Dream Things True

by Marie Marquardt

His mom approached and spoke discreetly with the bartender, who handed him the glass of wine. Did the bartender seriously think that if he were trying to order himself a drink, he would order a chardonnay?

  He led his mother to their table and sat down. She placed her purse on the linen-covered chair and wandered off to find Aunt Maggie.

  A waitress came to the next table and filled the water glasses. She wore combat boots, and he wondered if that was against the employee dress code. She looked him over and delivered the kind of smile that meant she intended to pay him special attention. Evan had seen it before. He knew the drill.

  Besides the combat boots, she wore the required uniform of the waitstaff, but her black skirt was noticeably shorter than the others’ and her T-shirt was snug. She had a plain face, but her body more than made up for it; she carried herself like she knew it. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head, exposing the back of her long neck and, curving around its side, the tip of what appeared to be a very large tattoo.

  “It’s a flowering cactus,” she said, tugging down her shirt to reveal a bright red bud. “It’s soft and beautiful but protected by thorns. It thrives in the desert because it can store up water, you know?”

  Obviously she wasn’t from around here.

  “I didn’t mean to stare,” he said.

  “Tattoos are meant to be stared at,” she replied, smiling again.

  She reached across him, holding the pitcher out to his glass.

  “Thirsty?” she asked.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Filling his glass slowly, the girl whispered in his ear, “Just find me if you need something stronger. I’ll take care of you.”

  She turned and walked away before Evan could reply.

  He stared into his glass, relieved that he was thinking about someone besides Alma, and wondering where on this girl’s body the fragile tips of the cactus roots might begin.

  * * *

  Alma had spoken with Raúl many times, first when he arrived in Ciudad Juárez and later when he reached the little town in Oaxaca. It was strange, but he seemed so close. Ricocheting across the satellite feeds, his voice came through clear and strong. He could have been calling from a work site in Lakeshore Heights, or from the dining hall at the community college. He could have been calling to tell her what time he would pick her up after class, or asking her to get some SunnyD at the Bi-Lo. But he wasn’t.

  He was telling her things she didn’t want to hear.

  At first, Raúl was amused by the “return” to San Juan. He described its beauty, the way that the green mountains unfolded around it. He said it was even prettier than the photos they had seen over the years. He told her about the cool, deep river where he would swim, and about the return of the pochos, all the guys like him, who—according to the locals—spoke Spanish with a funny accent and acted like gringos. He made her laugh with stories of eccentric relatives: their great-grandfather Berto, who’d been a farmworker in California when he was Raúl’s age, regaled him with stories of his bachelor days; their great-grandmother Mama Carmela concocted healing teas and pomades from the herbs in her garden. He had been entertained, at first, trying exotic new foods like crickets spiced with hot pepper.

  But when the newness wore off, things changed. He explained how Mama Carmela ground herbs to cure his melancholy, and how Tía Pera lit candles for him every day, adding to the black soot that covered the feet of the Virgin Mary in the church on the town square.

  Alma assured him that things would be better when she and their father arrived. They would have their own place, and Dad would be able to help him find work. He explained that the house had only concrete walls and no roof, and that they wouldn’t be able to come up with the money to finish it since every day new people returned from el norte. Even before the return of the pochos, no one had work here.

  And then he had told her about a nineteen-year-old who came back from Washington, DC, with two tears tattooed on his face. Alma had read about those tears and what they meant, but she didn’t believe this kid showing up in their hometown was a real gangbanger. She assured Raúl that the boy was probably just a poser, like their cousin Manny and all the wannabe gangsters in Gilberton. But Raúl said she was wrong. He was a permanent legal resident of the United States, with all his papers in order. He had lived in Washington practically his entire life. He didn’t even speak Spanish. But he was busted for gang activity and deported.

  According to Raúl, the kid was dangerous, and he didn’t belong in this sleepy town. And though she didn’t say it out loud, for fear of making the melancholy worse, Alma knew that Raúl didn’t belong there either.

  * * *

  Evan felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to find Whit standing behind him in a seersucker suit.

  “Sulking?” Whit asked.

  Whit was, quite possibly, the last person in the world he wanted to see right now, unless he counted Alma. But he was trying not to think about her at all—trying to pretend that she didn’t exist.

  “Yes,” Evan answered. “And I’d prefer to sulk alone.”

  Whit ignored him and pulled out the chair next to him.

  “Nice shoes,” Evan said, gesturing toward the saddle oxfords on Whit’s feet.

  “Just doing my part to keep up the esteemed Southern tradition of wearing ridiculous clothing to ridiculous events.”

  “Since when did you get on the charity circuit?” Evan asked.

  “I have a deep concern for the well-being of our local waterways,” Whit said dryly.

  “Is that what this party’s for?” Evan asked, not caring.

  “And I’m working on my fourth step,” Whit announced.

  “That’s cool,” Evan replied, hoping not to sound interested.

  Whit made a sweeping gesture across the room. “Because, really, what better place than here to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself?”

  They sat for a while in silence, a pretty remarkable feat for Whit.

  “Is there anything you want to ask me, Evan?”

  “About your moral inventory?” Evan replied. “Absolutely not.”

  “About her,” Whit said.

  Evan felt his heart beat fast as the subtle stinging sensation met the corners of his eyes.

  “No,” he said.

  Evan stood up and looked around the room, suddenly desperate to find someone else to talk to. He knew Whit would tell him, whether or not he wanted to hear.

  “They denied his request for voluntary departure,” Whit said. “Her dad can’t leave the detention center. He’ll be deported soon.”

  Evan turned to walk away.

  “She’s leaving, too,” Whit said.

  He spun back and looked directly into Whit’s eyes.

  “When?” he heard himself say too loudly, with too much anxiety in his voice.

  “As soon as school ends. They’re all going back.”

  Evan slumped back into the chair before his knees gave out.

  “How is she?” Evan asked. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t.

  “Miserable. Bereft.”

  “Yeah,” Evan said quietly.

  Was it his fault? The question that haunted him returned. What would that night have been like if she hadn’t lied to be with him at his birthday party? Would her father have been driving through the checkpoints? Would Raúl have been there?

  He had to stop this train of thought. It was torturing him.

  “I’ve gotta find my mom,” Evan said.

  Where was the girl with the cactus tattoo?

  * * *

  “I can’t stay here,” Raúl said.

  “Yes,” she said. “You can and you will.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, pleading. “You don’t get what it’s like here, Alma.”

  What could she say to make him stay?

  “This is what I understand,” she said. “I understand that if you come back, and if you are caught, you will have committed a felony.”


  “I won’t get caught,” he replied.

  “You don’t know what it’s like here now, Raúl. Every day people are being detained. They’re getting deported for fishing without a license, for God’s sake!” Her voice was urgent. “And even if you don’t get caught, even if you live here until the day you die, you’ll never have a real job, never finish school. You’ll have to build your life around lies. You’ll never be able to tell the truth, to be honest about who you are. You will have to put together a false life with fake papers or, worse yet, no papers at all. You will be without identity.”

  Silence.

  She tried one last time. “You will live a dead-end life full of lies. Is that what you want?”

  “I’m coming back, Alma.”

  “You can’t come back. Please, don’t come back.”

  “You don’t understand,” Raúl said sadly. “I’ve told you so many times, but you still aren’t hearing me. I can’t live here.”

  “No,” she replied. “You don’t understand. You’ll never be able to live here—at least not legally.”

  “At least there I have a life. I can get a job. I have friends. Down here I’m just freeloading and hanging around a bunch of strangers from other places with too much time on their hands. That’s a bad combination, Alma.”

  “You’ll make friends. You’ll find work.”

  “Alma, listen to me. People get mixed up in some serious shit when they’re bored and have nothing to lose. Or, worse, when they’re desperate.”

  “Do you hear what you’re saying? You’re in San Juan, for God’s sake. It’s a quiet little country town. There’s nothing to get mixed up in.”

  “Not yet,” Raúl replied. “But I’m telling you, Alma, things are going to change here—and not for the better. I can feel it.”

  “But you won’t, Raúl. I know you won’t change.”

  “That makes one of us,” he said.

  * * *

  Evan found her at the edge of the ballroom; she seemed to be waiting for him. Without speaking, she took his hand and pulled him into the kitchen. Reaching under a stainless steel prep table, she pulled out a bottle and two plastic cups. She poured them both a shot of vodka, and then another. They drank silently, watching each other. Then she screwed the cap back on.

  “I need to get back to work,” she said.

  He nodded and watched her walk away. Then he slipped into the empty seat between his mother and Mrs. Watson, grateful for the warm buzz making its way through his body.

  The lies and half-truths slipped off his tongue. Together, he and his mother wove a seamless story. They built a life for their family that did not exist. In this life, everything was going as planned. They carefully steered the conversation away from the dangerous terrain of Evan’s absentee father and toward the smooth path of Evan’s future. He went along with their banter, joined in on their jokes about how he would be going to college on the “left coast,” laughed amiably as they warned him not to inhale the marijuana fumes or inadvertently find himself marching in the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco. This could be another way to measure time—a better way.

  Three months, one week, one day.

  It seemed impossible that he would be, in that short amount of time, hurtling through the sky on a plane—away from this place—and then touching ground on that narrow stretch of land that juts into the San Francisco Bay. In the meantime, Evan smiled and laughed, cheered and cajoled as the live auction got under way. Tipsy women with flushed faces coaxed their husbands’ hands into the air, and the men eagerly went along, as if in some ancient ritual display of masculinity. Evan joined in at his mother’s urging.

  It was easy, and made even easier by the spiked Sprites that the tattooed girl kept silently placing by his side, each time gently grazing his shoulder as she walked away.

  He let the vodka guide him as one of the final auction items came up for bid—a three-day vacation at a Ritz-Carlton south of Tucson, Arizona. As the auctioneer enthusiastically described the dry, hot climate, the golf course dotted with large cacti, Evan called out absurd sums of money. Four thousand, forty-two hundred, forty-five hundred, five. The crowd roared with delight to see the teenage boy go head-to-head with Dr. Richards, and then “win” a trip he didn’t want to take.

  * * *

  “Do you remember Uncle Tico?” Raúl asked Alma. “He’s our mom’s second cousin or something?”

  “No, why?”

  “He’s a coyote. He’s bringing some people across soon, and I’m coming with them.”

  “No! Raúl, Dad will kill you if you do that!”

  “By the time he gets here, I won’t be around for him to kill, Alma.”

  “You’re such an idiot. How will you pay for it? I thought you had no work, no money.”

  “I’ve still got my savings.”

  “You mean your college savings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shut up!” she cried out. “Stop! Do you hear what you’re saying? You’re going to pay a coyote to bring you back to this with your college savings?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” she said. “Haven’t you heard the stories? Haven’t you paid any attention at all?”

  She was angry, and she heard the anger in his voice, too.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, accusingly.

  “Crossing. The desert. The border. It’s all too dangerous.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” His voice was escalating to a high pitch. “You’re asking me if I’ve heard the stories about crossing the border?”

  “Yes,” Alma replied. “I mean it just keeps getting worse, you know?”

  “I don’t need the stories, Alma. I was there,” he yelled. He paused for a moment. “It can never be worse than that time,” he said.

  Alma was confused. His voice had gone so soft, and she could hear the pain surging through the phone line.

  “What?” she asked quietly.

  “I was there, Alma, with Mom, and so were you.” His voice was calm, almost soothing. “We were there.”

  “That’s not true,” she said, anxiety rising like a flame through her chest. “We were waiting in a hotel room. We went separately.”

  “Listen to me, damn it,” he commanded. “We were with her. She refused to leave us. She wouldn’t let us cross with Tío Osvaldo. She wanted us to stay together.”

  “You’re lying,” she cried out. She felt as though she were suffocating. She needed to breathe.

  “Alma, we were there.”

  “No,” she screamed, trying to drown out the pounding in her chest. “We went in a car, through the checkpoint. We used the papers—the birth certificates.”

  “We did. But that was later. Tía Pera said that you shouldn’t know, that you didn’t need to know. She said we wouldn’t tell you. But I was five. I remember.”

  “It’s not true!” She was still screaming as the flames of anxiety engulfed her.

  “We went with her, the first time. We tried to cross with Mom. We drove through with Tío Osvaldo a couple of days later—after she died.”

  “You’re lying. Why are you lying to me?”

  “We were there when she fell, and when the coyote left her in the desert. The border patrol found us all there, together.”

  “No! Stop saying that.” She shook her head violently.

  “Alma, it’s true.”

  Alma sucked in a deep breath. She felt an eerie calm descend, a strength that she didn’t know she had. Then she spoke in a low voice. “We wouldn’t have survived either. How would we survive and not her?”

  “You were still little, Alma. She was nursing you, you know? So, she nursed us both. I didn’t want to drink it, but she made me. It saved our lives.”

  “I don’t believe you, Raúl. I can’t.” Alma could think of nothing else to say.

  “I was there, Alma. I remember. I remember when the helicopters came. I remember the dogs and the lights. I remember how she couldn’t get up, b
ut we could.”

  “No.” As her mouth formed the simple word, her body collapsed onto the bed.

  “And one of the border patrol agents, he was Latino—I mean, he looked Mexican. He took us away from her.” Raúl’s voice was strained. “He had a huge gun hanging from his shoulder, but he was nice. He hugged you, and I know this sounds weird, but he gave us both a lollipop, and told us everything would be OK.”

  Lollipop. Alma closed her eyes and tasted it. The sweetness rushed to her mouth. The dream—the dream that had been jolting her from sleep for as long as she could remember—it finally made sense.

  She knew that it wasn’t just a nightmare she’d been enduring for so many years. Well, yes, it was a nightmare, but it was the worst kind of nightmare. It was the memory of her mother’s death. It was true.

  * * *

  The tattooed girl came back and put another “Sprite” in front of Evan. She plopped down next to him, poked his arm, and said, “Hey, Big Spender.” Her hand was on his thigh and it felt good. She’d be off of work at midnight, she said, instructing him to ditch his mom and meet her at the service entrance. She’d supply the drinks and the entertainment. All he had to do was show up.

  From across the room, Whit leaned against a pillar and watched.

  I know regret, and you are going to regret this. That’s what Whit was telling him, without saying a word.

  Evan stood up and balanced himself against the table. His head was spinning. He walked over to Whit and handed him the keys to the Escalade. Whit took the keys but said nothing. Evan turned away, dismayed that it had come to this, that he and Whit now knew each other so well they didn’t need words. But he was nothing at all like Whit. That was what he told himself as he headed toward the service entrance.

  He had a new way to measure the passage of time.

  Six (or seven?) shots of Vodka.

  One tipsy mom passed off to his cousin because he was too drunk to drive.

  One girl with a cactus tattoo.

  * * *

  Alma knew how she would tell the story. The next time she was invited to offer her inspiring testimony, she would agree to go. She would stand in front of the crowd, the perfect image of the model immigrant, and she would begin:

  When I was two, my mother brought my brother and me across the border. She tried to carry us through the Arizona desert and into the land of opportunity. But my brother and I sucked the life out of our mother in that desert, and we left her, in search of a better life.