“Now The Beast,” said Junior with excitement.
“Now The Beast,” agreed Ernesto. He did not smile.
20
Alice
JAKE WAS STILL asleep when I got home with Pete. (I’d quickly changed the pup’s name from Justin Bieber to Pete, after Pete’s Candy Store, the Brooklyn bar where Jake and I had shared our first beers.) Camilla and the girls stood at our doorway with their hands at their mouths, and I set my little guy down and watched him approach my big guy. Pete sniffed the floor. I am embarrassed to say I wondered, in that moment, if he could smell the longing that had permeated our house, perhaps the last traces of the bottle of baby formula that Jake had mixed in the middle of the night, spilling a bit on the floor. I wondered if Pete would want to stay with us on Mildred Street, if anyone ever would stay. But he lifted his head and ran to the couch, springing up and jamming his snout under Jake’s wrist, looking for a scratch.
Jake jerked awake. “What?” he said.
“Surprise!” I cried, and Ella and Bella chimed in, “Surprise!”
“Am I dreaming?” asked Jake.
I shook my head, stupidly bursting into tears. “It’s Pete,” I managed. “He’s ours. Pete, after Pete’s Candy Store.”
“Oh my God,” said Jake, pulling the dog onto his lap and leaning down. Cradling the dog, it must be said, like a child. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “Hey, buddy!” Pete barked and licked Jake’s face. “Where did you come from?” asked Jake.
“I adopted him,” I said.
“At the no-kill shelter!” cried Ella (or maybe Bella).
“Congratulations on your new arrival,” said Camilla. “It’s time for us to go have supper now. Ciao, Pete. Say ciao, girls.”
The girls said goodbye and waved, complaining as their mother dragged them away.
Jake was beaming. “He’s so awesome,” he said. “I mean, come on! He’s perfect. Part Bernese mountain dog, right? And part …?”
“Who knows?” I said.
“He’s ours,” said Jake, but it sounded like a question.
“Yes.”
“Oh my God,” said Jake again. “We’ve got to take him for a walk! We’ve got to buy dog food! We need a bowl, and a dog bed, honey! Where’s he going to sleep?”
I shook my head, laughter spilling from my mouth.
Pete jumped to the floor, and Jake picked me up, spun me around. “I love you!” he said. “I love my dog!”
I held on to Jake. He was so warm and so alive. And then we headed (with Pete) to the pet store.
That night, as Jake paged through The Art of Raising a Puppy by the monks of New Skete (recommended by the clerk at Book People as the best guide around) and Pete sniffed out his new crate, I checked my messages. Principal Markson had called, telling me that she’d stopped by the Claiborne Street trailer and Evian’s mom had raved about the wonderful afternoon Evian and I had shared. I thought this was odd, as I’d never even met Evian’s mother—she’d been asleep when I picked Evian up and asleep when I dropped her off at home. Principal Markson said she hoped my afternoon outings with Evian could continue. Did next week at the same time work for me?
“Ugh,” I said to Jake. “I’m just not sure about this. Evian’s headed for trouble.”
“You know,” said Jake, who was lying on the floor next to the crate, rubbing Pete’s ears through the bars, “I think I always wanted a dog more than a kid, in the end. I mean, this is fucking awesome.”
“I think the crate is supposed to be his space,” I said. “In other words, don’t go poking your hands in.”
“Oh,” he said, looking chagrined.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” I said.
“You’re right,” he said, leafing through our book. “The monks do say not to stick your fingers in the crate.”
“Jake,” I said.
He looked up.
“I …,” I said. “I …”
“You what?”
I swallowed my sadness, my feeling that something was missing. After all, we had so much.
“Please, Alice,” said Jake. He stood, then wrapped me in his arms. I started to cry, for the loss of Mitchell, for the baby no dog could ever replace. I didn’t mean to be selfish, to ask for more than anyone deserved. But I had a hole in me, and worse: a persistent feeling that someone was looking for me, someone who needed me desperately.
“Please,” whispered Jake, holding me so tight I could feel his heart thumping. “Please, honey,” asked my husband, “can’t this be enough?”
My cell phone rang early in the morning, yanking me from sleep. Jake had already gone to work; he’d fed and walked Pete beforehand, and Pete was napping in his crate. I fumbled with the phone, stammering, “Hello?”
“Um, Alice?” said a young voice.
“Evian? This is Evian?” I said.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I narrowed my eyes and checked the clock: 8:03.
“I was wondering …” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” I said, somewhat impatiently.
“I am at school,” she said. “Don’t be mad. I’m here, I just … my mom was kind of wonked out this morning. I wondered if you could maybe … check on her. Just make sure she gets up and goes to work?”
I bit my tongue, not sure how to respond. Clearly, this whole Big Sister situation was going to be more than I had bargained for. “I don’t know what to say,” was all I could manage to say.
“Never mind,” said Evian. “Just forget it. I’ll go home and check on her myself.”
“No …,” I said. There was silence on the line; she waited.
“Did you say something?” said Evian, when I didn’t finish.
“I’ll run by,” I said.
“Oh my God, thank you!” said Evian. “You’re totally awesome. Awesome sauce, as Sam says. I have, um … PE, and I don’t want to miss it. You can just text me and let me know? Thanks so much, Alice!” She cut the line before I could reply.
My awkward stammerings had waked Pete. He yipped and pawed at the crate. I let him outside and sat on the porch swing to consider my next move. Coffee, I decided, then Evian’s trailer park. I’d pretend I was stopping by to say hello, to meet Evian’s mom in person, and then I’d leave. I would text with the news that Evian’s mother was fine and dandy and get on with my day. Pete peed in the yard and then crumpled next to me. He peered up, as if to say, Come on. This heat—it’s too much.
“You’re right,” I said, grabbing the brand-new leather leash Jake had picked out and clipping it onto Pete’s matching collar. I led him to the truck, opened the hatchback, and laughed as he jumped inside the car and made his way to the front, settling himself on the passenger seat. Again, he glanced back at me with his haughty expression.
“Onward,” I said. I could swear the dog nodded.
Cenote was a gorgeous coffee shop in the neighborhood, housed in a historic building. Jake and I had watched the progress of the space from an abandoned home (formerly owned by a long-leaf-pine salesman, hence the refinished floors) to an elegant café with robin’s-egg-blue walls and large glass doors painted with gold. Jake and I didn’t know the owners, but I hoped we’d meet them one of these days. Pete strode alongside me as I approached the counter. I ordered coffee from a swanlike woman wearing a ruby-colored (or maybe actual ruby) stud in her nose.
“Cute dog,” said the woman.
“Thanks,” I said.
“There’s water in a bowl outside,” she said, gesturing to Pete, who was panting.
“Oh!” I said, grabbing my coffee and leading him to drink. I had a lot to learn.
Back in the car, I drove west, turning onto the dead-end street where Evian lived. I sipped my dark brew and parked. There was no sign of life inside the trailer, but what had I expected? A motherly woman mowing the lawn or reading a romance novel on the front porch? There wasn’t a porch, anyway, just two metal chairs and a rusted coffee can filled with gravel and cigare
tte butts. And the awful dogs, surrounding my car and barking. Pete barked back, becoming hysterical and pawing the door. Jesus H. Christ.
I did know I couldn’t leave Pete in a hot car, so I blasted the AC and got out, trying to ignore the canine mayhem. I rapped on the trailer door and called, “Hello? Mrs. Kenman?” There was no response. I turned to Pete, met his beseeching gaze through the windshield, and called out for Evian’s mother once more. Then I tested the door. It was unlocked. I hesitated for just a moment before stepping across the threshold and saying, “Hello? Is anyone home?”
Miserably I wandered around the trailer. A cockroach scurried across the kitchen counter, and the master bedroom—the only bedroom—had a hamster in a cage, but there was no human in the place. Not in the bathroom that smelled of mildew and perfume, not in the backyard, not in the corner of the living room that looked like Evian’s sleeping quarters. (A blanket, empty Big Mac container, and radio with headphones marked her territory.) I even checked underneath the bed, but, mercifully, no one was there. So I walked back outside, closed the door behind me, got into my car, and drove away. At the stop sign on Oltorf, I texted Evian that her mom wasn’t home. I shut off my cell. Pete didn’t stop barking until we had reached Mildred Street.
21
Carla
I DO NOT NEED to elucidate for you the misery of hiking across a desert, so I will not do so. I will say that it was very hot, hotter than you can imagine, and that we ran out of water. I will say that when you are desperately thirsty, there is nothing else in your mind besides want—want of water, want of sleep. Your blood thickens; you grow weak. But enough: we did not lie down.
Eventually we came upon a small village and Ernesto went into a grocery, telling us to keep moving. He caught up with us minutes later, his pockets bulging with stolen items. Ernesto gave me water. He gave Junior water. I loved him.
Ernesto told us that this area—Chiapas—was full of bad people. (This from a boy with pants full of stolen mangoes!) “They are not all devils,” he said, “but many are evil.”
“What do you mean, evil?” I asked.
He merely shook his head. “You do not want to know what people can be like,” he said quietly. “Depraved. Please pray for God to watch over us at this point.”
I did as Ernesto had requested. As we walked through farms, small towns, then larger towns, I gripped my brother’s hand and prayed. I understand now that many never make it across Chiapas. At night, sometimes, I read their stories on the Internet, my eyes filled with tears—stories about trafficking, about human slavery, about children trading sex for one square meal. Murder, decapitation, prostitution, gang initiation. I was so lucky.
God was with us: we made it to the train station in Arriaga. If we had not had Ernesto showing us where to go and God keeping us safe, we would have been lost.
It was very late at night by the time we arrived. Ernesto told us to stay still and disappeared, telling us he would try to find out when the next train would be leaving. Junior and I huddled together, trying to make ourselves invisible. I touched the steel train tracks and my hand came away smelling like a burned pan.
Here, in a dark station filled with desperate immigrants, the mood was forbidding. I felt like a dying animal being watched by patient vultures. Everyone was either competing for a place on the train or trying to figure out how to take advantage of us travelers. I could not get enough air in my lungs, and my mouth tasted sour.
“Will he come back?” said Junior.
“Of course,” I said. “Mami sent him to watch over us.”
Junior buried his nose in his baby-food jar, but there were no fumes left for him to savor. “I want Mami,” he said. “What does she look like, Carla?” I felt hollow inside, realizing that Junior didn’t even have a memory of our mother’s face to sustain him. I knew the way she looked at me, and how her hands felt on my skin.
“She looks like you,” I said.
Junior bit his lip and nodded, wanting to believe me.
My stomach twisted, growling for food, but we had no more money. I was not sure that Ernesto would return: perhaps he had been running from something and now was on safer ground. I saw members of his gang around the station, smoking, speaking too loudly, looking for trouble or opportunity. A few hours passed.
“I want Resistol,” said my brother.
“Don’t be weak,” I spat.
“I don’t care,” said Junior. “I want it. I don’t care about the rest.”
I put my arms around him, my nose to the top of his head, which smelled like river water. “Please care,” I said, both to him and to God. “I’m taking you to a better place, Junior, to Mami.”
He stayed with me. I was thankful.
Finally I saw Ernesto’s scrawny figure loping toward us. He held his shoulders back and his chin was lifted. “Hello, my young friends!” he shouted.
He came closer, reeking of marijuana smoke. He handed us drinks and tortillas filled with meat. My mouth exploded with pleasure at the salty, rich taste of the stew. I almost choked, I ate so fast. As the food reached my stomach, warmth flooded my arms and legs.
“The train is leaving soon,” he promised. “When The Beast slows, you must do as I tell you.” We nodded. The tracks were swarming with men who would be looking for a place on the train. There were few women, and I could not see another girl. Making it to the top of a car was very important, Ernesto told us.
“Your friends are here?” I asked him.
“My friends are everywhere,” he said proudly. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
This was the appeal of the gangs—if you obeyed them, they were your family. It is easy to think that people like Ernesto joined gangs to get drugs or food, but in my experience, it was for love.
After about an hour, the train approached, belching smoke. Its brakes shrieked so loud it felt as if someone was plunging a pencil into my ears. “Go!” shouted Ernesto. Joining the flood of people, Junior and I rushed toward the train. It did not stop, just slowed as it passed through Arriaga, and we ran alongside, trying to get the courage to jump. Ernesto had told us that we should reach for a ladder toward the front of a car, so that if we missed and our feet fell on the rails, we would have an instant to lift them before the wheels ate them up or dragged us underneath.
As I neared the train, it shot hot sparks at me, burning my skin. The lowest ladder rail was above my waist. Ernesto leapt, and I understood this was my chance.
Adrenaline ignited my arms; I grabbed the ladder with all my strength, pulling up, reaching for the higher rung, my feet flailing desperately. But then I found the bar, and I was aboard.
Below me, Junior ran alongside the train. “Come on!” I yelled, clinging to the ladder. He grasped for and then caught the bottom rung of a boxcar behind me.
“Help me!” he said. He was sobbing, and the air rushing underneath the train began to pull his legs under.
“Don’t let go!” yelled a man.
“Heave yourself up, boy!” screamed another.
“Help me!” cried my brother. “Please, God, help me!” A group of strangers scrambled toward Junior. They reached down, risking their own lives, and wrenched him slowly aboard. He collapsed, and I climbed the boxcar I had boarded. Our journey on The Beast had begun.
22
Alice
“YOU JUST LET yourself into the trailer?” said Jake.
“It was unlocked,” I said.
He turned to me, his features dark with anger. I’d thought the story was morbidly funny, but Jake seemed angry. “Well, Evian asked me to check on her mom,” I said. “She needed me. I just … I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“You thought it was the right thing to do?” asked Jake. “To drive over to a strange neighborhood and wander into someone else’s house?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “And it’s not really a strange neighborhood as much as a menacing one.”
Jake shook his head. He was having none of my feeble jok
es. “So was the mom there?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “No one was there. It was really dirty, Jake. It was sad.”
“Poor girl,” said Jake. It was early evening as we walked with Pete along Lady Bird Lake. Pete was thrilled about every single item we encountered, sniffing babies in strollers, weedy plants, and piles of shit without discrimination. I reached for Jake’s hand, but his arms were folded over his chest.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
Jake stopped abruptly, causing hikers and bikers to swerve around him. He turned to me. “Alice,” he said, “I’m worried about you.”
“Oh, really?” I said. An old defiance rose in me, the same emotion I’d felt when my high school counselor had tried to pry into my feelings about my mom’s death and when my dad had brought home a nanny to take care of Jane. “I’m fine,” I said, as I’d said when I canceled sessions with the counselor, and when I’d convinced my father to let the nanny go. “I am,” I told Jake. “Truly.”
“Look, we’re both struggling,” said Jake. I breathed evenly, waiting for him to stop talking. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I’m having a hard time, too. But I’m afraid that you’re … misplacing your love. You know? You want someone to take care of, but this might not be the right person.”
“Oh?” I said. “Then who is the right person?”
My husband stood before me, opened his arms. If I had looked at his face, maybe I would have understood. Instead, I stared at the lake. It shimmered in the evening light, moving slowly, seemingly untroubled by the dozens of pleasure boats it buoyed.
Later that night, my phone rang while we were watching House Hunters International.
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