A So-Called Vacation

by Genaro González

  As a result, nightfall still found them along the lower end of the Rio Grande, not that far from home. Their father was not used to driving that long—much less that late—on lonely roads that felt like eternal tunnels in the blackness.

  “We’d better stop soon,” he finally said. “That trailer has a mind of its own on these bumpy roads.” But the drowsiness in his voice told them the real reason.

  At the next border town he pulled over at a bleak gas station and went inside to place a mysterious phone call. Afterwards he made a U-turn back toward the town limits they had just passed.

  “Who did you call?” asked their mother.

  “A friend …” Knowing she expected more, he added, “… of a friend.” That clarified nothing, so he added again, “He can put us up for the night.”

  “There’s a nice motel just ahead,” said Gabriel.

  “Nice has a price,” answered his father. “Why pay when you can get it for free?”

  As they approached the place their mother began glancing left and right. “It’s a little spooky … so dark and lonely.” The vast night seemed to amplify the anxiety in her voice.

  “How can they sleep without even a fence for protection?” Paula wondered aloud.

  But no sooner did they stop than the van was surrounded by several barking dogs.

  “That’s how,” replied Gabriel. “These mutts aren’t just a mobile fence, they’re guards too.”

  They waited until a couple in dark clothing tapped on the windshield before daring to set foot in the swarm of dogs. The family was guided swiftly across the unlit yard, and the only words the woman uttered were directed at the dogs. Once inside the house, Paula and their mother were ushered efficiently and almost wordlessly into a Spartan room with four beds. The men ended up in a similar room, only larger and with nine beds.

  Before daybreak the couple was already serving them breakfast. While Gabriel ate with the slow motion of a somnambulist, he kept expecting the couple’s brood to join them or at least to reclaim their beds. But by the time they were ready to leave it was obvious that there was no one else in the house. In fact, the smidgen of sunrise revealed that the woman was much older than the man and had left her child-bearing years far behind. Moreover, her efficient, deliberate demeanor made her seem less like a housewife than a maid carrying out a routine she could do in her sleep.

  The entire silent episode seemed so disconnected in the dead of twilight that the moment they left, Gabriel relegated it to the under-universe of dreams and went back to sleep. But the moment he woke, something inside was already searching for answers.

  No sooner did he bring it up than Gus also asked outright, “Yeah, Dad, what the heck was that all about?”

  “What, you didn’t enjoy that breakfast with those fresh farm eggs?”

  “I saw them bring in that big basket of eggs, but the ones we ate were cold leftovers. So why bother getting fresh ones? I’m sure those chickens didn’t enjoy getting their butts groped with cold hands in the middle of the night.”

  “Or having their entire production cleaned out,” Gabriel added. “When I saw those stacks of plates in the kitchen, I thought they were going to serve a crew.”

  “We are a crew,” insisted his father. “Or we will be, soon enough.”

  “And another thing,” said Gus, “how come check-out time was six in the morning?”

  “The important thing is we needed a place to stay,” said their father, “and I found us one.”

  “Not just a place, Dad,” answered Gus. “Oh, no, not you. You had to find something creepy, one of those horror movie motels. Gabi and I kept thinking they were vampires or something.”

  Gabriel nodded. “And that the reason they barely spoke was so their fangs wouldn’t show.”

  Paula woke up long enough to add, “Stop being such drama queens, you two.”

  “What was so creepy about it?” asked their father. “Besides, we didn’t have to pay one penny. Even breakfast was on the house.”

  But by now even their mother seemed a bit perturbed. “True, but what kind of home was that? Beds everywhere, but not another soul around.”

  “And what about the way they snuck us in, then out,” Gus asked, “all in the dead of night? It was like an underground railroad.”

  “You mean like a subway, son?”

  “No, Dad, the places where runaway slaves from the South were hidden, on their way to freedom.”

  Their father shrugged his agreement. “Same thing, then.” A moment later he added, “Like they say, Don’t look a Trojan horse in the mouth.”

  “Dad, you’re getting your metaphors mixed up again,” said Gabriel.

  Paula corrected him in turn. “That’s not a metaphor.”

  “Whatever. You mean a gift horse.”

  “Oh.” Their father fell silent momentarily. “So then what’s a Trojan horse? What was I thinking of?”

  “A Trojan horse,” Gabriel corrected him sarcastically, “is what I thought we were inside of, when we had to sneak into that house. And for once we agree … What were you thinking when you brought us there?”

  “I was trying to cut down on our travel costs.”

  “Sure, by cutting corners as usual.”

  Paula, who had been observing everyone with a bemused, almost bored expression, finally defended her father indirectly. “That couple probably greets all their guests that way.”

  Gus, reclining in the backmost row, looked at Paula long and hard, convinced there was something more beneath the surface of her comment. No sooner did he look away than she leaned across toward Gabriel, sitting in the other middle chair. When she tried to add suspense to her breathless whisper, the words thundered in her brother’s ear: “I’ll bet it was one of those border stash houses, like they have back in the Valley.”

  Gabriel’s head seemed to spring back several inches. “You mean for smuggling drugs?”

  “No, Dopey, for smuggling people.” Seeing he still appeared confused, she added, “For the undocumented. Wow, does anyone else here ever watch the local news?”

  After another barren moment, Gabriel finally gasped. “Oh, now I see!”

  “When Gus called the place an underground railroad he wasn’t that far off the track.”

  “But there weren’t any illegals there,” said Gabriel.

  “The couple must have been between deliveries. Imagine if there had been some. Now that would been something to write home about.”

  Their father responded with a tight-lipped smirk.

  By that afternoon Gus could not stand another bologna sandwich. He chose to skip lunch and reclined his head for a nap. When his mouth fell open, Gus almost choked on a sudden gulp of air from an open window.

  “I think he’s saving money by filling us up on air,” he told Gabriel, not caring if their father heard.

  “Or else he’s starting us on a migrant diet.” Gabriel pretended to pluck a bug from his teeth and wondered where they would stop to sleep. He had spent their last night at the house gazing around the bedroom as though seeing it for the first time, noticing old smudges where he and Gus had whacked mosquitoes on the walls, next to nail holes from long-forgotten picture frames. While his brother took a late shower Gabriel had auscultated the ancient plumbing. He had listened to those subliminal, nocturnal sounds for years without noticing, but at that moment they had the comforting presence of old friends.

  All in all, he had concluded that their house was not that decrepit. Although his affluent cousins teased them about its tackiness, his parents always reminded them that other relatives dreamed of a home like theirs.

  Perhaps he was eager to etch the place in his memory so he could appreciate it more once they reached the migrant camp. Yet now, try as he might, he still found it hard to justify working in the fields simply to return and patch it up, since no amount of repair could conceal its age.

  He had never been more than four hours from home, and his fantasy of a road trip consisted of a collage
of television commercials with the entire family snuggled and smiling in booths of assorted chain restaurants. But on the real road, surviving on a harsh dose of cold cuts, he would not taste hot food until his father pulled up to a truck stop on the second night and announced, “Wake up! Hot meals on wheels!”

  “It’s been so long,” said Paula. “What’s a hot meal?”

  “It’s about time.” Gus rubbed the sleep from his eyes and read a neon sign: “New Mexico’s #1 …” He could not make out the unlit letters. “Number one what? Road kill café?”

  Their father was almost at the door of the restaurant when Gabriel hollered from the van, “This place isn’t even a franchise.”

  “Of course they have french fries,” his father replied.

  They eased into a curved booth while several gringo truckers regarded them vacantly. Their father said in a hushed voice, “These guys know the best places to eat.”

  Gabriel snorted. “Then we really lucked out, getting in without a reservation.”

  “Dad, all that’s just a myth,” said Gus. “Look, they’re not even eating. They’re all strung out on coffee and pep pills.”

  Paula fanned her palm in front of her face. “And cigarettes.”

  “We came in late,” said their father. “They’ve already had dinner.”

  “But just look at them, Dad. They’re all scrawny.”

  “Not all of them, Gustavo.” Their father scanned the tables. “There are a few heavyweights here.”

  “That’s only because they sit on their asses all day,” said Gabriel.

  After they placed their order, they sat and made small talk, trying to ignore the rest of the clientele. Halfway through the meal Gus observed, “We’re the only family in this greasy diner.”

  Their father stopped chewing. “Greasy, huh? Pass your plate, then. I wouldn’t want you to get sick so far from home.”

  “I already ate my burger and most of the fries.”

  Their father let Gus’s sheepish expression speak for itself, but then he added, “Greasy but good, right?” He eyed the other customers and added in Spanish, “Besides, this is better than McDonald’s. Check out all the clowns.”

  Gus merely glanced toward the ceiling. “Fine, Dad. Don’t tell us tell them that to their faces.”

  Their father slowly turned toward the tables, and Gabriel, taking no chances, said, “Gus is just kidding. Don’t make a scene.”

  His father turned back around. “Who’s making a scene, except for these clowns?” He pointed toward the harsh glare of the sodium lights outside. “See all those trucks out there? That’s just for show. I’ll bet they all got here in a Volkswagen bug and piled out on the parking lot.”

  Gabriel tried to hold his dad’s gaze with a deadpan stare. He succeeded for a moment, until he looked away and glanced at a trio of truckers with tattoos and red eyes. Suddenly the grungy, unfriendly truckers became the oddballs. Gabriel had to smile as he remembered his father’s knack for turning the tables on reality.

  Hours after dinner, the family pulled into a nondescript motel and the following morning, with an early start, they crossed the California state line. For a while the rural landscape continued the desolate sameness they had left in Texas, but gradually the steady, heavy traffic began to blanche their father’s knuckles. While his children gawked at the sights, he fretted over which freeway to take.

  Their mother noticed that the vein on his forehead was more pronounced than usual. “Hold on, mi rey, let me figure out this road map. My God, these cities all sound the same.”

  “And I always heard Californians were so creative.” Despite his kidding it came out clenched.

  “So pull over and let Gustavo drive.”

  “Then I’ll really go nuts … No, I’ll just slow down. At least we won’t have this kind of traffic when we get there.”

  They did not appreciate the truth of that understatement until dusk, when they found themselves in a desolate countryside, with hard-to-read road signs and exits few and far between. By the time they turned into a farm-to-market road that bisected endless fields, Paula was already making little coyote yelps. “Wow,” she said, “and I thought we lived on the edge of the world.”

  Finally the road reached a dead-end, as the van’s headlights illuminated a weathered, hand-written sign. The final letters had been squeezed in to accommodate the grower’s name. Their father stepped out for a closer look.

  “So is this the camp, mi rey?”

  “It has to be,” said Paula. “It’s the end of the road.”

  Gus peered cautiously into a pitch-black night dotted with a silent riot of stars. “You can say that again.” He stuck his head out the window, as a nippy breeze made him shudder. He could not decide whether he felt dread or excitement.

  Despite the hour their father found their crew boss, only slightly less disheveled than the workers who peered silently from their windows. They followed Don Rafa’s truck down a rutted road and stopped at the largest available structure, a dark and dilapidated shack beaten by the elements.

  With a kerosene lamp, the crew leader pointed out the partition that separated the interior into two rooms with a hollow-core door joining them. He studied their faces for a reaction, adding that the choice was limited to the shacks everyone else had rejected.

  “It’s the best I can do, since you’re not only newcomers but latecomers. On the plus side, it’s a big place. Sometimes I put two small families here. That’s what the dividing wall is for.” He tapped on a row of scuffed pegboards that improvised as a drywall and that created points of lamplight into the other side. “I don’t expect anyone else this late, though, so you’ve got the place to yourselves.” He shrugged, as if admitting that the accommodations were not much but that it was also the best he could do.

  Their father, trying to reassure everyone including the crew boss with a lopsided smile, covered the living space in a few steps. “Well, as long as the crops aren’t slim pickings too.”

  “No problem there,” he said, glad to finally offer good news. “There’s plenty of that.”

  “This will do,” said their father, and the family seemed too exhausted to argue otherwise. “It’s just like when I used to pick crops. I mean, I still do.” He corrected himself again. “We all do.”

  “Then you’ll feel right at home.” The comment barely covered Gus’s low groan. “I’ll just leave this lamp here.”

  “No need to,” said Gus, collapsing on a cot. “Just tell us where the light switch is.”

  Don Rafa, assuming the remark was a joke, played along and twisted a knob that dimmed the lamp. “It’s right here, see? I’ll bring another lamp tomorrow.” He started to leave. “Oh, your neighbor on that side is Señor Serenata.”

  “Excuse me,” asked Paula, “did you say Señor Serenata or Sinatra?”

  He chuckled, as if sharing a private joke. “I guess you could call him that too. You’ll find out what I mean. Your other neighbor is Don Pilo, a widower with three teenaged boys. Hardest working kids around. Early to bed and early to rise, and no nonsense in between. In fact, they’re from your neck of the woods.”

  “Speaking of back home,” said their father, “where’s the López family staying?”

  The crew leader tried to scratch his head, then remembered he was wearing his hat.

  Their father added, “Fidel López … He’s the one who told me about this place.”

  There was silence on both sides until Paula started a softer coyote yelp that their mother silenced with a quick nudge.

  “The name rings a bell. I think he was here last year.” He took advantage of Gabriel’s audible yawn and added, “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. Tomorrow’s a long day, and it’s almost here. Fortunately for you it’ll be Friday.”

  “Actually,” said their father, “I’m sort of sorry the week’s almost over.”

  Don Rafa managed an unconvincing smile. “I’m sure the rest of the camp isn’t.”

  He was almost out th
e door when he returned and began sweeping the lamplight along the perimeter of the floorboards, all the while mumbling to himself.

  Gus instinctively raised himself from the cot. “What are you looking for? What’s in here?”

  “Nothing.” His mumbling trailed off again. “But just to be on the safe side … sometimes snakes and varmints make themselves at home.”

  Gabriel and Gus glanced at each other, knowing that if there were not enough cots for each member of the family, they would be the ones sleeping on the floor.

  No sooner did the crew leader leave than Gus, despite being dead tired from the trip, suddenly came to life. “This is hardcore, Dad! It bites the big one!”

  “Now, now,” said their mother. “Just because it’s a migrant camp is no excuse for obscenities.”

  “Obscenities? This—!” Gus swept his arm in an inclusive arc overhead, and his fingertips grazed the ceiling. “This is an obscenity! And I don’t just mean this shack. I mean the whole camp. How can anyone live like this?”

  “Compared to when I was a kid,” said their father, “this is a suite.” The rest of the family stared back in disbelief. “Well, a cabin at least.”

  “Yeah,” Gabriel said, “like the original Uncle Tom’s cabin. Except this one’s a lot older.”

  His father downplayed their pessimism. “Why, this’ll be like camping in Big Bend. We could even sleep out under the stars one night.”

  “Big Bend,” said Gus. “Talk about another trip that went nowhere. Besides, we can probably see the stars through the roof.”

  Their mother sought the bright side even though the setting was not helping any. “I’ll bet this camp has its history.”

  “I’ll say,” said Gabriel. “They probably kept Japanese-Americans here during the war.”

  “Oh, no, this is much better,” said his father, either oblivious to the sarcasm or pretending to be. “Those families had no choice.”

  Even as Gus claimed a corner, he muttered to his brother, “And what choice do we have? Walk back two thousand miles?”