I was too scared to respond. I cowered on the blanket. The Snake lit a cigarette and said, “Marcos, let’s go.” They followed him along the water, out of sight. I could sense men watching me, and I felt sick.
It was not yet morning, but I stood up anyway. I ran the way I had come, up the path, to the city. I ran for maybe an hour, maybe longer. Finally, I collapsed on a bench and opened my hand to see that Marcos had given me a phone card worth fifty pesos. I saw an old woman walking quickly down the dark street and I asked her where a phone was. She looked at me as if she, too, were afraid. I knew that some migrants were not kind, and robbed or stole to get what they needed to survive. The old woman shook her head and hurried away.
I found the church Marcos had told me about, and on its steps I curled into a ball to wait for morning. I had come so far, and I did not know what to do. I knew I was in danger. I knew my mother might not have the money. And I knew she might not send it; she had left me, after all. Did she love me two thousand dollars’ worth?
The good news here is that I had no more tears left. So I sat on the steps of Parroquia de San José until God brought the morning to me.
40
Alice
AS SOON AS I stepped off the plane in Montrose, I could feel the chill of impending winter. It was only September, and yet the light was low and gray, the sky steely outside the airport windows. In the baggage claim, my father waited, his summer tan worn off, his expression miserable. When he saw me, he nodded, unsmiling. I ran to him, saying, “Dad,” as I tucked my arms underneath his and held him.
“Come on now, honey,” he said, disengaging himself.
At the baggage carousel, he leaned in to grab my duffel. “I can do it,” I protested, but he ignored me. We walked across the parking lot. Montrose was flat, and the sky seemed stretched too thin to cover the distance from the clouds to asphalt. My father started the truck. “Chilly,” I commented.
He did not respond.
“How’s Jane?” I tried.
“Better today,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
“I wish she’d get the test,” I said. “The test for the gene that …” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t say the word: cancer.
“Got a new boy in the stockroom,” said my father. “Bill Fernandez’s boy.”
“Oh,” I said. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine,” Dad said with a shrug. He turned on the radio, found a country-western station. We drove the forty-five minutes to Ouray without a word. “You staying with Jane or me or what?” Dad asked as we pulled into town.
“I don’t know,” I said. He did not respond. “Jane, I guess,” I said.
Dad pulled up in front of Jane’s house and parked, carrying my duffel to her door, then gathering groceries from the backseat. “What’s in the bags?” I asked.
“Jane likes those Sara Lee pound cakes,” said my father. He let himself inside Jane’s quiet house, put the cakes on the kitchen counter, kissed me on the cheek, and left.
Dennis had left a note saying that he and the children were at the store and that Jane was resting. I called for her. When she did not reply, I climbed upstairs. My sister was in bed, her hair unwashed and greasy on the pillow. I lay down next to her, and she turned to face me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” said Jane. She started to cry. “I’m really sad,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“You do know,” said Jane. “I’m sorry for being sad.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I said.
Jane nodded, still crying, and closed her eyes. This was how we’d bunked as children, in one bed. I brought my forehead close to my sister’s, and we slept.
“Our names are so plain,” said Jane as we sat in bed that night, waiting for the boys and Dennis to bring us dinner. “I mean, Jane and Alice? What could be more dull?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I like my name.” I’d changed into pajamas and we’d settled in for a long evening of watching Lifetime Television for Women. Jane kept the volume low so she could talk over the movie, which was about a waitress in a seaside town who falls in love with the fry cook, who, unbeknownst to the waitress, is also a serial killer.
“I just feel like Mom and Dad could have branched out some,” said Jane, waving her mug around. I watched her hand nervously, waiting to get a scalding slap of Nighty Night tea.
“Jane and Alice were their mothers’ names,” I said.
“That is my point!” said Jane, lifting her arm.
“Please,” I said, “can you watch your hot mug there, sister?”
“You watch your hot mug, sister!” she said. She spoke gaily but also seemed a bit unhinged. I did not point out that I was drinking a mug of whiskey, which Dennis had handed me without comment.
“Dinner’s ready!” called Rick, entering the room. He was so tall now, still thin as a rail, wearing athletic shorts though it was cold outside. It was strange to look at him—so sweet, grinning at his mom—and realize that he was just two years younger than Evian and the other Chávez kids, who seemed so world-weary. Rick’s face, covered with pimples and rosy-colored from his culinary efforts, was open and trusting. I wondered if mine had ever been that way.
Part of me was glad to have learned the tough lesson early—life could take everything from you when you weren’t paying attention. So I watched. Like the Chávez kids, I was ready for disappointment. But looking at Rick, I felt a hot jealousy. I yearned to feel at ease but didn’t know how.
“Okay,” said Rick, his voice deeper than I remembered. “We have your broccoli here.” He gestured to a bowl of overcooked greens with a pat of cold butter on top.
“Oh my God, amazing,” said Jane.
“And I carried the noodles,” piped up Gilmer. He tried to climb on the bed with a bowl of spaghetti, and spilled only some on the floor and in our laps. The strands were clumped together, half cooked and seemingly without sauce or flavoring of any kind.
“I love noodles!” said Jane. “How did you know?”
“I brought the forks!” screamed Benjamin, throwing them in the air. We ducked, and the utensils landed safely at the foot of the bed. Jane reached for them and said, “You are so smart to bring forks, Benji.” He beamed and began to jump in place.
“Last but not least,” said Dennis, entering, “fresh trout.”
He placed a tray of fish, perfectly sautéed in garlic and butter, on the bedside table.
“Oh, man,” I said. “This looks delicious.”
When the children had gone, Dennis shooing them out of the room so they would miss the scene of the fry cook stabbing someone on a beach, Jane said, “He fishes every night now. It’s how he copes.” She sighed, all her goodwill spent.
“Napkins!” screamed Gilmer, throwing a roll of paper towels from the hallway. “I’m not allowed to come in!” he added.
With effort, Jane climbed from bed. She went to the door and kissed her son. “I was just asking Aunt Alice what we were going to do without napkins,” she said. Gilmer hugged her tight, clasping his pudgy hands together around her head.
“Gilmer! What’d I tell you?” Dennis thundered.
“Yikes, bye!” said Gilmer. Jane closed the door quietly and climbed back into bed.
“Who’s up for trout?” I said.
Jane was motionless, her eyes closed. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
I was quiet. I ate dinner and watched the movie. I knew there was nothing I could do but be next to her. Dennis checked in about an hour later, whispering that he was headed out to have a drink at the Elks lodge. I walked him to the front door. “Are you doing okay?” I asked, putting my hand on his arm.
Dennis squinted at the stars. I could tell it took force of will for him to keep from moving his arm away. “Yup,” he said.
My dad’s truck pulled up the road. “You’re going drinking with my dad?” I asked.
“Yup,” said Dennis, taking a can of Skoal from his jacket pocket.
/> My dad put the truck in park but left the car idling. “Dennis?” he called.
“Yup,” said Dennis, heading down the stairs.
“Hi, Dad!” I called. He nodded, waited for Dennis to climb in, and drove off.
I sat on the front steps for a while. I went inside and found Jane’s hidden stash of cigarettes just where she’d always kept it, in a basket atop the refrigerator. I went back outside and lit a cigarette. I took one inhale, feeling the false contentment nicotine always sent through my blood. Coughing, I put out the rest of the cigarette.
“Aunt Alice, you shouldn’t smoke,” said Rick. I turned and saw him in the doorway, wearing a T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.
“Busted,” I said.
“Really,” said Rick. “It’s so bad for you.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“So you know what happened to the baby?” said Rick.
I blinked, unsure of how to respond. “What do you mean?” I said.
“There was something wrong with the baby,” said Rick. “Sometimes that just happens.”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.
“Nobody knows why,” said Rick.
I held his gaze, nodding. In his face, I saw a dim terror, the dawning understanding of how much he had to lose.
41
Carla
THE PRIEST, AN old man in robes, took my crumpled phone card and let me use the church telephone. I dialed my mother’s number carefully. Her phone rang once, and then again. On the third ring, she answered, “¿Bueno? Hello?”
“Mami?” I said.
“Gracias a Dios!” she shouted, so loud that the priest looked up and smiled. “Carla, you are alive!”
“Yes!” I shouted, bursting into tears.
“Where are you?” she asked. “I’ve called everyone! They told me you had gone!”
“Nuevo Laredo,” I said.
“Oh, baby,” she said, “oh, my baby, you’ve almost made it.” The happiness in her voice made me cry louder. “How on earth—”
“I need to get across the river,” I said. “I need help. Two thousand dollars.”
She paused. I knew how much money this was to my mother, and I bit my tongue. Did she know what it was like in Nuevo Laredo? “I’m scared,” I said, hoping she would understand about the campsite and the robbers and the children selling their bodies in the street. I did not say, I am scared I will die. But my mother had been here herself.
“You have found a coyote?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I am told he is trustworthy. But he won’t help me without money.”
“Of course,” she said. There was the smallest pause. “I will send it today,” said my mother.
“Today?” I said, stunned. I quickly gave her the information necessary to send the money.
“You will be here tomorrow,” said my mother, her voice disbelieving. “You will be here with me tomorrow!” she repeated.
“Thank you,” I said. “Mami, my phone card is running out,” I said, panic rising in my chest.
“Precious one, be safe,” said my mother. In a smaller voice, she asked, “And Junior?”
Tears rushed into my throat. I gagged on the words, but I spoke. “No, Mami.”
There was no sound. My expensive seconds on the phone card ticked away as she tried to put unanswerable questions into words. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. “Junior …?” she said again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Her silence expanded to form a terrible darkness over me. But finally my mother’s voice broke through. “Goodbye until tomorrow,” she said.
“Goodbye until tomorrow,” I whispered. I handed the phone to the priest.
The church was small and in bad repair. Above the pot of stew, Jesus Christ looked down on us from a large cross. The stew tasted so wonderful I had to hold it in my mouth before swallowing. I was very hungry. Around me were dozens of others, all starving, hollow-eyed. We were the lucky ones.
The priest had errands downtown, so he took me to the Western Union himself. He warned me that sometimes relatives promise to send money but do not. This was why he had to limit the meals he could give. “Some people end up staying in Nuevo Laredo for a long time,” he said. He smiled mournfully. “We do what we can do,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps you will get there,” he said. “Perhaps your American dream will come true, and it will be all you wished for.” He looked at me, hope in his eyes. “It’s possible, isn’t it?” he said. He seemed to be asking himself this question.
At the Western Union, two thousand American dollars was waiting in my name. I stowed the money in my underwear, went with the priest back to the church for dinner, then brought the money to the encampment. When I found the Snake, he was not well. I understood his state: he looked like Junior after the Resistol. I asked him if my friends had made it over the border, and he said yes. For all I knew he had killed them all—who would ever discover his crimes? Still, I pulled the Western Union envelope from my pants and handed it to the Snake. “Can you get me to Austin, Texas?” I asked. I told him my mother’s address, which I had committed to memory.
He put the money in his back pocket and nodded lazily. “We will leave soon,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, girl, and I will make arrangements.”
I was overcome. I did not believe him, yet I had no choice but to believe him. Though I knew vultures were watching, I lay on the soiled blanket, feeling sick but trying not to vomit. Finally it became dark. I heard the Snake departing, saying goodbye to those around the fire. I prayed, my eyes shut tight. I could not close my ears, however. I heard splashing and cries as the Rio Bravo ate those who tried to swim. I listened to the bullhorns as Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger shouted, “Go back! Go back!”
But I could not go back.
In the dead of night, the Snake shook me awake. Soundlessly we headed along a dirt path to a secluded place by the water. Night-blind, I could not see any American SUVs across the river. “Climb on, quickly,” said the Snake, indicating a black inner tube he held still with his hand. Uncertainly, I mounted the tube. The Snake put a plastic bag with dry clothes in my lap. Then he launched us into the fierce river, trying to paddle forward, keeping the tube level so I would not tumble into the water. If I drowned, I realized, no one would tell my mother. I would just never arrive, and after a while she would understand.
I did as the Snake ordered, frozen with fear. We reached the island in the middle of the river and slid to safety. Mercifully, I did not see any agents on the American side. “Don’t make a sound,” said the Snake. “Nothing.” I bit my tongue as he pushed us from the island back into the river. I was so close to America. Finally we reached the bank. The Snake hurried me along the land to a tributary. We followed it, the Snake watching our surroundings carefully. In the distance, a spotlight illuminated the island in the middle of the river. It was empty.
“Put on the dry clothes,” said the Snake, and I changed out of the pants and shirt I had worn for so long. The new pants were too tight, but the sweatshirt was large enough to cover where the zipper would not reach. There were shoes, too, and I tied them tightly. Shoes were of great value.
“Now,” whispered the Snake, “we run.”
He began to sprint, and I fell in beside him. We ran for a long time, up from the river onto dirt trails behind a housing development. We crossed a paved road and saw a car ahead. The headlights blinked on and off. “There,” said the Snake. We reached the car, and the Snake opened the trunk. “Get in,” he said.
My mind reeled back in time, to the day I watched my baby brother being set in a trunk. Now, at last, it was me. But the space was small, and when the Snake slammed it shut, I did not have enough air. What if Marcos was wrong? What if I died here, in America, in a car trunk? The car started to move, stopping briefly at what I imagined were border checkpoints. I fell in and out of slumber.
&nb
sp; By the time the trunk was opened, it was very hot. I gasped the fresh air and saw the sun. A stranger’s face came into focus. He was a white man, an American, with gray hair and the stubble of a gray beard.
The strange man said, “Get out.”
My legs were weak. I had vomited on myself, and the man wrinkled his nose. We were parked in front of a motel called the Ace. Faded cars shone under a brilliant sky. “Room Sixteen?” said the man, reading to himself off a piece of paper. The Snake was gone.
I nodded.
The man dragged me to a red door that had the number sixteen spray-painted on its metal surface. Outside the door was a folding chair, an ashtray, and three empty cans of American beer. The man knocked sharply. The door was yanked open, and I saw her.
“Mami!” I said, falling toward her.
“Carla!” cried my mother, catching me.
42
Alice
EARLY IN THE morning, Jane shook me awake. “Come on,” she said. “I want to do Bridge of Heaven.”
“It’s dark out,” I said. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Please,” said Jane. “I’m feeling strong. I … I need to do this.” The hike was at least a seven-hour round-trip, so I gritted my teeth and climbed from her cozy bed. “I have coffee,” said Jane. “Meet me in the Land Cruiser.” I nodded, half asleep. I changed into hiking clothes, shoved my hair under a hat, and brushed my teeth. None of the children were awake. Dennis lay on the couch, snoring loudly. I tiptoed out the back door, where the ’76 Land Cruiser, which had been my parents’ and which Jane and Dennis paid a fortune to keep running, was warming up. I climbed into the passenger seat and Jane handed me a thermos.
“Jesus, it’s cold,” I said. “Fucking Christ.”
“Please don’t take the Lord’s name, et cetera,” said Jane.
“Since when are you religious?” I asked.
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