The Line Becomes a River

by Francisco Cantú

  —

  As I drove home after a shift at the coffee shop my phone lit up with a text message: Hey its Diego I just wanted to tell u that their going to deport my dad back in the night.

  Then, a few hours later, an email from Elizabeth Green: Unfortunately, I just received a message from the deportation officer that our request for prosecutorial discretion and a stay of removal was denied. I know no one wants this news. José had a great application with more support than I have seen in any of my other requests. They did not give a reason for the denial. The message states that José will be removed to Mexico this evening.

  I stared at the screen, thinking of Lupe and the boys, wondering where José would sleep in the night.

  In the evening I received a text message from Lupe: I’m sorry but can u call the lawyer José needs to see my baby because he fell and their going to operate. I called Lupe right away. Vicentito is in the hospital, she told me, he fell and broke his arm playing soccer in the park. They’re going to put screws in his arm, she said. I told her that I was sorry, that I would help in any way I could. But why do you want me to call the lawyer? I asked. Oh, Lupe said hurriedly, so that José can come see Vicente before they send him back. She sounded desperate, at the edge, with something in her voice I had not yet heard. I tried to speak gently. There’s no way to get ahold of José, I said. Immigration agents have him now, they’re taking him back to the border. The lawyer can’t contact them. Oh, I heard her say. I tried to come up with some words of comfort—I’m sure José will call when he’s across the border, I said. Lupe was silent. Okay, she finally said. I understand.

  —

  As I walked trembling in the night through the streets of my neighborhood, I called my mother. She asked how I was doing and I answered unthinkingly. I’m fine, I said. You don’t sound fine, she finally said. What do you mean? I asked. My mother sighed. I’m your mother, she said, I can sense it. You’ve been distant. I felt an edge in her voice. This feels like it used to feel, she finally said. I stopped walking. I don’t understand, I told her. It’s like when you were on the border, she said. All those years I knew things were weighing on you, but you were so sensitive to my questions—I couldn’t ask about it, I couldn’t show concern, I could never reach you. I don’t want that again. I’m too tired for it now.

  I stood for a while at the side of the street, staring out at the houses of my neighbors. Finally, I sat down on the curb. When did you know? I asked. She paused. Something had gone away from our conversations, she said. I don’t know how to describe it. She searched for a better explanation. There’s a story I remember from Catholic school, she told me. There was this brilliant child, a music prodigy. He could play anything—he would hear birds sing and then turn it into music. At a very young age he was sent away to be trained by monks. When he arrived at the monastery they forbade him from hearing any music but his own, they forbade him from listening to any of the famous composers. They wanted him to write and create his own music, and for many years he did—he created the most phenomenal things. But as he got a bit older he became frustrated. He wanted to study, he wanted to hear other kinds of music. And so one day he snuck away from the monastery. He went to a nearby town and went into a concert hall, where he heard Mozart. When he came back, he didn’t tell anyone, he kept creating new music just like before. A few days after his return, the monks heard him playing and they told him to stop. You’ve broken the rule, they told him. He looked at them with panic and insisted, no I haven’t, I haven’t, I haven’t. They shook their heads and said, yes you have, you’ve discovered Mozart. No, he said, how could you know that? Because, they said, when you played without knowing, you played music from every composer—and now Mozart is missing.

  When she finished the story, my mother fell silent. I sat hunched on the curb, the phone pressed against my ear. My friend, I finally told her, he’s been deported. I felt unable to breathe. I fear for him, I said, I fear for his family. All these years, I told her, it’s like I’ve been circling beneath a giant, my gaze fixed upon its foot resting at the ground. But now, I said, it’s like I’m starting to crane my head upward, like I’m finally seeing the thing that crushes.

  —

  On the phone Lupe told me that José was safe. He’s staying at the border, she said, with a man from our church. He has food and shelter there. Gracias a Dios, she kept saying, bendito sea Dios. She told me that José hadn’t decided his next move yet, but that he was looking for someone to cross him again. I wanted to tell her no, that José should not risk his life, that he should find some other way, but I knew, with sinking certainty, that for him there was no other option, and so I remained silent.

  I asked Lupe about the boys and she told me that an uncle with papers had offered to take them across the border so they could see their father. It would be good for them to see him someplace besides the jail, she said, it would be good for them to be able to hug him. She added that she wished she could take the boys herself, that she wished she could see her husband with her own eyes.

  A week later I checked in again with Lupe. Did the boys see José? I asked. Yes, she said, but not Vicente. He just got his arm put in a cast. He’s a little sad, she explained, he hasn’t seen his daddy since he was in court. Lupe told me that José was still at the border, that he planned to cross again soon, maybe this weekend, that everything was fine, that he told her not to worry.

  Several days later Lupe sent a text message: José told me he’d cross Sunday to walk thru the desert but I’m worried now because it’s been 3 days and I still haven’t heard anything from him.

  Then, a few days later: Buenos dias, José is back at the border, la migra chased him but his group scattered and they couldn’t catch him, gracias a Dios. His body aches and he has a fever. He needs rest.

  —

  I dream that I am at work, that Diane is sitting at the bar drinking a latte. Look, Diane says, pointing through the open doors across the courtyard. It’s José. I look out and see a gaunt man with a gray beard wandering slowly and aimlessly along the walkway. I leave the counter and make my way to him. He is wearing a black baseball hat and a gray shirt hangs loosely from his thin shoulders. José, I say. You’re back. His eyes are sunken in their sockets, his face is dark and old. I’ve been in the desert, he says. There are things I could tell you.

  —

  I ran into Diane and her children in the checkout line of the grocery store. Listen, she told me as she wrested a candy bar from the clutches of her five-year-old daughter, we want to give something to José’s family for Christmas. The kids raised money at a bake sale and they want Lupe and the boys to have it. That’s so sweet, I said. I looked down at Diane’s daughter, twirling in circles beside the magazine rack. Do you have any idea what the boys like? Diane asked. I know they like soccer, I told her. I could get them a gift certificate to the soccer shop, she suggested. And maybe a certificate to Target for Lupe. She could get whatever she needs there, you know, things for the house, school supplies, clothes for the boys. I smiled. That’d be great, I said, I’m sure they’ll really appreciate it. Diane reached out to stop her infant son, seated in the shopping cart, from ingesting a tube of lip balm. She sighed. Sorry, she said. If I give you the certificates later this week, do you think you could deliver them to Lupe for me? I don’t speak any Spanish, she said, we won’t be able to understand each other. I nodded. Of course, I said.

  —

  At the doorstep of her trailer, Lupe shied away from me as I held out the envelope to her. It’s too much, she said, I can’t take it. Diane’s kids raised the money, I told her. They want you to have it. She breathed in and lifted her face toward the sky with a look of resignation. It’s a gift, I told her, it’s almost Christmas. Lupe squinted at the sun and then took the envelope and stared down at the ground. I don’t know how to thank them, she said. Will you tell them how much I appreciate it?

  Before I left, I as
ked Lupe about José. Oh, she said. Things are hard right now, un poco difícil. She told me José had crossed again a week ago and was caught by the Border Patrol. He didn’t go to court, she said, they didn’t send him to prison, but they bused him away, far from here, they deported him through Mexicali. I shook my head. They do that sometimes, I told her, to make it harder for them to cross in the same place again. Well, she said, he’s still trying to get across, but there’s some problems with the coyotes. What’s the problem? I asked. Lupe interlaced her fingers in front of her stomach. It’s just that he’s afraid of them, tiene un poco miedo. She paused. I’m afraid too, she added.

  I asked her what happened and she looked into the distance and began wringing her hands. What happened is that three or four days after José crossed, I still hadn’t heard anything from him. One morning I got a call from this man who said they needed extra money to get José to the city. He said that José was in a safe house but that they needed a thousand dollars to bring him the rest of the way. I asked him to put José on the phone so I would know he was telling the truth, but the man said he wasn’t with him. He told me that José was fine, that I should trust him, that they just needed an extra thousand dollars to finish the trip. I told the man to call me back when he could put José on the phone. I’ll give the money once I talk to him, I said, and I hung up.

  Lupe began to talk more slowly, drawing out her sentences, speaking through one side of her mouth. The rest of the morning I didn’t know what to do with myself. I took the boys to school, I didn’t tell them about the phone call. I came back home and for a while I just sat around the house trying to think of what to do. Finally I went out to take cash from the bank. I was shaking the whole time.

  Later that same day, she continued, two men came to my door just before sundown. They told me that if I wanted José to make it home, I’d better give them the money right there. The boys were home from school by then, she said, they didn’t know what to think. What was I supposed to do? She turned her palms up in a small gesture of surrender. I was scared, she said. She drew her shoulders around her neck and shook her head to one side and shuddered. I wanted to reach out and touch her.

  The men took the money and left, Lupe continued. They said not to worry, that they’d bring José in the morning. I couldn’t even sleep that night, I didn’t know what to do. Lupe began wringing her hands again. By the next afternoon, they still hadn’t come, so I dialed the same number they had called me from the day before. A different man answered this time. He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about and he said I’d better calm down, that I’d better wait patiently, that if I knew what was good for me I wouldn’t call again, and then he hung up. I felt so desperate, I was outside of myself.

  Finally, late in the night, José called. He was in Mexicali, he had just been deported. He didn’t know what I was talking about—he was never in a safe house, he was never with those men. He was so angry that he called the man who had made all the arrangements to smuggle him. What are you going to do with the money you took from my wife? he asked. Are you going to use it to get me back across the border, to bring me back to my family? The man claimed he didn’t know what he was talking about, he told José he should think twice before making accusations, and then he warned him that he’d better not see him again, that if he saw him again he’d kill him.

  Lupe was silent for a long time before finally shrugging her shoulders. José thinks it was just a threat, she said, just talk. He’s back at the border now, waiting to cross, but he’s staying somewhere else, in a different part of town. She looked up again, squinting at the sun. He says he’s safe there, but he doesn’t go out much, he doesn’t want to be seen in the streets, just to be sure.

  I asked Lupe if José was planning to cross again. Yo creo que sí, she said. But the nights are cold right now, and he needs someone new to take him across. She rubbed her arms. He’s going to wait awhile, I think, until the time is right, until he finds someone he can trust. I looked away and shook my head. I wanted to confess to her that I wished I had the courage to smuggle José myself, to ferry him safely through the desert, past the sensors and watchtowers, past the agents patrolling distant trails and dirt roads, past the highway checkpoints. I wished that I could drive with him seated next to me, listening to him tell of his love for his dead mother, for the green hills of Oaxaca, for the streets and archways of his village. I wished that we could drive together through the night, past faraway fields and prisons to the edge of the city, its lights shimmering and stretched out across the vast basin before us, that we could make our way through empty streets and abandoned intersections, past the courthouse and the mercado until we finally arrived at the barrio, at the trailer park, at the door of José’s home where Lupe would lie sleeping with their three children, no longer afraid to wake.

  —

  On Christmas Eve, I drove to my childhood home to be with my mother. At night, we sat together around a small tree and each opened a single present. Afterward, we stayed in the living room drinking eggnog and brandy, drifting in and out of conversation. As the night wore on, my mother asked me about José. You still seem distant, she said. I stared at the glass bulbs hanging from the plastic limbs of our artificial tree. I don’t know what to do, I confessed. I feel pain, I feel hurt, but it isn’t mine. My mother sat on the couch across from me. It’s like—I paused, looking around the room, thinking of what to say. It’s like I never quit, I finally muttered. It’s like I’m still a part of this thing that crushes. My mother made a sound, like she was taking in a breath, like she was about to say something. It’s been almost four years since I left, I told her, but when I’m in the courtroom, when I’m talking with the lawyers, when I’m at the jail, it’s like something inside of me still belongs to it. I leaned forward and ran my hands through my hair.

  You know, my mother said, it’s okay to feel pain. Of course José’s pain isn’t yours, of course his family’s hurt isn’t your hurt. But he’s your friend, so give yourself permission to grieve for him, permission to mourn that he cannot be here. I shook my head. But José’s situation is not unique. There are thousands of people just like him, thousands of cases, thousands of families. Millions, actually—the whole idea of it is suffocating. My mother nodded. It’s true, she said, but it’s also true that for his family, and for you, José is unique. Sure there might be thousands or millions of people in his position, but it’s because of him that their situation is no longer abstract to you. You are no longer severed from what it means to send someone back across the border. You know what’s keeping him away, what keeps him from his family. It’s something close to you, something that’s become a part of you.

  My mother took a long drink from her eggnog. You know, she told me, the first job I ever had was at the Desert Museum in Tucson. I was barely a teenager and all I wanted, more than anything else in the world, was to be around the animals. There was one man there, the curator of reptiles, who took me under his wing. He let me follow him through all the exhibits and let me help with feeding the animals and cleaning their cages. I remember watching him feed the snakes each day—he would take these little ground squirrels, grab them by the hind legs, and rap their heads against a countertop to quickly snap their necks. Then he would throw them right to the snakes, their bodies still warm and twitching. One day I tried to rescue one of the ground squirrels—I snuck it into my bag and brought it home. I tried taking care of it for days, until I eventually realized that I had failed, that the animal was dying, and that I was the one responsible for killing it. When the little squirrel could barely move, I finally took it up by its hind legs and tried to end its life the way I had seen the curator do it. I smashed it against a table and threw it onto the ground. When I finally got the courage to look down at its body, I realized that the little squirrel was still alive, that one of its eyes had popped out. I panicked and I grabbed it by the legs and slammed its head over and over again against the ground, crying
until I knew it was finally dead.

  My mother sighed and looked at my face. As I looked back at her, I realized that I had been clenching my teeth. I still carry that around with me, my mother said, I’ll never forget it as long as I live. She looked down into her glass of eggnog. What I’m saying is that we learn violence by watching others, by seeing it enshrined in institutions. Then, even without choosing it, it becomes normal to us, it even becomes part of who we are. As my mother spoke she leaned forward, and I wondered if she would reach out to touch me.

  The part of you that is capable of violence, she said, maybe you wish to be rid of it, to wash yourself of it, but it’s not that easy. I sat back in my seat and stared up at the ceiling, listening to my mother’s voice. You spent nearly four years on the border, she said. You weren’t just observing a reality, you were participating in it. You can’t exist within a system for that long without being implicated, without absorbing its poison. And let me tell you, it isn’t something that’s just going to slowly go away. It’s part of who you’ve become. So what will you do? All you can do is try to find a place to hold it, a way to not lose some purpose for it all.