Lucky Boy

by Shanthi Sekaran

  The judge asked Joyce to describe the circumstances that Ignacio would find himself in, if he were to be sent back to Mexico.

  “The birth mother,” Joyce began, “comes from a place called Santa Clara, oh, gosh. Po, po—” Joyce stuttered over a syllable, and then gave up. “Santa Clara is in the Oaxaca region of Mexico.”

  “And do we know anything about it?” the judge asked.

  “Your Honor, it isn’t on a map. Not even the regional maps. What we do know is that they’ve shut the school there, that the village is economically depressed, and that most young adults, like the birth mother, have left it to seek work elsewhere. Many of them have also migrated illegally.”

  “Is that relevant, Mrs. Jones?” the judge asked.

  “Not extensively, Your Honor,” Mr. Alvarez cut in.

  “Let Mrs. Jones continue, please.”

  “What we have found is that Ignacio would have a significant lack of male role models in his mother’s hometown, Your Honor, aside from the birth mother’s aging father. The region itself has had significant problems lately with drug-trafficking gangs and local mafias, which would make this a dangerous environment for a child.”

  “Has the mother applied for asylum?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Does anyone know why?”

  The courtroom looked to the birth mother’s lawyer.

  He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t thought to be—to be a likely outlet, Your Honor.”

  “So Miss Valdez never mentioned gang violence or drug trafficking.”

  “No, Your Honor, but that doesn’t—”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your Honor.” The lawyer stood, placed his pen on the table before him. And then he spoke rhapsodically of his client’s devotion, of the truths of motherhood that he couldn’t possibly know, that Kavya herself was just discovering. He said things that made perfect sense. He said things that made Kavya’s hope sink into a mulchy pit. And for a good long while, the judge let him. Beside her, Rishi shook his head.

  “Thank you, counsel. Now would you please let us continue?”

  The lawyer sat.

  “Mrs. Jones?”

  Joyce Jones continued. “We’d be sending him to a virtual war zone, Your Honor. If the violence hasn’t reached—” She paused to look down at her notebook. “If it hasn’t reached Santa Clara yet, then it’s only a matter of time.”

  The mother’s lawyer cut in again. “We’d be wrong to send him back there, Your Honor, after his mother gave up everything to get herself here. To give her child the opportunities he wouldn’t have in Mexico.”

  “Are you recommending that the mother stay, too?”

  This worried Kavya. The judge seemed to be advocating for the birth mother. For Miss Valdez.

  “Of course it would be better if the mother stayed,” the state lawyer said. Kavya squeezed Rishi’s hand and he squeezed back, nearly crushing her. “In an ideal world, Your Honor, the mother would stay, the child would stay, we’d have housing support for everyone. But we’re not going to turn immigration policy on its head here, are we? This is a dependency court.”

  “I’m aware of what sort of court this is.” The judge fell quiet for several moments, running a pen across her stack of paper.

  “Can you speak to the quality of the foster parents, Mrs. Jones?”

  “The foster parents are present, Your Honor.” Kavya could barely breathe.

  “And?”

  “They are gainfully employed, and own their own home. They’ve issued a written statement of their commitment to the child. They are married and financially stable, and live in a part of Berkeley with very good schools and cultural opportunities.”

  “And where are the foster parents?”

  The lawyers and Joyce turned to look at Kavya and Rishi. Rishi nodded. Kavya started to stand, but Rishi held her down. The judge blinked rapidly, her eyelids fluttering over them. The eyes at the front of the courtroom rested on them for an interminable stretch of time, and just when Kavya thought her nausea would spill over, they turned away again.

  “Thank you.”

  What Kavya remembered next was the judge sitting back and sighing.

  “My job,” she said, “in cases like this, is to uphold the existing policies of California child welfare, and to allow the child welfare system to operate within the framework of existing law. The state will treat Ignacio Valdez as it treats all dependents, regardless of his mother’s status. My understanding is that the birth mother of Ignacio Valdez has not pursued any of the requirements of her reunification plan. I must also take into account that Miss Valdez is not present, either in person or via telephone. It’s unfortunately not my place to consider why Miss Valdez has not attended the stipulated courses, or pursued recommended counseling. The simple fact is that she has not. It is not my place, either, to consider where Miss Valdez is now, or why she hasn’t been able to participate in today’s hearing.”

  The judge paused here. She tapped her pen on her desk, watched it pendulate from side to side, and seemed to lose herself for a few moments in the rhythm of this.

  “My finding is that Ignacio Castro Valdez shall, at this time, remain with his foster parents”—here, the judge looked down at her sheet—“Kavya and Rishi Reddy.” Their names rang through the courtroom, and Kavya felt her chest flush itself of breath. She’d been holding it in since the judge started talking.

  The judge went on: “A follow-up hearing will be scheduled for six months from now, to reassess the case and decide whether termination of the birth mother’s parental rights would be appropriate. For now, the court grants custody of Ignacio Castro Valdez to his foster parents.” She banged her gavel.

  46.

  Two days later.

  “Adrian. What happened?”

  “Soli. What happened? Why didn’t you call?”

  “They wouldn’t let me use the phone. Why didn’t you call here?”

  “I tried. They wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

  “So.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “What happened?”

  A pause. “The foster parents were granted continued custody, Soli. They’ll be pursuing adoption.”

  She collapsed into the wall. Only the phone cord held her up, but she wouldn’t let go. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you need to stay in the country. As long as you don’t get deported, we have a chance.”

  “And if I do get deported?”

  “If your removal proceedings go through, then you’ll be sent to Mexico. And you’ll have to fight this case from there. Is that a possibility for you? Would you be able to do that?”

  The impossibility of this nearly sank her. “What next?”

  “Just hold on, Soli. Stay where you are, and we’ll figure this out.”

  She put the phone down before Adrian could say more.

  That night, D’Cruz came for her. They were outside, arms crossed against the cold. “Where am I going from here?” she asked him.

  “Back to your country.”

  “When? When are they sending me?”

  “Any day now,” he said, and ran a finger down Soli’s cheek.

  “I have a son,” she said.

  “So do I.”

  “If they’re sending me back, I need to be with him. I need him with me.”

  “Where’s he now?” he asked.

  “With some people. I don’t know them.”

  For a moment, he looked sad for her, and then he wiped this away and lay down on his back. “Take off your pants,” he said. “Let’s finish.”

  She let D’Cruz take her that night and the next night because it was all she could do; she told herself that if she served a purpose, then perhaps she’d get to stay in this jail, this country, for another week, another month, long enough to fight.

&
nbsp; • • •

  SOMETIMES SOLI DIDN’T KNOW whether to be thankful, or whether to tell this country, her country, theirs, to go to hell. All she knew was that, one night, things worked out. Santa Clara was looking out for her hometown girl.

  D’Cruz came to get her, as always. As always, they stopped outside the kitchen.

  “Are you cold?”

  What a question to ask, she thought, in the middle of this place, in December.

  He slipped a key from his pocket and opened the door of the building behind them. Inside, the air smelled like steam and the floor was wet. A long steel table split the room in two, and at one end stood a gleaming metal door.

  “Solimar,” he said. She turned to look at him. He’d never said her name before.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  He answered by grabbing her around the chest and hoisting her to the countertop. “The floor’s wet,” he said. He climbed on top of her and they lay flat on the metal table.

  As he yanked down his pants and jabbed himself into her, she let her eyes roam. Above were skylights that let in the moon. A wispy night cloud passed overhead. Just to her right was a window. And beyond it, a gift.

  What must Santa Clara have thought that miraculous morning, lying sick in bed, as the mass first flickered on her wall? She must have thought she was dying, or that the Lord had seen her at last, that she’d been blessed beyond her deserving. What Soli saw beyond the kitchen window, naked from the waist down and leaning painfully on her elbows, were trees. Trees for miles, and nothing else. No fences, no watchtowers. They must have thought an inmate would never make it as far as the kitchen. In the far distance were the gray spires of a factory, a plume of smoke. But before this, only forest. As the guard howled and gushed out his insides and whispered, Thank you, thank you, Solimar built a plan.

  He leaned heavily on her, panting, swallowing hard. She was waiting quietly, as she’d learned to do, when a flash caught her eye. Stuck to a metal bar, glinting, whistling with reflected light, was a row of knives. From meat cleavers to serrated saws to long thin blades. She would need just one. Just one small knife. Something to cut an apple with. Something someone would take on a picnic. But her pants were pocketless. They’d taken away her bra.

  They were dressing again, hopping into their underwear and pulling up their pants. The cold through her toes was furious. When the guard bent down to tie his shoes, Soli held her breath and swiped for the wall. A few minutes later, they headed back, the guard walking slow and cool. Soli followed, her heart hammering. Stuck into the bushel of her ponytail was a knife, the smallest of the bunch, the kind you’d take on a woodland stroll.

  • • •

  SHE SPENT THE REST OF THE NIGHT AWAKE, listening to the ants pass in and out of the crumbling brick corners of her cell. She bit into her wrist until she left teeth marks, hoping to chew through her mistakes, to chew a tunnel back in time to the day she’d lost Saoirse at the playground.

  She spent the morning on her knees, praying that she wouldn’t be sent away that day. She listened for the heavy tread of a guard, the clack of keys in her door. None came. Praying for the first time in such a long time was like trying to remember the words to a childhood song. The world crept in, and the Devil, pulling her thoughts to pieces. She had trouble focusing on anything but the knife beneath her mattress.

  They know, she had told herself. They know about the knife. How could they not? They would have looked for it in the morning and seen it wasn’t there. They would have suspected a prisoner, of course. And they’d have cameras in that kitchen. Of course they’d have cameras. This was a prison. At last, she was turning into the criminal they’d said she was. You did a bad thing, the Devil said. He knows, your guard. He know’s what you’ve been up to. Stealing. Lying. They’ll take you away, the Devil said. You’ll never see Ignacio again.

  That day in the yard, Soli tried to catch her guard’s eye. She wanted him to smile at her. Even a look would have made her feel better. But he gave her nothing.

  I’m over, she told herself. I’m doomed. At dinner, her stomach ached terribly.

  And then came the night. She waited at her door. There was no clock in that room, but she tapped the seconds off with her toe. She tapped out one hour. Three thousand, six hundred taps of a toe. Two hours passed. The knife sat tucked into the waistband of her panties. With every movement, the tip of its blade twitched against the cleave of her behind. She tapped her toe 21,693 times. At the base of her neck, in the heavy hang of her cheeks, she felt the morning. The tears were too tired to come, but the sorrow arrived, silent and dry.

  And then she heard a key at the end of the corridor. Footsteps. His footsteps. She knew them from the way his hips moved. He walked, always, like he was going to a dance club. Hope flickered at the base of her spine. Footsteps at her door. A key in the lock. An open door. D’Cruz.

  She tried to smile.

  He didn’t smile back. She reached for his hand but he flicked it away. You’re trying too hard, she warned herself. He marched her out to the kitchen, pushed her to the countertop, and before she could draw a breath he crammed his lips to hers.

  He whispered in her ear: “I know what you’re doing.”

  At the dip between her buttocks, the blade of the knife slipped into her skin. She gasped.

  “I know you’re trying to trap me,” he said. “I won’t fall in love with you, puta,” he said. “You’re just my whore, you got that? You won’t get out through me.”

  Her guard broke away from her. He sulked like a little boy, leaning against the counter, his arms across his chest.

  Through the window in the ceiling, the moon shone down. She stepped into its square of light. She tried to speak, but her breath caught in her throat.

  He sniffed. “They’re taking you tomorrow.”

  She stopped herself from crying out.

  “Take your pants off.”

  She had practiced what to say, and now the words, thankfully, found their own way out. “Wait. Let me do this.”

  She reached for his belt buckle, fingers fumbling. Dios te salve Maria. She prayed to steady her breath. Madre—dulzura y esperanza. Leather slipped from metal and the belt came loose. In that moonlit kitchen the only sound was the steamed breathing of D’Cruz. Beneath this, she could barely hear the soft scratch of the knife against her back, the slip of blood between her buttocks as the blade, with every movement, angled into her skin.

  She undid his button. She brought down the zipper. Tooth by tooth. A ti clamamos . . .

  “You’re praying?” he asked.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Y después de este destierro . . .

  Just then, she felt a shift in D’Cruz, a pulling away. He was looking at her. He was seeing her at last. Through a heady cloud of fear, she sensed the foment of knowledge. The air in the room was icy clear. He knew. Danger sliced through her, an immaculate blade. She slid the knife from her pants—Dios me salve!—and slammed it into the inner flank of his thigh.

  The cry rose to a scream. It echoed through the kitchen. The scream of the beast. Soli knew it well. It rose to the moon. It flooded the room. She climbed to the counter. Cranked open the window. She jumped. She was gone.

  47.

  Dawn leaked like a rumor through the sky. Threads of daylight sweetened the dark, no streetlights, only the moon. The sky here spread free from the business of buildings and fences and crossing power lines. It had been a long time since she’d seen daybreak.

  She started off running. Winter in Washington was not a kind place. Not for a girl in a sweatshirt and nowhere to go. She ran for minutes, for hours or years. She ran until the dogs in her head stopped barking. And then she stopped and turned and found that she was alone. For the first time since she’d arrived in this country, she was beautifully alone. There was nobody. And if there were, they woul
dn’t know who she was, or care.

  On that road, the ground was all rock, broken highway that no one cared for. These were the charcoal cousins of the rocks in Popocalco, no problem for her feet. Rocky ground, she could navigate. It was the smooth that made her stumble.

  Nobody has heard of Solimar Castro Valdez, the woman who escaped from immigrant detention. If you ask the authorities, she doesn’t exist. Detention centers don’t lose inmates. If you ask for her record, they’ll shut the door on you. If you ask the Cassidys, they’ll tell you, truthfully, that they know nothing. She walked until she saw, on the horizon, a glorious golden M. It glowed in the distance like the holy manger. As she drew closer, the rush of highway traffic grew louder. And when she reached its doorway, her hunger wrenched to life. She stood in the clean, sacred light of a streetlamp.

  A woman in a duffel coat stood at the door, blowing into a steaming paper cup. Her hair was pulled into a tight brown ponytail, her face pillowy and windblown. “Just opened,” she said, gazing into her cup. “Breakfast time, huh?” She looked up at Soli as she said this. And that’s when she saw her. What the woman saw: her plain gray sweatsuit, a wolfish glint in her eyes, the shadow of hunger, and the smudge of blood across her cheek. She looked at Soli’s hands and saw them shaking.

  She’d forgotten how it felt to be seen. It scared the love of God from Soli. She turned and ran.

  “Wait!” the woman called. “Stop!” She ran after her, her footsteps heavy and off rhythm. Soli turned to see her bent over her spilled cup, shaking coffee from her fingers. She raised an arm in a wide wave. “It’s all right,” she called. “I’m all right.”

  Soli stopped. If the woman pulled out a phone, she would run again.

  “You can’t be out here,” she panted, approaching. “We need to get you inside.”

  Soli kept going. It was safer outside than in.

  The woman caught up with her and took her by the sleeve. “You cannot be out here dressed like that, my girl.”

  She pulled her by the sleeve to her car. “Get in,” she said. “We’ll get you some food.”