by JJ Flowers
He grinned as he took a sip of beer. “There are no slow hours at the border.”
Juan Pablo played his best card. “Your mother told me the key to gaining a spot as a vendor.”
This received the man’s full attention, and he chuckled. “What did the old lady tell you?”
“That to earn one of these coveted places, I must offer something special, something original. I believe I have it, señor.”
“You have this miracle item? And it would be a wonder if it was not something I have not thought of and tried and dismissed. The only items that move at the border are the things already there: ponchos, trousers, purses, sombreros, candy, toys, dolls, you name it, if it sells, believe me, it’s out there. I even have Chinese basura now—the only people on earth who can squeeze a peso from a poor Mexican.”
“You don’t have milkweed seeds to save the butterflies.”
Juan Pablo held up his sign and presented a packet of seeds, wrapped neatly in his abuela’s bright orange ribbon, as if it were a jeweled brooch of queens.
Felix’s eyes surveyed the sign: MONARCH BUTTERFLY RESCUE PROJECT: MILKWEED SEEDS FOR THE GARDEN.
The men at the bar stopped talking and turned to stare.
Juan Pablo explained that people buy the seeds to help the butterflies on their journeys, that attracting butterflies to their garden excited all but the most hardened hearts. He promised the seeds would fly out of his hands.
No one contradicted the earnest young man.
Felix’s gaze lifted from the simple allure of the packet to Juan Pablo’s large green eyes, so full of hope. For some reason, Juan Pablo’s eyes reminded him of his much-loved younger brother, God rest his soul, lost to him many years ago.
“How much do you think you can sell them for?”
“Twenty pesos a packet.”
Felix took a long swig of his beer, set it down, and said, “I take half.”
Juan Pablo nodded. “Gracias!”
Juan Pablo left as soon as Felix dispatched strict instructions. The men smiled as the boy disappeared to make his fortune. One of the men playing cards shook his head. The boy looked somehow familiar.
Where had he seen him before?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The young man selling milkweed seeds attracted a lot of attention from the endless stream of cars entering the United States from Mexico. Juan Pablo walked between cars in the steady stop-and-go traffic at the border. He held out his sign to each car. If they wanted a packet, they rolled down their window, and Juan Pablo was treated to a blast of cool air-conditioned air. Money and seeds were exchanged, “gracias” said, and he moved on to the next car. Occasionally, a car honked from another lane and he had to race to reach the customer.
The hot sun beat upon the black river of lanes, which reflected and intensified the heat. He wore a Giants baseball hat for protection, dark sunglasses, and a bright red T-shirt with Levi’s—new clothes, so no one looking for him would recognize him. So far he had seen five black Cadillacs, and each sighting had sent his heart racing while he hid behind the stalls, but none had been the Hunter.
He had already made fifty-five American dollars, enough to pay Felix and buy a nice meal. The good Sisters of Mercy let him sleep in the kitchen in return for help in the predawn hours preparing for hungry hordes who gathered every day. His stomach clenched with a demand for attention; he was starving, he was always half-starving now. He needed to sell just three more packets for an even $60 before he took a break to feed his ever-complaining stomach.
He could not risk contacting Rocio, not yet. It was still too dangerous.
During his long nights alone in the small kitchen, he faced his problem. The man with the red boots was not giving up, he knew this. Not only would he have to find some way (somehow!) to cross the border and enter California and make his way first to the shelter to get his violin back, and then find his way to Pacific Grove, but he could not involve anyone in the journey.
First, get his violin back or die trying.
Second, make his way to Pacific Grove.
He did not have a plan after this. Life seemed too tenuous, too uncertain. Some lives are like a good novel: you never know what will happen until you turn the page.
He would wait until the page was turned . . .
If he had the time or energy to worry about not having a plan after Pacific Grove, he might have wondered if his fate itself was going to stop there. Was the last page of his life Pacific Grove? He tried to convince himself that he still might have a future of music and Rocio and all their plans, but it all seemed distant, uncertain, and fuzzy now, like a long-ago memory or a dream upon waking.
No, not uncertain—he stopped, realizing, it seemed impossible.
And really none of this even mattered unless he found a way to cross the border. It was already late August. Time was running out. Every morning, in the predawn hours, he asked the Sky People for help, but so far, he was still without his violin or Rocio, running lanes on the wrong side of the border.
These were his thoughts the morning the warning buzz started softly, barely perceptible.
Juan Pablo kept looking to the border crossing as he worked. An ominous two-story-high metal fence ran across the whole of Tijuana. It started far out to sea and ended hundreds of miles past the city’s border. Two or three armed guards manned every passage through. Cars drove up, the border agent looked in, exchanged a few words, examined documents, and then waved the car through. Occasionally, for no reason anyone knew, a car was singled out and motioned over for a more thorough examination.
A horn drew Juan Pablo’s gaze to a shiny blue Prius, three lanes over. He rushed over. A dark window swept down, blasting him with the sweet relief of air conditioning. Two young and pretty Mexican ladies spoke at once.
“We love butterflies!”
“We’ll take two packets,” the other lady said from the passenger seat.
After handing them two packets, he collected the money and turned to another honking car several lanes over. As he rushed over to the silver Honda, he became fully conscious of the buzzing sound. He looked across the lanes of stop-and-go traffic until he spotted the black Cadillac.
His body mobilized for flight as he ducked around the cars, keeping his back to the oncoming danger. It was maybe twenty cars away. Was it him?
He didn’t know, didn’t know how he could know, but he couldn’t take any chances. He started back across the lanes of traffic.
A brand-new red Mercedes rolled down its window.
“Hello?” A friendly American voice shouted to him. “How much for the seeds?”
Stalling, trying to think of what to do and where to hide, Juan Pablo headed to the car. The back-seat windows rolled down to reveal two kids. Just as he was about to hand them the seeds, the girl screamed, “Oh! A butterfly! Look!”
Juan Pablo turned to see a giant monarch floating above the stalled traffic. His thoughts tumbled in confusion. As he turned around, a little dog jumped from the window.
“Kipper! Kipper! Catch him!”
“Ohmygod, he’s going to get run over!”
The little dog chased after the butterfly.
Juan Pablo sprinted after the dog.
The lady got out of the car just as the traffic started moving forward. Horns honked behind her. She stopped, turned around, and jumped back into the car to move it forward.
Juan Pablo kept running. “Stop! Stop!”
The little guy ran right beneath the butterfly, leaping up. The dog was an impressive jumper. The butterfly flitted on, unmindful of the commotion. The butterfly and the dog headed straight toward the border crossing.
Juan Pablo didn’t realize what was happening at first. He meant only to catch little Kipper before a car hit it. He was about twenty paces behind the dog, closing in.
The butterfly disappeared from sight. The dog kept running.
“Catch him,” he called out to the border guards.
Unable to hear above the
background noise, the border guards bent over to inspect a car. Kipper rushed right on through and into America.
And, in the split second, Juan Pablo grasped the whole situation.
“Kipper!” he called as if the dog belonged to him. “Kipper!”
The boy followed the dog right though the underpass, past the two border guards, side-stepping the dropped gate, and continuing to chase after the dog. He knew they would not shoot a boy trying to catch his dog.
Juan Pablo only knew to keep running after Kipper. The guards might give chase, but they would not shoot. He never once looked back. A strange and magical exhilaration filled him with each step.
From a great distance he heard, “Whoa! Stop! Hey, hey! You can’t cross the border! You . . . Stop!”
Kipper ran onto the overpass leading right to the walkway in America.
Juan Pablo just kept running and running. He never did look back.
The dog stopped on the freeway off-ramp.
“Kipper, Kipper,” Juan Pablo knelt down, exhilarated and relieved.
Wagging his tail, looking for all the world contrite, Kipper came to Juan Pablo. He swept the little dog safely into his arms. Holding him, he looked back over the border. No one and nothing rushed at him. Kipper’s car had reached the border crossing. The driver spotted him and flashed the car lights. The Mercedes pulled onto the side of the ramp.
A girl flew out of the car. “Kipper!”
Juan Pablo handed the little guy to the girl.
“You saved him! Thank you, thank you.” She took the unrepentant dog into her arms.
Relief and happiness mixed on her face. The girl had long, tangled blonde hair and gray eyes. She wore shorts and a sleeveless red top over her stick-thin form.
Her father came out of the car, too. “Thank you so much. That was very brave. If something happened to Kipper, Amelie wouldn’t survive. Or Zack.” He removed a wad of cash. “Can I give you a reward?”
The cash made him draw back with surprise. “No, no. It was my pleasure.” He stopped himself from explaining how he should be paying them. After all, he was standing in America. He made it.
Juan Pablo had trouble grasping this lucky turn of events. Luck that involved a dog and a butterfly that came just as he was losing all hope, and that might very well have come just in time.
It was just two or three hours to Ventura where, hopefully, he could get his violin back.
“There must be something we can do for you,” the girl’s father said.
Amelie and the man looked alike, but the father looked too young. Sunglasses sat atop his shaved head. He had kind eyes and wide lips, lifted in a beguiling smile. Did he know he had just crossed the border illegally? His smile suggested he did, as if it were their secret.
Juan Pablo turned briefly away from the man to the border, where in minutes a black Cadillac would be crossing into the United States. He did need to escape. He had $60. “Could you be so kind as to drop me off at the bus stop? It is just a few blocks from here.”
“The bus stop?” the man questioned, as if he were unfamiliar with the idea of buses. “Where are you going?”
“I need to pick up my violin in Ventura.”
“Oh. You’re a musician.” This too was said mysteriously, as if now everything made sense.
Juan Pablo nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“What the heck is your violin doing in Ventura? Never mind,” he said before Juan Pablo could answer, smiling again. “We’re headed home to Santa Barbara. Why don’t we give you a lift all the way?”
You will notice, Juan Pablo, people will appear in your life at the exact right moment. They are acting for the Sky People to help you.
Do they know this, Abuela? That they are acting for the Sky People?
Almost never.
Then how do you know they are sent by the Sky People?
Because the luck is such that it can only be understood as a miracle.
Abuela, he had laughed, the Sky People always seem too fantastic to be real.
Yes, she agreed. That is why many people do not recognize their gifts.
“Thank you. That would be . . . amazing,” was all Juan Pablo could say.
Just like that, he found himself inside a bright red Mercedes, seated between Amelie and her brother, Zack, who looked like a masculine, older version of his sister. As the Mercedes circled the on-ramp and found the way back to the freeway, Juan Pablo gave silent thanks to the butterfly, to little Kipper, to the Sky People. He caught the father’s enigmatic smile in the review mirror.
Juan Pablo smiled back. He was on his way to reclaim his violin.
“You play the violin?” Zack asked. “Cool . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The red Mercedes pulled up to the curb in front of Port Hueneme. After saying his goodbyes to Amelie, Zack, and Kipper, wanting to cry from all his gratitude for their help, Juan Pablo got out. He waved as the car drove away. He turned to the familiar building, dark now behind the high wire gate. He prayed his violin was still here in the storage room.
He remembered the night guard, a nice man who hopefully would remember him as well. He approached the guard house and peered inside. Arms folded over his ample belly, Mr. Hall sat slumped in his chair, eyes closed, sound asleep.
Juan Pablo saw no reason to wake him. He slipped around the barrier and headed toward the doors. He stepped quietly inside. He knew that everyone would be asleep except for the other night security guard and the nurse on night duty. They usually watched TV in the administration office.
The office was the first door on the left. Making no sound, he crept forward. The door was open. The night watchman and the nurse watched a police show, their backs to the door. Juan Pablo tiptoed past and continued down the hall to the back of the building. He passed two dorm rooms where the children slept. Standing on tiptoes, he peered through the small square window near the top. Empty. Neat rows of empty bunks on each side of the room.
The door to the other dorm remained open. He cautiously looked inside. This was half full. Girls slept on one side of the room, boys on the other. Only one girl slept on the top bunk. Everyone was asleep, it seemed.
He found the storage room, but it was locked.
He knew where a key was kept.
He quietly made his way back down the hall to Dolores’s office. This was unlocked. He stepped inside the familiar space. A flick of a switch brought bright light over the desk and computer. He opened the top drawer.
There it sat, waiting for him.
Grabbing it, he started back out when something caught his attention. A Post-it note stuck to Dolores’s computer. Written in neat letters: Dr. Juan Laves? Dr. John Keys of Stanford University?
The buzzing started in his ears.
For several long minutes he just stared at the obvious explanation of a lifelong mystery. His abuela said his father’s name was Dr. Juan Laves, but his abuela translated the name to Spanish. His father was an American. He had assumed he was Mexican American and he had searched for Dr. Juan Laves.
Of course he would have an American name. Dr. Juan Laves was Dr. John Keys. Dolores had guessed the simple translation of mixed languages.
Not once had he ever thought to translate the name to English.
In an instant he knew what he would do: collect his violin, find Dr. John Keys at Stanford University, contact him, and if he was interested, if he really was his father, they would arrange a meeting.
He knew exactly where he would arrange the meeting.
He’d write a note to Dolores and Rocio telling them not to worry, that he’d contact them after he reached Pacific Grove.
Heart racing with a previously unknown kind of excitement, Juan Pablo grabbed the keys and made his way to the storage room. As soon as the door opened, he didn’t even bother turning on the lights. He saw across the distance. His violin waited on top of the lockers.
In the next minute it was in his hands.
Tears filled his eyes. Tears of
relief and joy.
He vowed it would never leave his hands again.
His reprieve was a physical force and a powerful one. He resisted the urge to open it and start playing for all his joy. The last thing he wanted now was attention.
He spotted his iPad resting on a shelf nearby.
He turned it on and immediately discovered Rocio’s texts.
He scrolled to the top, to read them in order.
JP, we are so worried. I cannot eat or sleep. No one knows where you are, what has become of you. Dolores called us . . . What is the English word that mixes hysteria with fear and panic? Oh, if you were here you would tell me!
Juan Pablo supplied the word in his mind: frantic.
Dolores said you had been taken to an orphanage in Mexico by mistake, but when she called the orphanage listed on your paperwork, they have no knowledge of you. Then Dolores couldn’t find the bus that had taken you. We are calling every orphanage in Mexico, but there are so many and most do not have phones. There are only Internet connections and no one answers our pleas.
We don’t know what to do. We don’t know where you are.
I finally told my mom what happened, what really happened, the whole thing. The man with the red boots. She is crazy with worry now too, afraid he has got you.
Juan Pablo! Find your way back to us!
Now the police in Mexico are involved and the police in CA. There are alerts for you. Everyone is looking. Dolores hired a private detective team.
I have so much to tell you!
Juan Pablo, Elena did a terrible thing. Dolores has found your father, your real father. His name is Dr. John Keys. He is the nicest man alive, I think, a professor of biology at Stanford University in California. He specializes in the migration of animals and wrote a book about the migration of butterflies and he married your mom in the church in Guadalajara! The same one we pretended to get married in, remember? Elena told him you had died with your mom. My mother says we must forgive Elena, that she couldn’t bear losing you after your mom died, she just couldn’t and because he was an American, she was afraid he would take you away from her. She always told my mom that your father abandoned you to her and because so many men do this, she never questioned it.