they look a certain way; I don’t want to live in a place that thinks it’s better than everywhere else. I want to stay Guatemalan.”

  For several minutes Tomás dug into the dry, hard dirt around the wobbly post. He unfastened one of the jugs from his waist and poured water into the shallow hole to loosen the dirt.

  “There’s no place in this world that’s perfect,” Tomás said as he watched the pool of browning water. “You say you don’t want to belong to a place that sends innocent men to jail, but what about a place that murders twelve-year-old boys and abuses abuelitas?”

  Jaime picked up the extra shovel and drove it into the hole. Dirty water splashed against his jeans. He did it a few more times until the water had been absorbed by the dry dirt and the legs of his jeans were speckled in mud. “But if I stay here, I have to give up who I am and become like everyone else.”

  “Citizenship doesn’t change who you are. It’s just a piece of paper.” Tomás took his turn to shovel. “It doesn’t say anything about what kind of person you choose to be.”

  “What if I forget Spanish?” Jaime said in almost a whisper. “What if I grow up and can’t talk with my family anymore? Look at Ángela. Half of what she says around us is in English.”

  “Ángela is trying to figure out who she is in this new place. Maybe that’s the easiest way for her to accept what she’s been through. Your way of deciding who you are is different and how to keep on living is different. But that doesn’t mean you have to choose between Spanish and English, Guatemalan and estadounidense. Mel and Lucas for example. Their family has been here for generations, but they still speak Spanish and have maintained their Mexican heritage.” Tomás gave the rotting post a good shake. It splintered and fell to the ground.

  “But why would Meester George pay for us to get our papers? Ángela and I don’t work for him.” Jaime got on his hands and knees to free the remaining bits of post wedged into the hard dirt.

  “He sees this as an investment. He knows if something happens to you two, I would take off in an instant.” Tomás fitted the new post into the now empty hole and held it straight as Jaime packed down the mud and dirt around it. Tomás continued, “But if I stay for eight years, getting paid like normal, then he doesn’t have to find a replacement until then, maybe longer if the green card takes a while or I decide to stay. Besides, I do like it here, and I like working for him. Back in Guatemala, I never thought I’d be a cowboy, but it’s worked out. And can you imagine me being a wrangler for movies? That would be the perfect life.”

  Jaime straightened up and wiped his muddy hands on his jeans. “Maybe. Except that Jennifer Lopez doesn’t do Westerns.”

  Tomás grabbed him in a headlock and hugged him before moving on to the next post.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jaime had mixed feelings about having Mel give him riding lessons. He always thought it would be Don Vicente who’d teach him. Learning from someone else felt like a betrayal. On the other hand, he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity.

  “First thing, you always get on a horse on the left side,” Mel said as she eyed the length of his legs to adjust the stirrups. She had tacked up a brown, black, and white piebald named Picasso that Tomás had said would be a good horse for Jaime to learn on. “It’s from the days that knights carried swords on their left side so they could draw them with their right hand.”

  “I’m left handed so I would carry my sword on the right,” Jaime teased.

  Mel squinted her eyes and gave him a scolding look, but the slight smile said she could tease back. “Until you’re actually riding a horse with a sword, you’re going to get on the left side.”

  Mental check—find out how hard it would be to wield a sword. If Meester George went around carrying a gun, why couldn’t he ride with a sword? How cool would that be!

  “Some people mount using a stump or a leg up from a friend, but I think it’s important to learn to get on from the ground because something or someone isn’t always going to be around to help,” Mel said.

  Jaime put his left foot into the stirrup as he’d done when Don Vicente had picked him up at the bus stop. With one hand on the saddle horn and the other on the back of the saddle (which Mel called the cantle), he hopped on his right foot before swinging it over. He landed squarely in the saddle, surprising himself.

  “Perfect,” Mel said. “Now, feet out of the stirrups, dismount, and do it again. Except this time, I won’t be holding onto Picasso’s reins as you get on, so you’ll have to do that on your own.”

  Jaime repeated what he’d done before, except this time held the reins in the same hand that held the horn. Picasso moved as Jaime swung his leg over but stopped once Jaime sat astride and pulled the reins. At least he hadn’t fallen off the other side.


  Mel walked him though correct posture, foot location in the stirrups, and hand placement on the reins. If anything, that felt the weirdest. He wanted to hold on with his left hand, his dominant hand, but Mel reminded him if he ever wanted to learn to rope, or ride with a sword, he needed his dominant hand free.

  He nudged Picasso with his heels, and they moved from a walk to a trot. He winced as he bounced hard in the saddle, but didn’t complain. He raised himself a bit on the stirrups. There, better. And completely incorrect.

  “Press those heels down, and sit tall and deep in the saddle,” Mel called out.

  Jaime listened to her suggestions. At the same time it seemed Picasso trotted too fast to do everything at once. For a few seconds he’d get it and would be able to sit through several steps. Then his focus disappeared and he’d flop all over the place again.

  “Pull the reins back gently and sit. A big part of your control comes from your seat.”

  Picasso settled back into a walk. Jaime breathed out and relaxed into a slouch. A second later, Mel nagged him to keep his shoulders back and stay alert and in control even if they were just walking.

  “You never know when a rabbit is going to jump out under a horse’s hooves and startle him, or he suddenly gets it in his head that he wants to return home.”

  They went from walk to trot to walk a few more times and then changed directions around the corral and did the same thing over again. By the end of the lesson, Jaime’s whole body ached and he wondered if he’d ever be able to walk again. Still, he couldn’t wait until Mel let him go faster and he and Picasso could dodge cacti and chase rabbits with Vida at their side.

  “Good job!” Mel said. “Let’s call it a day.”

  “Can we do this again tomorrow?” Jaime asked.