Border Child

by Michel Stone

  Yet most days she made her way to Rosa’s without complaint to leave Fernando, and then on to the market where she would set up her pottery in hopes of making a few pesos. Rosa, who’d birthed five children of her own and had helped birth many other babies, including both of Lilia’s, would likely have little patience with Lilia’s complaints of weariness and the increasing achiness in her lower back. With only one child at home to tend to, how could Lilia grumble? And so wearing her most cheerful face she delivered Fernando to Rosa’s house, where the boy giggled upon seeing Rosa and toddled off to play without hesitation.

  When she reached the market, several sellers had already arrived and were setting up their wares. From wire racks a blind old woman and her grandson sold handmade dresses for little girls. Another table offered whistles, dolls, maracas, and other such trinkets, and a third vendor sold brightly colored hammocks piled high in red, blue, yellow, and orange.

  The morning sun throbbed as Lilia stood at her table beneath a small, tattered umbrella made of faded yellow fabric that did little to alleviate the oppressive heat. She pulled her white plastic chair beneath a nearby guanacaste tree and sat, waiting for someone to wander by and show an interest in her wares. She knew her behavior was lazy, of course, and she should remain at the table where it stood street-side. There she could catch the eye of anyone strolling by, and she could entice them to her goods with a gentle smile and a “Buenos días.” But the heat would prove nearly intolerable before day’s end, and so she would take to the tree’s shade when she could do so.

  Her remote village was nothing like celebrated Acapulco, where Héctor now worked, yet its coast and waters were beautiful, and so the more adventurous explorers would travel down to Puerto Isadore to dive and sun on its coppery beaches.

  Before Lilia and Héctor had experienced el norte, she’d felt proud, even honored, when travelers passing through her village asked to photograph her or sometimes even her modest house with its broom-swept yard on the rare occasion they wandered up her lane. Now she felt something very different at those rare times. After living in el norte Lilia understood the tourists photographed her not because of her exquisite beauty, the loveliness of her shade tree where iguanas often sunned, or even the tidiness of her courtyard. They snapped their pictures because the poverty of her village interested them. The children playing in the dust, rolling their marbles on lids of barrels, the rooster scratching in the pile of corn husks behind a mud shack, a family’s clothes drying on the barbed wire strung across their side yard, all these images intrigued the norteamericanos because such sights seemed dirty and foreign to them. She imagined them returning to their large, clean houses that smelled of chemicals and cleaning supplies and showing their neighbors the photos. She felt no ill will toward the Americans; they had been kind to her. Her disdain was aimed inward, at her country, her village, and even herself. Had she never gone to America her eyes would still be blind to the extreme differences. She’d only ever known washing her clothes outside on the washboard, using the toilet outside, and bathing in cool water, unless she heated it on the fire. Now that veil had been lifted, and nothing she could do would lower it.

  When tourists chose to spend a few pesos on Lilia’s pottery she felt as near to her departed Crucita as one could feel to an ancestor. And at those times Lilia’s gratitude swelled for her grandmother’s artisan skills and ability to pass them on to Lilia. No one would ever make pottery as beautiful as old Crucita’s, but Crucita’s hand was evident in all Lilia made, and she knew her grandmother’s spirit persevered despite the decay of her bones. And when she thought of Crucita, of her tremendous Mexican pride, Lilia’s shame over the poverty in Puerto Isadore lessened, and she knew she had much in her heritage of which to be proud.

  At midmorning the first potential customers approached her table. Lilia suspected they were norteamericanos by the paleness of their eyes and hair. The sun-pinked couple wore swimsuits, though the woman wore a thin cotton dress over hers, and they carried small sacks with flippers poking from each. Like most of the foreign visitors to Puerto Isadore, these people were divers. Ever since she’d left South Carolina, Lilia wanted to ask traveling strangers if they knew her employers on the tree farm where she and Héctor had worked. But as quickly as the urge to ask struck her, the realization followed that America was a country of tremendous size, and perhaps these people, if they were even from America, had never been to South Carolina.

  The woman picked up a small, brightly colored iguana Lilia had recently created. Most of her pieces she’d fashioned on her potter’s wheel, but a few animal pieces and some crucifixes she’d lately begun making by hand. Today, in addition to her cups, vases, and pots, she’d brought along the iguana, a lizard, a pair of butterflies, a rooster, and two crucifixes. She’d not sold any of those yet, and she tried not to seem too eager when the lady fingered the smooth blue-glazed iguana.

  The woman’s eyes, the bluest eyes Lilia had ever seen, glistened when she looked at the man, and Lilia wondered if perhaps the iguana appealed to the woman because it nearly matched her eyes. The woman said something to her partner in a language that was neither Spanish nor English. The man spoke to her softly, smiling, and Lilia wondered if they were newly wedded. The couple’s obvious mutual adoration filled her with a sudden and unexpected longing for Héctor’s companionship, his presence, his touch. Lilia’s love for her husband had never wavered, and at times she missed him with an intensity beyond measure.

  The man turned to Lilia, and in Spanish said, “¿Cuánto cuesta?”

  “Tres pesos,” Lilia said, at once holding her breath, afraid the man would walk away.

  Instead he fished into his bag and retrieved a small billfold from which he pulled the money and paid her.

  “Gracias,” she said, then added, “You are American?”

  The couple understood the word American, but shook their heads. “No, no. Somos alemánes.”

  They smiled then walked away hand in hand, the woman carrying the iguana as if she’d found a treasure. Lilia had never met anyone from Germany, and she admired how tall and strong they looked. Somehow they reminded her of her employers in America, which was silly really, since those farmers were much older and had nothing at all to do with Germany as far as she knew. Maybe the kindness in their eyes brought to mind her former employers.

  By the afternoon Lilia had sold two more pieces, but her back pain had become insufferable. Likely the other vendors would remain a couple more hours, but Lilia could bear neither the heat nor the discomfort of her muscles any longer. With as much care as she could muster, she wrapped her wares in pieces of burlap and loaded them into a sack.

  When she’d finished she realized how parched she’d become. She sat again in her chair beneath the guanacaste tree and wiped her brow.

  “Are you well, lady?” The young boy who’d been selling dresses with his blind grandmother shouted to her from his table. He held a can of guava juice, which reminded Lilia she had a few sips of water yet in her lunch sack.

  “Yes, yes, I’m okay,” she said, waving his concern away and hoping he’d turn his attention back to his old abuela and their racks of dresses.

  She found her bottle of water and sucked down the remaining drops, then stood to begin her slow walk to Rosa’s where she would retrieve Fernando before going home. Of late her days often ended with Fernando curled beside her in bed, where everything about him soothed Lilia and eased the strains of her long, hot days: his soft, rhythmic breathing; the gentleness of his little finger looped around her finger as he slept; the scent of his hair; and the utter stillness of her boy when he’d settled into deep, peaceful slumber.

  The small sip of water only intensified Lilia’s thirst, and as she walked she daydreamed of chugging a liter of water and of diving into a cool early-morning sea.

  When she was a girl, Lilia’s favorite time to swim had been just after sunrise, when the water lay like blue-gray oil as far as her eye could take her. Where the sea and sky
met would be indeterminate because the heavens, too, at that early-morning hour stretched infinitely in the same steely expanse that somehow represented both nothingness and everything at once. The coolness of water and air at that hour appealed to Lilia, but perhaps what was most enchanting about an early-morning swim in the Pacific was the sense that both earth and sea lay fresh, undisturbed, and full of potential.

  She suspected that Héctor had held such a vision of an ever-budding world from the time he was old enough to form thoughts. His desire to work every bit of pulp from the ripe fruit that was his existence filled him with an unparalleled curiosity and energy that had drawn Lilia to him years ago in their youth. She wondered if that lost zest for being would return to him, to them, if, when, they got their Alejandra back.

  She tried to hold on to the tranquil image of the sea as she made her way to Rosa’s house, but her body defied her mind, and so her thoughts shifted to the shooting pain that at times came so sharply she had to stop, set down her sack of pottery, and rest. She cupped her hands beneath her belly. A foot or knee or perhaps a tiny elbow momentarily protruded there as if the baby inside her understood Lilia had placed a hand near her womb.

  “I feel you,” she whispered to her child.

  An old man driving two oxen pulled a wooden cart of bricks past Lilia where she sat beside the road. His sombrero shielded his eyes from the harsh sun and from Lilia, but he nodded at her as he passed. The oxen kicked up a cloud of dust, and Lilia stood to avoid breathing it and to continue on her way.

  From where Lilia stood she could see down the hill to the bay and skiffs, some bobbing there and others pulled high up onto the sand. A man sat beneath a thatched roof working on his fishing nets while a small child hopped among the nets stretched out before the man. A brown-and-white dog rested beside the man’s chair, and beyond the waves breaking onshore, the choppy water glistened like shattered glass in the sunlight. Of course, that scene might be soothing to some, perhaps to the German tourists, but the image of a more tranquil morning sea had settled in Lilia’s mind, and she decided that some day soon she would wake Fernando early and swim with him at sunrise, the time when the world’s sharp edges dulled and softened.

  By the time she arrived at Rosa’s the pain in her lower back was such that every step nearly buckled her knees and sweat slicked her forehead.

  “Something’s wrong with me,” she said, leaning against Rosa’s doorway.

  “Are you in labor?” Rosa said, pouring Lilia a cup of water.

  “I can’t be in labor. I have weeks left yet.”

  Rosa handed her the water, snorting. “You can’t be, eh? Tell that to the thousands of babies who’ve surprised their mamas by coming early. Only God and a baby know when the time is nigh. Drink.”

  Lilia drained the cup and passed it back to Rosa. “I was so thirsty. Thank you.”

  Rosa refilled the cup. “If you’re thirsty you are beyond dehydrated. By the time your body asks to be quenched, you’re long past due for a drink. If you’re not careful you sure enough will have Fernando a baby girl to torment sooner than you’ve bargained for, Lilia.”

  Tears filled Lilia’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She inhaled a deep slow breath in an effort to stop them, but they flowed unstanched. “I hurt, Rosa. I don’t think I can walk home.”

  “Come, lie down.”

  Rosa helped her to a cot behind the house where the breeze came in from the bay. She placed the cup beside Lilia along with a full pitcher of water. “Stay right there, and don’t get up until the water is gone from that jug. Drink it dry.”

  Lilia nodded. “Where’s Fernando?”

  “Ah, your boy is having a grand day. Don’t you worry about him. José took him down to la farmacia for a candy and then to watch the boats come in. José didn’t fish today, and so I told him to go get me a fish for my stew. He and Fernando will be along soon.”

  Lilia drank the water and closed her eyes and thought of Héctor. The sea breeze and a chirping flock of birds eating berries from a nearby tree lulled her to sleep, and when she awoke Rosa stood beside her braiding her granddaughter’s hair.

  “I have some things for you, Lilia,” she said, then swatted Rosita on the backside. “Go on, now,” she said to the girl, though not in an unkind way. The girl smiled at Lilia, then went inside the house.

  Lilia sat up. “I’m feeling better, but I need to pee.”

  “Of course you do. You drank a horse’s share of water. Go, relieve yourself, and when you come back drink this, and then you can walk home if you feel like going.” Rosa placed a little cup of mescal on the table.

  Lilia looked at the honey-colored contents and shook her head. “I don’t think I have the stomach for that, Rosa.”

  “Let me tell you something, child,” Rosa said. “You want that baby to stay inside you a while longer yet, don’t you?”

  Lilia nodded. “Yes, Rosa.”

  Rosa picked up a broom and began sweeping. “One way to help ensure a baby stays inside the womb is by her mama relaxing. I have delivered half the babies born in this village. The mothers who are worriers, who stay nervous all the time, or who work too hard and put stress on their bodies without the proper nutrition and rest, they’re the mothers of babies who arrive early. A little bit of mescal each evening will help you relax and will keep that baby growing inside you until the proper time.”

  Lilia was already making her way toward the latrine behind Rosa’s house. The pain in her back had subsided, but a twinge lingered still.

  “I’ll drink your drink, Rosa. I’ll do what you say,” Lilia said, feeling that Rosa was the only one she had left to guide her, and vowing that she’d do all she could to protect her unborn daughter. She had failed her firstborn by making reckless decisions, and she’d not lose another child because of her foolishness.

  Chapter 16

  Héctor

  “See, there,” Santiago shouted over the boat’s engine. He pushed the throttle down as the men headed in after a full day of fishing offshore.

  Héctor followed his gaze toward a rocky promontory to their left and nodded.

  “Remember that spot. Make note of where it is, and tomorrow I want to see if you can find it again on your own,” Santiago said.

  “Sure,” Héctor said, wondering about the significance of that place. Perhaps the fishing along that coastline would prove fruitful. Santiago had been a good boss and teacher, less chatty than Ignacio but more instructive. Maybe his pointing out the fertile fishing territory to Héctor meant more money would soon come Héctor’s direction.

  Two businessmen from Mexico City sat on the boat’s bow. Even if they had not talked about money and banking transactions, Héctor would have been able to tell they were men of privilege because of their soft hands and expensive-looking sunglasses and watches. They’d caught five dorado and a tuna, and they seemed pleased with the day, like they were used to such success in all they attempted and anything less would have been a problem. The businessmen had been working their way through the cooler of beers since midmorning. Santiago and Ignacio always supplied a packed cooler, but these guys were indulging in the beers more than most. Héctor had already filleted their fish and packed the meat on ice. He’d cleaned the bow and put away the lines and packed up the ballyhoo they used for bait. The work suited him, and he’d decided after his first day that he could be comfortable fishing for a living. Santiago and Ignacio seemed pleased, too, offering him a beer or two to take home after each day’s work. They always took the tips from the clients and then doled a few pesos out to Héctor, but Héctor hoped, before too much longer, the tips and his pay would increase. He’d need to make more money if he were to leave Acapulco by the deadline he’d set for himself.

  When Ignacio brought the Gabriela into the dock, Héctor tied the bowlines and helped the drunken businessmen off the boat. While one of the men went to Santiago to settle up for the day, the other slipped Héctor a wad of bills and slurred a thank-you for a great day out on
the water. Héctor shook the man’s hand while stuffing the money into his pocket. He knew Santiago had not seen the man hand him the tip, and he watched as the other man paid Santiago. Today’s excursion had been Héctor’s third on the Gabriela, and always the customers had given their tips to Ignacio or Santiago. Somehow—perhaps Ignacio and Santiago had indicated to them—the customers understood that Héctor was not the boss and that his tips would be filtered down through the boat owners. But he also knew Ignacio and Santiago expected him to hand over any tips he received directly, that they would divvy them as they chose.

  Héctor hoisted the small but heavy Styrofoam cooler the clients had brought along, now filled with fish fillets on ice. He passed it to the more sober-seeming man of the pair.

  “Good day today,” Santiago said, as the businessmen stumbled away with their catch. “Those guys were loaded. In more ways than one.” He laughed in a lazy, tired sort of way and peeled off a few pesos for Héctor.

  Héctor took the money, and, though he’d considered keeping the bills he’d crammed in his pocket, withdrew the tip and handed the wad to Santiago.

  “What’s this?” Santiago said, studying the crumpled pesos in Héctor’s palm.

  “The other guy, the really drunk one, gave it to me,” Héctor said.

  A smile conveying Santiago’s great satisfaction spread across his face. “I told Ignacio. I told him,” he said, nodding, accepting the bills Héctor proffered.

  “Told him what?” Héctor said, grabbing the trash sack from the boat, as Santiago smoothed the bills and counted them, not answering Héctor’s question. At least two dozen empty beer cans rattled when Héctor disposed of the sack in the large trash bin on the dock.

  “I told him we’d not have to take a knife to your throat, that’s all,” Santiago said, his eyes sparkling at what he must have deemed a funny joke.

  When Héctor began spraying out the hull of the boat, Santiago said, “What do you think, Héctor? You like fishing on the Gabriela?” He was eyeing Héctor in the way he always did when some mysterious subtext seemed to exist beneath their conversation.