A few seconds later Ángela walked in with her parents and sat down wearing jeans and a baggy blue T-shirt, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Jaime wasn’t used to seeing his cousin dressed so plain. But maybe that was the point. Remembering what happened to the gorgeous Marcela, Jaime didn’t want men thinking Ángela was pretty.
They ate in silence. Not because they were hungry. A couple times Jaime was sure he was going to be sick from anxiety or nerves, but one stern look from Abuela and he kept eating what he’d been served. Abuela didn’t allow picky eaters—everything placed in front of you had to be eaten, whether you liked it or not.
He was mopping up the remaining bean sauce with a bit of tortilla when he heard the rattle of an old pickup truck. The Alphas. They’d heard about the plan. They were going to get him and his cousin.
Through the window Jaime watched the truck with tall wooden planks attached to the sides sputter to a stop outside Tío’s house. A fair-skinned old man with white hair eased himself out of the vehicle, his wrinkled hands braced over the door in the moonlight.
Not the Alphas, just Pancho.
Some days he sold fruit and meats; other days Pancho’s truck held furniture. Today it was filled with sacks of used clothes.
“Are you ready? It’s over three hours to the Mexican border and it’s better to cross it while it’s still dark,” Pancho rasped.
The remaining bean-drenched tortilla dropped from Jaime’s hand onto the plate. Abuela didn’t demand he finish it. Part of him wished she would, just so things would feel familiar.
Instead she handed him, Ángela, and Pancho plastic bags of food before walking off into the night. She didn’t even say good-bye. It would have been too hard for her.
Tears rolled down his face as he hugged both of his parents.
“Vamos, patojos.” Pancho called the youths to go. Jaime and Ángela hugged each other’s parents before climbing into the back of the truck. The burlap sacks were scratchy but cushioned, making it easy and somewhat comfortable to be wedged between the goods. They poked their heads through the burlap as the motor turned.
Mamá hobbled, holding on to Jaime’s hand as the old truck clunked down the road.
“I love you both. Be safe,” she called out louder than she should have. Her hand slipped from Jaime’s and she was left panting in the middle of the dirt road.
Jaime watched her until the truck turned a corner and she, his mamá, was gone. Who knew when he’d see her again? If he would . . . no, he wouldn’t think like that. Of course he’d see her again. Of course.
They passed the cemetery where they had buried Miguel, the road leading to the school Miguel would have attended in the fall, the park where Miguel . . . Good, he never wanted to see that place ever again.
The village Jaime had known his whole life, gone. His house, his family, gone. From now on, home would only get farther and farther away.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jaime lost track of how long he watched the road they left behind. The sacks of clothes closed in on him like when he and his cousins used to sandwich themselves in couch cushions. His face peered out from the middle of the sacks like a micoleon, the slinky, long-tailed, long-tongued mammals that inhabited the forests on the outskirts of his village. For a while he recognized landmarks—a village where distant cousins lived, the tree under which he got carsick, the road that led to the beach where he and Tomás shared that sunset. Then one dark village began to look like another until he was sure he’d never been this far from home before.
It’s all your fault, Miguel. If you were still here, we would still be at home. The thought entered his mind before Jaime could stop it. Miguel wasn’t to blame. Not when he’d died fighting. But if Miguel had just given in and joined the Alphas . . . Jaime shook his head to stop his mind from playing games with him. If Miguel had given in, Jaime would never have forgiven him for that. It would have been a betrayal to him, and the family. Few things were worse. As much as he hated leaving home, he’d have to be brave, like Miguel.
After miles and miles of pothole-filled roads with no streetlights, Pancho pulled onto the highway. The wind rushed against Jaime’s ears, and the headlights from the few cars on the road blinded him. Best not advertise to the other drivers that he was back there. He closed his eyes and retreated back between the scratchy sacks.
When he opened his eyes again, the faintest blue crept through the crevices in the sacks. He blinked a few times in bewilderment. Not because he didn’t know where he was—sadly, the week’s events hadn’t been erased from his mind—but because he was surprised he’d managed to sleep at all.
The truck jarred and rattled as it slowed down. That must have been what had woken him up. He shifted, causing the bones in his stiff neck to crack and pop, and started to dig his way out to check where they were.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
He screamed.
“Shh!” A harsh whisper came from Ángela next to him and he understood. They were stopping. If they were stopping, there had to be a reason. And until they knew what the reason was, they had to stay hidden. Jaime cursed himself for not thinking. Barely a few hours from home and he could have gotten them caught.
The truck pulled to a complete stop. Jaime kept his breathing shallow to avoid shifting any bags. Pancho didn’t get out of the cab or turn off the truck, so that meant he hadn’t stopped by choice. Something out there had made him stop.
Through the gaps in the sacks, Jaime could see lights flashing red against the dawn sky. Two sharp and deep barks came from the distance. The bags around Jaime shifted, and he knew Ángela had retreated farther into the sacks of used clothes; dogs scared her to bits.
For a second Jaime wondered if he should be scared too. He liked dogs. But that didn’t change the fact that they had teeth he couldn’t compete with. And noses that could detect a hidden human. Careful not to shift the burlap in case someone, or some dog, was watching, he tilted his head to listen again. Good, the dogs were far away.
Pancho blared his horn. Three other drivers followed his example. “¡Oye! What’s going on?”
In the back of the truck Jaime cringed. Why did Pancho have to draw attention to them? Between the distance they’d traveled and the flashing lights, Jaime guessed they must be at the border of México. If they had passports or papers, he and Ángela could sit up front with Pancho, just say they were visiting family for a couple days . . . on a school day . . . with Pancho, who looked more like a weathered gringo with his light eyes and skin than Jaime and Ángela with the black hair and square faces they got from their Mayan grandfather. Hmm, maybe better to enter México this way, sandwiched between bags. As long as they weren’t discovered.
It was seconds, or maybe hours, before he heard boots thumping on the pavement toward them. The red flashing lights still cut into the night. By that point, the sky had lightened, bits of green and red mixed with the blue and purple.
“Is that you, Pancho?” came a gruff voice less than a meter away.
“Claro, I have things to sell, you know. What’s happening?”
“Some kid smuggling. He insists he’s been set up, but that’s what they all say.”
Pancho swore. In his mind Jaime agreed with him. If the border patrol had already caught someone with drugs, they’d definitely search Pancho’s truck in case he had some too. Even though Ángela didn’t move or make a sound, Jaime knew that, deep among the bags, she must have been thinking the same thing.
A slight weight shifted the truck, like the guard was leaning against Pancho’s open window. “So, what you got today?”
“Clothes. Some nice labels—Gap, Calvin Klein. What size is your wife? I got some Levi’s she might like.” The rustle from a plastic bag up front indicated Pancho was moving things around.
“No, better not,” the guard answered, but the truck creaked as if he were leaning farther into the cab. “If they’re too big, she’ll think I think she’s fat. If they’re too small, she’ll be furious t
hat she’s fat.”
Still, the sound of jeans being shaken out and held up came from outside the truck. A dog barked again. The chink from the dog’s collar implied he was trotting closer. Ángela’s nails dug through his thin shirt and into his shoulder. The guard and Pancho kept talking like the dogs didn’t exist.
“That one’s a good style. She can wear them with sandals or heels,” Pancho said.
“Fine, but if she complains they don’t fit—”
“Then you give them to your mistress.”
The guard laughed and slapped Pancho in the shoulder. “Good man.”
A panting breath along with the chiming collar came closer. Jaime couldn’t see the canine but guessed he couldn’t be more than a car away. Next to him Ángela muttered a prayer to San Francisco, patron saint of animals, and stowaways.
The guard waved Pancho along and the truck jerked forward, creaking over a bridge. In unison Jaime and Ángela let out a huge breath, only to catch it again as they passed a dog that began to bark. The truck, however, chugged along. No shouts called for them to stop, and Pancho didn’t. A slight bump in the road and then it suddenly became smoother, as if the pavement had changed textures. If Jaime had to guess, he’d say they’d crossed the border into México. All that fuss and for nothing.
Pancho drove for another half hour before cutting the engine. The truck coughed and seemed to sigh as its worn-out mechanics stopped churning.
“Fuera, patojos.” Pancho banged on the side of the truck for them to get out. “¡Ándale!”
Jaime grabbed his backpack and the plastic food bag Abuela had packed for him. He tumbled out of the clothes sacks, blinking against the morning sun. His left leg wobbled as blood circulated back into it like millions of scurrying ants. He pushed his chest and belly out as his lungs filled with fresh air and smiled as he looked around.
He should be nervous, he should be scared, but at the moment his sense of adventure had taken over. He was in México! A different country, a new place, a strange town . . .
Which wasn’t very different from the towns back home.
Pancho had parked between two concrete buildings, a spot visible only to people who might look down the alley. But no one did—it was early in the morning. Ripped plastic bags wedged in corners and oozing trash littered the alley. The cool of the night was giving way to hot humidity. From where he stood, Jaime could see concrete houses with wrought-iron bars covering the doors and windows along the quiet residential street.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Tapachula, in Chiapas,” Pancho said as he threw a couple of bags back into the truck that had fallen out with Jaime and Ángela’s emergence.
Chiapas, of course. The most southern state in México, and the closest to Jaime’s home in Guatemala. He could see the map of América del Norte that hung in his classroom. All those hours in the back of the truck and they had barely gone a few centimeters. This was going to be a long trip.
“How are you continuing from here?” Pancho asked, glancing out into the street and trying to act as if he always parked between buildings with two fugitives.
“Bus,” Ángela said. “To Arriaga.”
Pancho shook his head. “Don’t take the bus. Too dangerous.”
“Then I guess we can take the train from here,” she said slowly.
“Even worse. You won’t survive in one piece.”
Ángela looked at Jaime. They were running out of options, and they weren’t even half a day into their journey.
“What do you suggest we do, Pancho?” Jaime asked. Maybe he would volunteer to drive them a bit farther, another centimeter or so on the map.
Pancho looked at his watch and again up and down the street. His white mustache twitched as if it could detect some hidden danger. “There’s no safe way unless you have a lot of money or an invisibility cloak. Most people around here won’t pick up hitchhikers, and if they do, the driver might work for a gang or la migra. You’ll find yourself being held for ransom or deported back to Guatemala.”
La migra. Jaime knew about them. Every immigrant did. On paper they were immigration officers hired to keep Central Americans from using México as a passageway to the United States and Canada. In reality they were armed men who made their own rules for the right amount of money.
“And if you walk,” Pancho continued, “you risk stumbling into gangs again or bandits, who will rob you and leave you to rot. I can’t take you any farther. My work is here.”
Ángela inhaled through her mouth and Jaime understood her worry. There was no good choice, but somehow they had to move forward.
“I guess we’ll risk the bus.” Ángela looked at Jaime for agreement, but he shrugged. La migra, trains, bandits, and more gangs. Everything seemed worse than what they had left behind. Except here there seemed to be a greater variety of ways to die.
Pancho grumbled but didn’t offer any suggestions. “Bueno. The bus station isn’t far, just a few streets over. Buses are pretty regular.”
A moment of silence overtook them, as no one knew what to say. Good-bye was the obvious response, but it would mean that they were on their own.
“Thanks for driving us here.” Ángela kissed him on the cheek like she would a grandfather.
A red flush crept over Pancho’s wrinkled face as he glanced at the food bag that Abuela had given him. “Your family has always been good to me.”
From Heaven, Jaime could feel Miguel nudging him and grinning. The two had long-standing suspicions of Pancho’s crush on their grandmother.
Another awkward moment followed until a car drove past them, bringing them back to the dirty alley. Pancho shifted and his face turned to a hard stare. “I’m late, so listen. If la migra stops you, act calm. Only people who shouldn’t be here get nervous. Whatever happens, you don’t know me, you came here on your own.”
“We understand,” Ángela said.
“Be careful who you trust. Not everyone out there is your friend.”
Jaime hugged his backpack tighter against his chest.
Pancho made his way to the truck but then stopped and turned around. He went to the street and motioned them to follow him. “See that mountain in the distance? That’s the Volcán Tacaná.”
“On the border of Guatemala and México,” Jaime said. They had studied the second-largest Central American volcano in school. Seeing it now reminded him how close they still were to home. And how far away.
He must have read Pancho’s mind, or Pancho his.
“There’ll be other mountains, other volcanoes,” Pancho said. “But if you think of each different one as Tacaná, you’ll never be far from home.”
This time Pancho made it back to his truck. He waved as he drove out of the alley, not looking to see if cars were coming from either direction. Jaime and Ángela stood there for several minutes in a town that seemed familiar, but the sight of the volcano in the distance reminded them just how far they still had to go.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next bus to Arriaga was leaving in twenty minutes, but if they waited until the afternoon, they could take a bus run by a different travel company for half the price, about a hundred pesos less. For each of them.
“How many quetzales is that?” Jaime whispered as they stood at the ticket counter of the bus terminal. His question was directed to Ángela, but the attendant, an old man with thick glasses, answered without looking up.
“About fifty.”
“Two for the afternoon bus, please,” Ángela said at the same time as Jaime said, “The cheaper bus is fine.” One hundred pesos, fifty quetzales. Enough to buy ten Coca-Colas or twenty bread rolls. Some people in his village didn’t earn much more than that in a day. Of course, it was nothing compared to all the money sewed in their jeans, but enough to make them realize just how much money they would still need to get to the Río Bravo, the river dividing the two countries in the north.
With several hours to kill, they walked around Tapachula. People strolled on the
shady side of the street. Men called out for them to buy icy juices in big Styrofoam cups cinched with plastic bags for lids. Women sold mangos, guava, papaya, mamey—three for ten pesos. Boys younger than Jaime wandered around with trays strapped to their chests to sell packs of cigarettes.
Unlike at home, where everything was in dire need of fresh paint and repairs, two buildings, the municipal palace and the church, were true works of art. When they entered the yellow and white church, Iglesia de San Agustín, with its tall, impressive pillars, Jaime couldn’t stop looking around, feeling like he was within art itself. Never had he experienced something so beautiful and intense. For the first time since Miguel’s death, he felt at peace. Why did they need to go all the way to Tomás when here was a place so spectacular that nothing bad could possibly happen? And where they were still close enough to “see” home?
The wood creaked as Ángela slid into a pew near the front. Hands clasped, she bowed her head. Her lips moved in silent prayer while two gringo tourists took pictures, their babbling voices echoing across the pews.
Jaime took a second to say his own prayer—for his family, Miguel, Ángela, and himself—before pulling out the sketchbook and lead pencil he’d packed in his bag. Mamá always said his artistic ability was a gift from God. If that was the case, then surely He wouldn’t mind if Jaime used His gift to pay tribute in His house.
It took four pages in his sketchbook to do little justice to the beautiful church. He wished he could capture the sensation of being there as well, of being enveloped in the art—a feeling that he couldn’t explain in words, or show in his drawing. The architecture, the way the light came in the stained glass windows. Jaime knew there were people who studied art, who knew tricks of shadow and light to accent features and make the flat paper’s two-dimensional image jump out like it had three-dimensional life. Jaime, whose school couldn’t afford an art teacher, did the best he could. The result, though nowhere near the real-life beauty of the church, wasn’t half-bad.
The Only Road Page 3