The Only Road

by Alexandra Diaz

  “Yeah. The train tracks are our best hope to head north,” he said.

  “No. Back home. To Guatemala.”

  “What?” Jaime jumped to his feet and glared at his cousin. It was one thing to think these thoughts, but to say them out loud?

  Ángela hugged the knee of her good leg to her chest. “I’m tired of being scared all the time. I miss my parents and Abuela. I want to hang out with mis amigas. I want a bath and regular meals. I want things to go back to how they were.”

  More than anything, he wanted those things too. He hated that even here, thousands of kilometers away, the Alphas were still controlling their lives. He kneeled next to her. “You know we can’t go back. Things will never be the same.”

  “But they’d be better than this here, in the middle of nowhere.” She lifted her head, her dark eyes turned wild. “I’ve been thinking. It won’t be that hard. We turn ourselves in to la migra and they’ll load us on a bus back home.”

  Jaime couldn’t believe his ears. This wasn’t Ángela. Ángela took care of everyone. She told everyone what to do, and how to do it. But she wasn’t a person who gave up.

  They’d seen how la migra had treated that Salvadoran lady on the bus. What about everything they didn’t see? There was no guarantee that la migra had even taken her back to the México-Guatemala border.

  “But the Alphas,” he reminded her. “They’re sure to make us pay for fleeing. If they killed Miguel for refusing to join, what will they do to us?”

  Ángela gulped and turned away. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. Manny Boy is in the gang and we used to be friends. Maybe, maybe he can soften the blows.”

  Manny Boy? Jaime swallowed a snort. Please. He remembered when Manny Boy and Ángela were “friends.” They were eight and Manny Boy would chase her around the schoolyard, trying to kiss her while Ángela screamed for him to stop. Really screamed, not teasing, playful screams. Jaime didn’t want to think how Manny Boy would behave now.

  “We can’t go home. You know that,” he said. A new determination surged through his body. They were going to continue, or die trying. No giving up. Normally he was happy to let her make the choices, but this was one decision he wasn’t going to let her make. Time to be strong and brave. Like Miguel. “I miss la familia too, but it’s for them we have to keep going. What would Tío say if you joined the gang that killed your brother?”

  Ángela turned away.

  He lifted her chin so he could look right into her eyes. He had to make her understand. “If we don’t make it, then Miguel died for nothing.”

  Ángela shook her head. “But it’s hopeless. I can’t walk. I’ll never be able to get back on the train.”

  Jaime crossed his arms over his chest and used the same glare both of their madres had gotten from Abuela. “But you think you can walk to a migra station? There’s nothing out here. We’re in the Chihuahua desert. No one’s going to find us until our bones are bleached by the sun. And I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nada.” There was no way he could have saved Miguel—he understood that now. But as long as their hearts continued to beat, he wasn’t giving up on her. “You can’t always be the boss. I’m in charge now and I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to help you—we’re going to keep heading north, even if I have to carry you on my back like a burro.”

  Ángela’s shoulders dropped as she let out a deep breath. Finally she nodded.

  “C’mon, let’s get back to the tracks.” Jaime stood up first and then offered a hand to his cousin. Ángela got up slowly but scrunched her eyes in pain the second she put weight on the ankle. This time, she didn’t give up and fall to the ground. Jaime put his arm around her waist for support. By stepping on the ball of her foot, Ángela managed to stagger a bit. Without Jaime, though, she wouldn’t have been able to do more than hop.

  It took forever to get back to the tracks. While Vida trotted ahead of them, her paws barely touching the railroad ties, Jaime tried his hardest not to show how tired he was. He couldn’t let her down. Ángela didn’t complain once, just did what he said. Miguel would have been proud, of both of them.

  They hobbled along while keeping an ear out for the next train. It could come in a few minutes or a few days. If it came in a few minutes, it’d be near impossible to board it; if it came in a few days, they could be dead.

  As they walked, he searched for something that might help them survive in the semi-desert. He didn’t have Vida’s nose; the fresh, unpolluted air was more a non-smell than a scent. There was no obvious water nearby. He figured if there were, there’d be clusters of trees and greener shades of brown huddled around the water source. Maybe even the scent of moisture. Instead his nose itched with sunburn and dust.

  There were various plants besides the patchy grass, shrubby bushes, and prickly cactus. Plants with little purple flowers and others a cluster of spines with a flower stalk jutting high up the middle, but he had no idea if any were edible. None of them looked the least bit appetizing. Occasionally a plastic water bottle lay near the tracks—dirty, cracked, and bone-dry.

  And there was no shelter where they could rest and escape the scorching sun.

  “We’ll keep following the tracks,” Jaime said, breaking the silence to keep optimistic. “Maybe there’s a sharp turn where the train slows down enough to hop on.”

  But realistically, he didn’t see how that would work. His determination to do or die seeped away. Even if the train slowed to a crawl, climbing a ladder to the top of a boxcar with only one leg would require a lot of arm strength for Ángela. And he didn’t even want to think of how they would get off the train if los Fuegos came back.

  The intense sun continued to beat down on them. It was past midday when a rutted dirt road crossed over the tracks. Vida retracted her tongue, which had practically been hanging to the ground, as her nose twitched down the road. Jaime kicked the dust under his shoes and blinked his sore eyes. Was that . . . ? In the far-off distance he could just make out a structure. The dry heat evaporated most of their sweat, but beads rolled down his forehead and drenched the areas where their arms were around each other. White salt stains appeared under their armpits. He was so thirsty, it surprised him that they had any fluids left to sweat.

  “Is that a house or are my eyes playing tricks on me?” Ángela squinted down the dusty road as she panted.

  “It’s a building of some sort,” he confirmed. “Let’s check it out. Maybe there’s water.”

  She leaned against him to catch her breath. “What if that’s los Fuegos’ headquarters?”

  Jaime licked his chapped lips and took a deep breath. “Then let’s pray they’re sleeping and left the keys in the truck.”

  It was a joke, but better to think about that than the more realistic truth—they had no other choice. They wouldn’t survive another hour under this sun.

  They dragged their feet to the house that slowly grew closer. It was a mobile home, rooted securely to the ground with an added wooden porch, and four times the size of Jaime’s two-room house. There was a truck parked in front, but instead of being sleek with oversize tires like the ones los Fuegos drove, this one was battered and scratched, a result of many years as a farm vehicle. Jaime didn’t get close enough to check for keys in the ignition.

  A cow pasture stood half a fútbol pitch away from the front door. On the side closest to the rutted track stood a metal cattle trough. Water.

  Jaime stepped on a strand of barbed wire and helped Ángela through the gap without getting snagged before ducking through himself. For a few seconds they stared at the half-filled trough. A quick glance around confirmed no water spigot nearby. Slimy green and buzzing with flies, the water smelled as appetizing as sewage. Still, it was better than nothing. Vida didn’t hesitate to lap up the muddy water that had seeped out underneath.

  “What are you two doing? Get out of here.”

  A slender woman appeared at the front door a second before th
ey plunged their hands into the water. She carried a long hunting rifle.

  “Excuse us, jefa.” Jaime used the term of respect he knew Mexicans liked. “Could we please have some of your cows’ water? We’ve been walking for hours and have nothing to drink.”

  “We’ll leave in a second and not bother you again,” Ángela added as she hopped in place to keep her balance.

  From inside the house a baby started crying. The woman groaned at the sound and lowered the rifle. “Come here, and I’ll get you some clean water. That water there is not even fit for the cows. I’ve been telling my husband to clean that trough for months.”

  They hobbled toward her wooden porch, straining to climb the two steps and too tired and thirsty to be cautious.

  They sat on the covered porch, not wanting to intrude in her home. The crying came from not one but two babies who’d just woken up. The woman seemed torn between letting go her rifle and seeing to the twins. Still, she set down a large jug filled with water and cups followed by a plate of vanilla-cream cookies and painkillers for Ángela before returning to the fussing babies. They drained the jug and devoured the cookies in seconds. A stitch in Jaime’s stomach told him he probably shouldn’t have ingested so much so fast.

  We should leave, Jaime thought. But it felt nice sitting on the folding chair, massaging his stomach, out of the hot sun. If only he’d dare take off his shoes, he’d be perfectly happy.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” he called into the house as Ángela swallowed the painkillers. “Is there any way we can repay you?”

  “Yes,” Ángela agreed. She didn’t seem willing to leave either. “I can change the babies or play with them if you’d like.”

  The woman reappeared, bouncing the crying twins on her hips. She stared at Jaime and Ángela as if they were trying to trick her in some way until she finally nodded. “How are you, boy, with a hammer?”

  Jaime straightened up, trying to look important and trustworthy. Any fatigue he was feeling he hid in his enthusiasm. “I helped my papá fix the roof last year.”

  She used her chin to point to the cow pasture in front of the house. “That gate is falling off and my husband hasn’t had the time to fix it.”

  “Do you have some tools?” he asked.

  The woman handed him a hammer and a paper bag of nails before rounding on Ángela. “You, go clean yourself up before handling my babies. There’s plenty of soap in the bathroom. You can do the same, boy, once you’re done outside.”

  He wasn’t a carpenter or an engineer, and it took him double the length of time it would have taken someone who knew what they were doing, but in the end, he got the gate fixed. The woman, Señora Pérez as she asked them to call her, didn’t mind the time it took and had another task for him once he finished.

  They spent the rest of the day doing various jobs around the ranch house. Not only did Jaime fix the gate, but he tacked down the roofing paper on the chicken coop and cleaned the cattle’s disgusting water trough. The smell from it curled his insides—thank goodness they hadn’t had to drink it.

  Ángela likewise kept busy changing the twins, putting them to sleep, and washing their diapers. Even Vida did her part by catching a rabbit that went into a stew.

  The thought that Señora Pérez was going to keep them as slaves crossed Jaime’s mind. It was possible. They’d done more work than the water and cookies were worth, and she never praised them. On the other hand, he didn’t mind too much. It was nice feeling useful and not being on the run. Like he was worth something.

  As the sun set, Señora Pérez fed them homemade bread slathered with butter and the finished rabbit stew, by far the healthiest, heartiest, and most flavorful thing they’d eaten during the whole journey. Why did they need to continue traveling? It took so long. Surely this woman would let them stay and work for her in exchange for room and board. She didn’t talk much, but she seemed fair and maybe even nice.

  The floor creaked under their feet as they washed the dishes, but the rest of Señora Pérez’s kitchen was elaborate—she had a refrigerator as tall as Jaime and even a microwave. Next to the kitchen were worn but comfy-looking couches and a TV with a combination VCR and DVD player. Down the hall there were two bedrooms and an indoor bathroom. He’d never been in a mobile home before—they weren’t safe in Guatemala with all the hurricanes—and had no idea how nice they were. It also helped that the walls were covered with photographs of the twins and the rest of the family. It felt like a home.

  While Señora Pérez bottle-fed the babies, she looked around the clean house and fixed outdoor structures. Her tired face cracked into a smile. “I’m glad you came. You hear all these stories about immigrants robbing and sometimes even killing the residents.”

  “We hear the same thing about the locals.” A sad smile crossed Ángela’s face as she gave the counters a final wipe. Like her, Jaime still couldn’t accept that Xavi was gone.

  Señora Pérez handed them the bottles to wash and picked up the two babies. She stood rocking them, her mouth twisted as if she were debating something. After a few minutes she took a deep breath. “I need to pick up my husband near Ciudad Juárez. He drove a bunch of calves up to El Norte and has to return the trailer to another rancher. It’s about a three-hour drive. Do you want me to drop you off along the way? I assume you’re trying to cross.”

  “Gracias,” they said together. They couldn’t believe their luck. It was more than they could have hoped for. No more trains! No more traveling across México. From Ciudad Juárez they would be able to see los Estados Unidos. Now they just had to cross the border to Tomás.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Except crossing into los Estados Unidos would be harder than everything they had gone through in México. Señora Pérez said so. Back home, everyone—family, friends, newscasters—agreed.

  It was night when Señora Pérez dropped them off at the migration camp on the outskirts of Ciudad Juárez. From what they could see in the dark, sheets of metal attached haphazardly made up the structures at the camp. Trash littered the ground. Her rifle lay propped next to the gearshift.

  “I don’t want to leave you here,” she said. She reached for the door and hit the powerlocks even though she’d already done it fifteen minutes before.

  “It was on the map.” Jaime glanced through his sketchbook to make sure. He could feel the vibration of Vida’s growl against his arm. “The map with shelters for immigrants.”

  “Do you know a better place?” Ángela licked her dry, chapped lips.

  Señora Pérez shook her head. “I live on a ranch in the desert. I don’t get visitors.”

  Jaime and Ángela communicated via one of their silent looks. Like on most of their journey, they had no choice. Ángela unlocked the door while Jaime kissed their driver.

  “We wouldn’t have made it without you, en serio,” he said as he slid across the seat to get out.

  “We owe you our lives,” Ángela agreed as she set Vida on the ground.

  “Que Dios los bendiga,” she blessed them. They slammed the door shut, and in an instant the sound of power locks clicked. From the narrow cab behind the truck’s main seats, the twin babies began to cry.

  As soon as Señora Pérez drove away on the dusty path back to actual roads, people crawled out from the misshapen buildings like cockroaches. Young men with bulging muscles and red eyes, older men with barrel chests and untrustworthy smiles, all of them offering passage into El Norte, all promising they were the most efficient, reliable, and cheapest.

  Vida’s hackles raised as she growled at each man presenting his border-crossing deal.

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Thirty-two thousand pesos.”

  “Five thousand dollars per person and I can guarantee your safety.”

  Jaime and Ángela told everyone who offered their services that they’d think about it. It was impossible to choose one—they didn’t know who to trust, and Vida didn’t seem to like any of them. Jaime remembere
d what Xavi had said after they’d met El Gordo, about the ignorant paying more. But even with all these different prices presented to them, every single one of the smugglers, or coyotes as they were called, wanted more money than Tía had sewed into their jeans, even with the money they hadn’t paid Santos back in Lechería.

  “Call your parents. Get them to wire the fee,” one coyote suggested. Jaime didn’t have to look at Ángela to know that wasn’t an option. Their parents had already borrowed all the money they could to get them this far. Besides, in order to collect any money sent, they’d need identification. Something they didn’t have.

  “Have your parents send the money directly to me,” said another coyote who had the small, weedy look of Jaime’s former friend Pulguita back home. Jaime got the feeling that if they had money sent to this coyote, they would never see him again.

  One man even yelled at them that since there were two of them, he’d only charge them a thousand dollars each to get to the border. But not to help them cross it.

  They issued a flat-out “no, gracias” to that offer. They were already at the border—they weren’t going to pay for someone to take them a few kilometers up or down to a different part of it. Especially when crossing it, wherever they were, was the most dangerous part.

  “Boys, boys, let the poor runts get settled in.” A tall boy not too much older than Jaime emerged from the narrow pathways of the migration camp in heavy combat boots. The coyotes vanished between the falling-down shacks and spewed litter as quickly as they had appeared. Although the boy was dressed in camouflage pants, shirt, and a wedge cap with a pistol resting on his hip, Jaime knew this was no junior law enforcement officer. Only one kind of person made crooks scurry away so fast, and it wasn’t the police. This boy was a member of whatever gang controlled the migration camp.

  “I’ll show you where you can stay,” the boy grunted. His voice sounded as if it had only changed a few weeks ago and he was still getting used to its new sound.