“Help me, Ernesto!” I yelled. Junior’s flailing arms circled my neck. Ernesto turned around and met my eyes. Then he stepped back into the water and held out his hand. I took it, his grip a solid thing. He pulled us both to safety.
In Guatemala, I lay on the muddy bank, breathing hard. Junior did not release me, but burrowed closer. His backpack was gone. “Thank you,” I said, looking up. But there was no answer. Ernesto had already begun walking down a brushy path, headed for the next country, which was Mexico.
We stood, and we followed him.
18
Alice
JAKE WAS ASLEEP in his bathing suit when I got home, half an iced tea in front of him on the coffee table, a Yankees game buzzing on the television. The striped towel he took swimming was damp, hung over a chair at the kitchen table. I let myself be still for a minute, watched his chest rise and fall. Jake wasn’t fat, exactly; he was strong and loved to swim and play touch football. Like his father, Jake had been a star quarterback. His parents’ giant brick house in Lockhart (located across the street from the football stadium) was filled with framed pictures of Jake in his Lions uniform, posing with the team.
High school football was a big deal in Lockhart; Jake had once hoped he’d play in college, maybe even pro. But a knee injury had derailed him, leading him to New York, and to me.
I sat next to my husband on the couch, wrapped my arms around his girth. He smelled like sunscreen and chlorinated water. His skin was hot against my face. He had been looking at the Austin American-Statesman when he’d fallen asleep, and I narrowed my eyes to see that he’d been reading the classifieds. More specifically, the “Pets and Livestock” ads.
Jake rolled toward me, murmuring something about a spaceship. I nestled close, then had a crazy idea. Carefully I took the paper from under his arm. I moved quietly to avoid waking him, going back outside into the blazing afternoon.
In front of their house, Camilla watched her children playing in a plastic pool. She wore a tiny string bikini and her skin glistened with oil. She waved lazily. I waved back. “Come over!” she cried in her lilting accent. “Is it time for margaritas?”
“Not for me, thanks,” I said, walking across the alley to her house. “I’m on a mission,” I confided.
“A mission?” said Camilla, sitting up. Her thick black hair fell in a braid down her back, and she wore a wide straw hat. “Tell me more,” she said. “This sounds very exciting.”
Her kids splashed each other, somehow energetic despite the heat. “Jake wants a dog,” I said.
“Oh, no,” she said.
“What do you mean, oh, no?” I said.
“Dogs,” said Camilla, tossing her hand as if shooing a fly. “What about a fish?”
“Can we get a fishy, Mommy?” asked one of Camilla’s daughters.
“Absolutely not, no,” said Camilla.
“Awww!” the girls cried.
“I had the strangest day,” I said, sitting on Camilla’s front steps.
She made a questioning sound, and I told her all about Evian, Sam, and the movies. I told her about returning Evian to her trailer, where we discovered her mother passed out on the couch, an empty jug of Chablis on the coffee table. “I didn’t want to leave Evian,” I said. “But she insisted she was fine.”
Sadness flared in me as I remembered the way Evian had stepped quickly in front of her mother, embarrassed. “She works really hard, so obviously she’s super sleepy on the weekends,” Evian had said, ushering me back outside. As I drove away, I saw Evian come outside with the empty wine jug, tossing it in the trash, sinking down onto her front stoop, placing her chin in her hand.
“What you need will come to you, Alice,” said Camilla gently. “You don’t have to go trying so hard.”
“That sounds great, Camilla,” I said, annoyance sour in my stomach. “But it’s not so easy for everyone.”
“I know, I know,” said Camilla. “But I thought I was meant to be a scientist, and then Beau ran into me with his bicycle.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” she said. “I was visiting Texas for the summer, taking biology classes at UT and also painting and drawing. I set up my easel along Bee Caves Road to paint the bridge at sunset. There I was, beginning to sketch, and a man in spandex biking shorts came along and knocked me over.”
“Beau hit you with his bike?” I said.
“Beau hit me with his bike!” she exclaimed. “Worse, he sprained his ankle in the fall. You know how he clips his shoes to the pedals? So I had to take him to the hospital. And, well … here I am. Sunbathing in a yard with American daughters instead of on a real beach with an ocean. I’ll be a U.S. citizen next month.” She sat back, satisfied that she had made her point.
Camilla’s daughters began singing a song called “Party in the USA,” and I stood. “Well,” I said, “if I get a puppy, I’ll come introduce him.”
“Puppy!” cried Camilla’s younger daughter.
“Why not?” I said.
“Well, the dog hair,” noted Camilla.
“Please don’t rain on my parade,” I said.
Camilla stood. “We are not raining on your parade,” she said. And then she added grandly, “In fact, we will join you on your mission, Alice. Girls, get dressed. We are going to find Alice a dog.”
“I wasn’t sure I was going to go right now,” I said.
“Austin Pets Alive! is behind the YMCA,” said Camilla. “Come on, we’ll take my Honda Odyssey.”
“You should put on a dress or something,” I said.
“American prude!” cried Camilla. “But good point, regardless.”
The girls were apoplectic with excitement as we drove toward the animal shelter. I could never remember which was Ella and which was Bella, so I addressed them in the plural. “Girls,” I said, turning around to face them, “I’m not positive we’re getting a dog today. I probably need to do some research first. This is just a fact-finding mission.”
“I love puppies!” shouted one of them.
“I love puppies, too!” screamed the other.
“You’re going to have to get the dog right now,” said Camilla. “I’m sorry, but they’ll be too upset if not.”
“Camilla,” I said, “getting a dog is a big decision. This trip … it’s a lark. We’re just having fun.”
“I hear you,” said Camilla. “I wouldn’t want to clean up the shit of the dog either.”
We parked in front of the shelter. When we exited Camilla’s minivan, we could hear the frantic yelping of caged dogs. “Oh, God,” I murmured, remembering the mongrels that had rushed my car near Evian’s house. What the hell was I doing?
“Girls,” said Camilla, “this is a no-kill shelter. Which means if Alice doesn’t get a dog today, she can get the dog tomorrow!” She clapped her hands, and the girls nodded seriously.
“You’re a great mom,” I said.
“I love it very much,” said Camilla. “Who knew? This was what I was meant to be, when I thought I was meant to be famous.” She winked. “Like you and Jake,” she said. I blushed; we had been on the front page of the Statesman the week before, and Bon Appétit was planning a visit. There was even word of Jake joining the cast of a new reality TV show called Barbecue This!
As we ambled toward the shelter, I tried to ignore an acrid smell of urine and ammonia. I pushed open the door to the office, and a genial man with a ponytail greeted us. “What can we do for you today?” he asked.
“We’re just looking around,” I said.
“We’re getting a puppy!” cried one of the girls.
“Is that right?” said the man, smiling.
“Maybe,” I said. I had begun to regret the entire expedition. Visiting these desperate animals wasn’t a lark, as I myself had called it. Even if I did adopt one of these abandoned animals, I would leave the rest behind. I felt useless and sad.
“Have a look around,” he said. “Dogs to your left, cats to your right. You can take any dog you wan
t for a walk. Just let us know.”
As soon as we approached the row of cages, my stomach began to hurt. There were so many of them—bounding toward us, some barking, others sitting very still. The large majority of the animals seemed to be pit bulls. Each had been given a name, and a placard was filled out, describing their personalities. Charlie is rambunctious and would be happy in an active family with children! Roxanne needs one-on-one attention and will thrive in a childless home! Young volunteers rinsed bowls and consulted clipboards, nodding as we passed. Classical music played loudly. The girls fell quiet, and I wondered if this place—the enormous need on display—was too much for them. Camilla walked slowly past the dogs, stopping to peer in at each one.
In a far corner, I saw a puppy sitting quietly. He met my gaze and cocked his head. “Camilla,” I said, grasping her arm.
“Ah, there he is,” she said, following my look and nodding.
I approached the little dog. Justin Bieber is six weeks old. He’s sweet and energetic and needs a forever family! The puppy was part Bernese mountain dog for sure, but smaller than a purebred. He began to pant, standing up on all fours, but did not bark. I held out my hand, and he came forward, touched his cold nose to my palm. “Hey, you,” I said. He looked at my face, hope pure and painful in his eyes.
I turned around to see Camilla smiling at me, her arms tight around her girls.
“Oh, boy,” I said.
“Oh, boy,” agreed Camilla.
19
Carla
WE SPENT THE first night away from home in a Guatemalan graveyard. I held Junior in my arms as he slept fitfully, gasping once in a while, as if still underwater. Ernesto lay atop another grave, smoking his last cigarettes. We were hungry but expectant: in the morning, we would take buses to the train station in Arriaga, Mexico, where we could climb on top of The Beast. The border crossing between Guatemala and Mexico was dangerous, Ernesto whispered. He had made the journey to America twelve times. (This was his thirteenth.)
His first time, he said, was with his father, who worked picking oranges in Florida. Ernesto hated the groves, hated the tiny motel room shared with twenty men, the way his father drank beer and cursed at him. On rainy days—and sometimes the rain lasted for weeks!—the men watched television all day long, packed into one room, growing agitated. It was terrible, said Ernesto. When I asked him how old he had been during his first year in America, Ernesto gestured toward my sleeping six-year-old brother with his cigarette. “His age, about,” he said. Still, Ernesto’s father had thought him big enough to climb ladders into orange trees, grabbing fruit as fast as he was able, holding a large and heavy sack over his shoulder.
In Florida, Ernesto had missed his mother and sisters, who had remained in Honduras. One night while his father and the other men were out at a nearby cantina, Ernesto ran away. The money he had stolen got him a bus ticket to Los Angeles, where he hoped he could find a family like the ones he saw on his favorite television show, Beverly Hills, 90210. But before he reached the state he had dreamed about, someone on the bus reported him as an unaccompanied minor, and he was deported.
Life in his Honduran village no longer fit Ernesto. His mother was strict, and Ernesto bridled at her rules, talking back, even hitting her. Within six months, she hired a coyote to bring him back to his father, where he could earn money and be out of her hair. They did not ride The Beast, but traveled by combi all the way to the Texas border, where fake papers got him into Laredo and on a bus to Florida.
Upon his return, his father beat him until he cried, gave him one day in the motel room to recover, then handed him a sack and brought him back to the groves. “I ran away again,” said Ernesto, “and this time I reached Los Angeles. It was not, of course, like the television show. But after a bad time, I found my family. My real family.”
“Your real family,” I repeated.
It had begun when Ernesto was ten years old, and a boy he thought was a friend carved the words “El Santa Muerte” into his arm with a sharp knife while other gang members held Ernesto down. Ernesto rolled up his sleeve to show me the crude tattoo. “I had no choice once I was marked,” he said, gazing at the scar in wonderment. After a moment, he lifted his head. “But it was all for the best,” he said.
I did not ask him about the gang, about what he had to do to remain in the gang. I did not ask him how he ended up bleeding in my house.
“What will you do now?” I said.
“Whatever God wishes,” said Ernesto. In the light cast by stars, his face was smooth, and I could imagine how handsome he would have been were it not for the number on his face. But then he laughed, a hopeless, strangled sound. “Or El Santa Muerte,” he said.
I did not mention that I believed in God (and not in the Saint of Death, though her name frightened me). I shut my eyes and said a silent prayer: Please, God, watch over me. Please bring me safely to my mom. Before long, I was asleep.
In my dream, I wore a black dress. Humberto stood at my side, also in midnight-colored clothes. I saw my mother, Stefani, and Gabriela. We seemed to be standing at the edge of something, but as I peered down, Humberto said, “Look up, only up, mi amor.”
I defied him. Below us was a grave, a deep earthy hole. At the bottom was a small coffin. One by one, those around me dropped roses on the coffin. “Goodbye, Junior,” said my mother, and then I understood.
I woke gasping for breath, knowing even as I gazed at my brother’s sleeping face that I would lose him. I did not know when or how, but I was sure now that my time with him was limited. I swore to be more vigilant, to keep him next to me no matter who—or what—tried to take him away. Despite my vows, I was filled with the cold knowledge that I would fail.
In the morning, we resumed walking, ignoring our bloody ankles. Both Junior and I had good American sneakers, and we had begun the journey with three pairs of clean socks. (Junior’s socks had been eaten by the river. I gave him mine.)
Ernesto wore plastic soccer sandals, which looked cool but offered him no support. I thought he was kind of an idiot, if handsome. Around midmorning, we came upon a town, and I opened the coffee can and bought us tortillas, eggs, and cold water. We sat in the shade of a jacaranda tree to eat. “You need bandages,” commented Ernesto, gesturing to my feet. When I explained that I had no bandages, he pulled my feet into his lap and inspected them. “Feet, be good,” said Ernesto. Lavender blooms fell from the tree, dusting our hair.
“He loves you,” whispered my brother.
“He talks to feet,” I said. Still, my feet seemed to hurt less as we trekked, leaving the town and heading up a mountainous trail. Junior whined that he was tired, and I reminded him to just put one step after another step. He glared at me, but I thought this was a useful way to think—just keep moving along the path, without worry for what lies ahead or what you’ve left behind.
Ernesto knew where to board a bus, taking my money to pay our fare. It felt sweet to sit down after walking for so long, to have a moment to feel my brother’s head loll on my shoulder, to watch the eucalyptus trees and the verdant fields. (“Verdant” is my favorite English word so far, but I have not yet finished reading Webster’s New Century Dictionary.) When we entered one small town, a woman climbed on the bus and gave us bread and water for free. “God bless you,” she said, handing us the food.
It was a new day before Ernesto told us to get off the bus. “We walk from here,” he said. “There’s a checkpoint ahead.” It was hard to leave the spongy bus seat, and my legs were sore and creaky. Still, we disembarked, leaving the paved road entirely, making our way to a worn trail. We trod along switchbacks as the sun grew fierce, finally reaching what seemed to be the top of something. “How far are we from Mexico?” I questioned.
“Don’t ask,” he answered. He put his hands on his hips, then pointed. In the distance, I could make out another town. “Tapachula,” said Ernesto, adding, “Mexico.”
“Will we get there tonight?” said Junior. His voice was a small, cor
nered animal.
“If you shut up and walk,” said Ernesto.
We shut up. We walked.
Ernesto had twice been caught by immigration entering Chiapas. Once he had been robbed. There were a few ways to cross, but Ernesto explained that if we had money, we should hire someone to carry us on a raft. I figured we might as well spend our lempiras now, rather than wait to be robbed of them later. The Rio Bravo seemed a world away, and I knew God would provide.
“I have the money,” I said.
Ernesto led us to the Suchiate, a much larger river than we’d crossed before. He bargained with a stumpy man in a baseball cap, then told me to give the man all of my money. I shook my head, and Ernesto stared at me stonily. I saw there was no room for discussion.
“You owe me,” I told Ernesto, reaching into my pack and giving the man the coffee can. Ernesto laughed—that joyless sound again.
The man took us one at a time, Ernesto first. As Junior and I stood on the bank, watching Ernesto cross, I wondered if Ernesto would leave us behind. I told myself we would be fine without him, but I did not believe myself. “I want to go with you,” said Junior. “I don’t want to be on either side without you.”
I pulled him close. The man returned with the raft and told me to climb aboard. I explained that Junior and I wanted to cross together. The man refused. “Take him first, then,” I said.
“You don’t want him alone with that one,” said the man.
“He’s not what you think,” I said.
“Look at his face,” said the man.
I sighed and stepped on the raft. Junior burst into tears, and I implored him to have faith. The raft was unsteady, and despite my words, I was nervous as it rocked back and forth. The man had a long pole to grip the mud below. “I know what I am doing,” he told me. “There are alligators in the water, by the way.”
When we reached the other side, I stepped into Mexico. I had left all my papers behind so that if I was caught now, I would not be sent home. I sat down cross-legged and watched as the man returned for Junior. I held my breath. My brother climbed aboard nervously, slowly. The raft leaned to the side but righted itself. In a matter of minutes, Junior was in my arms. Ernesto stood behind us as Junior and I embraced. “Now the train,” said Ernesto.
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