Rubbing his eyes he staggers toward the outhouse. He stands watching the sky change. The backyard is dirt. Three outhouses line a wooden fence. On a concrete apron chairs are scattered in various stages of disrepair. Old coffee cans are filled with cigarette butts.
Startled by the bang of the kitchen door Christopher turns. The girl minus the baby scrutinizes him. She stands hands on hips, waiting. Panic rushes through, by now, well-established circuits within his body and biology. Does she recognize me from the wanted posters? Are the police on their way? Should I run?
He gives her half a smile. It’s all he can muster. What was I thinking falling asleep in a room full of strangers?
The girl’s eyes widen. Without speaking they question him. Christopher realizes he’s holding his breath. She says, “I’m cooking breakfast. For some pesos I can cook for you too. You look hungry.”
Her kindness disarms him. He swallows embarrassment. “Si senorita. That will be nice.”
She turns away. The screen door slams. Christopher sits down hard on the concrete steps. Will he ever be free of these fears? His shoulders ache. He rolls his head to release pain. He sighs. Then remembering his new motto, he says, “It’s in the past.”
Gathering grit and determination, he enters the kitchen.
Dirty dishes cover the counters. A fan runs set inside the window frame. Sitting at the table he rests his hands on the red placemat. He feels ancient. The girl brings him a stack of fluffy pancakes. He smells buttermilk lingering in the kitchen underlying the fragrance of cooked pancakes. Buttering layers his mouth waters. How long has it been since I’ve eaten pancakes?
He pours syrup over the top. The girl offers him a steaming mug of coffee. Christopher nods, “Si” when she gestures to the milk. Each bite of pancake melts in his mouth, syrup and soft, buttery crust.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches as the girl move through her kitchen chores. She covers a sink full of dishes in hot water and soap. Using a rag she wipes off counters and stacks dishes to be washed. Puttering after her Christopher sees a flat tail of the silky creature following her. Taking another bite and wiping up some extra syrup, he thinks this is delicious. On La Luna, food tasted hostile, filled with dissatisfaction. Burnt edges no matter what was prepared.
But that was in the past. Not wanting the girl to think he is loco he mumbles, “It’s in the past.” With a grateful smile he puts dinero far exceeding the price under his plate. He bows his head again when she smiles and decides to go explore the store across the street. He buys chocolate bars and a large bag of peanuts. Adding to his purchases toilet paper and the San Diego Tribune, a six pack of water, soda’s, a fresh pair of socks and lastly a wool serape he returns to the house remembering to knock Rap. Rap. Rap.
His back against the wall, eyes closed Christopher’s thoughts turn to Juanita. In Juanita’s presence I felt complete. Yes, even stranded on Islas Tres Marias. Star Woman’s voice replays in his mind. “When two hearts, in their innermost hearts are one…”
Juanita what happened? Did I watch you morph into an angel?
And Star Woman answers, “Never forget.”
Women and children are in the backyard. Through the racket he identifies a ball has appeared leading to a spontaneous game of Futbol. Christopher’s eyes burn for his friend Checo. Inside conversations are spoken softly. The radio plays Mariachi. He feels the floor meet the base of his spine. The wall supports his back. He drifts. He is riding the waves of music falling deeper into reverie.
The room disappears. He floats. At the beach, sun turns the grains of sand golden beneath a blue cloudless sky. Flashes of Juanita’s face laughing. Sparkles, pinpoints of light surround her. The ocean filled with diamonds winking. She is reaching for him. The white swan stands behind her. Wings outstretched. They enfold Juanita, dressing her in white feathers. He blinks against the glare of the sun.
When he opens his eyes, Juanita, wearing white walks toward him. She is radiant. Her eyes shine, filled with love and hope. The ocean sparkles. He sees around him faces, the sheen of tears. Flowers, he can smell flowers. Fragrance floats sweetly, bees buzzing. The love of many condensed. Star Woman carries the void. He can see her in the clarity surrounding, empowering. The air filled with Star Shine. A shimmer wavers, infinitesimally small, across the landscape. Chips of starlight fall around them. He and Juanita are stand hand in hand. “When two hearts beat as one in their inner most hearts…… all of life bows before them.”
Mariachi is playing.
“Never forget.”
The dream inhabits him a place in his soul; large and small. In this way he’ll keep the dream close forever. The wait for El Coyote stretches into long days broken only by trips to the market. After splurging once on the candy Christopher purchases burritos, rice and beans. They are the core of his meals along with apples and oranges.
He tries sitting in meditation. His mind fills with static. YIKES! YIKES. He wants to have another dream. The dream more real than waiting, Juanita and her swan, the star shine, over and over again he tries to recapture the moment. He closes his eyes riding the waves of Mariachi music. He envisions Juanita’s white swan, her enormous wing span. He pieces together Juanita’s face. Her golden skin, her smile, eyes filled with laughter and love. As he tries to recapture his dream the images remain one dimensional. Even flat memory is better than no Juanita at all. He’d felt so close to her.
He searches to recapture the dream.
On the third evening El Coyote appears. In the backyard he parks a shiny BMW. Despite age the car is beautifully restored. The interior, Christopher notices with a grimace, is rusty brown tuck and roll. The exterior is silver. It blends into the twilight. A small man El Coyote also blends into the group. Christopher shrugs. Being able to blend in is a good thing for a Coyote.
The fee for guiding each adult through a hidden tunnel under the border is two thousand pesos. El Coyote explains the tunnel exits in the desert, five miles outside of National City. El Coyote knows most of the men and women from previous border trips. Christopher silently puts the payment in the man’s outstretched hand. He’s startled when the Coyote questions, “gringo?”
Christopher nods. Having collected his payments El Coyote raises his hand in farewell. He says, “I’ll see you when the time is right. Adios.” His enigmatic exit leaves them to wonder.
In the empty days Christopher’s fear played out endless scenarios. All ending with him in handcuffs and bruises transported to Islas Tres Marias. He waits for El Coyote, so close to home and freedom and yet dangerously far away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CROSSING
Forty-eight hours after payment El Coyote arrives at the safe house. Driving a canvas covered stake bed truck his arrival triggers large spikes of anxiety in the waiting group. They’ve been waiting feverishly for this night, yet anxious that the night with all its dangers has begun. Christopher watches the anxiety pour off the waiting group in red spiky waves. He shakes his head. Do I always have to see what’s invisible to most people?
He remembers meeting Juanita for the first time. The sparkles light the air around her. The white swan stood peaking over Juanita’s shoulder at him. These are precious memories. No, on second thought he wouldn’t change those sightings or his abilities.
A shaggy grey haired coyote is sitting next to the man whose job title is El Coyote. The animal’s golden eyes flash when he notices Christopher watching him. Just that quick, in the blink of an eye, it disappears from sight.
Christopher sighs.
Than in a rush spilling thru his autonomic nervous system he realizes freedom is close at hand. He feels the song in the beat of his heart, in the blood flowing through his veins. It spreads across his skin, tingling. Like everyone else awaiting El Coyote they are hit hard with the dangers of clandestine crossings of the international border in the deep night.
The blue dragonfly hovers over his shoulder beginning to glow. Christopher can feel the light pouring through a
nd expanding around him. Breathe. I still have miles to go and sneak across the international border.
El Coyote herds the group into his truck. Christopher holds onto his wool serape. He’ll need it before the night is over. He donated his blanket to other travelers coming through the house. The young woman smiled her thanks when Christopher offered the blanket to her. Her animal stood next to her, shiny, and sleek.
Shoulder to shoulder, a tight fit in the back of the truck, no one speaks, a silence tense and full of worry. Inexplicably Christopher finds an inner space, quiet and still. He doesn’t let his attention stray. He has no desire to merge with the collective anxiety filling the truck bed. Quietly inhaling followed by long, slow, deliberate exhales he pushes aside visions of worry. His family flashes before him. Have they given up looking for me?
Lost in memories he visualizes his father preparing his favorite food, a Filipino dish, Lumpia. His mother’s prays before Shabbat meal. He desperately wants to hug them, feel their solid bodies, heart to heart. He cannot imagine the turmoil they have been through with the disappearance of their only child.
Juanita! Juanita’s image wavers in front of him. Joy wild and fierce pours thru him. Laughing he thinks, I really have to do something about these hallucinations.
Dust from the trucks tires quickly coats the travelers making breathing difficult. Deep ruts jostle the group like rocks in a can. After an hour, bruised and discombobulated, they clunk to a stop. El Coyote unhooks the canvas. In their eagerness to disembark they tumble over one another to the ground. Waving for silence with a finger to his lips, the group moves into single file, following El Coyote into the flat desert.
Stars only provide guiding light. Desert fragrance Creosote flowers are barely distinguishable. They float on residual warmth in the air. The occasional Saguaro tree looms above them. It is the time of year Saguaros wear a crown of flowers proclaiming sovereignty over the desert. The gestalt that makes up a desert evening calms his skin.
In the starlight Christopher can make out a distant rock outcropping. Thirty minutes walking brings them to the base of the hill. Following a path visible only to El Coyote they climb the hill. Children stumble and fall, Mothers soothe and shush. Elbows bang into neighbors. Rocks and pebbles slide. The narrow path leads to a saddle between two hilltops. More Saguaro cactus juts into the night sky. A final turn leads to the mouth of a cave. A cave!
Navigating around the circumference of a boulder El Coyote pulls away layers of brush that cover the opening. The absence of light as he stares into the man sized opening makes Christopher shiver. Handing the nearest man a flashlight El Coyote says, “Vaya con Dios.”
What?! El Coyote does not guide the group thru the tunnel? The interior rock of this cave is smooth to his touch. Limestone, this is not a man-made cave. This is nature’s tunnel carved out of soft limestone over hundreds of years.
Slowly the group makes their way forward. Only the sound of individual breathing and the occasional crumble of rocks mark their progress. Losing track of time, the knowledge that many in this group have traveled this way before, keeps him calm. Darkness so thick he can barely make out the person in front of him.
Finally the group enters a cavern. Christopher sighs with relief. The light of the distant, late rising, moon and below is the open desert. They have arrived. Voices echo off the walls. A discussion is taking place. They are shifting and organizing. The group splinters off in different directions.
Christopher makes a spontaneous decision to sit at the mouth of the cave. He will spend the night here and wait until morning light can guide him home. He doesn’t have a flashlight. He will not risk a fall by walking the desert in the deep night. Pepe shakes his hand. “Gracias, amigo.”
It’s hard to say goodbye, difficult to imagine they will see each other again. The diverse groups begin trudging down the slope toward the city lights. Standing at the mouth of the cave Christopher wraps himself up in his thickly woven serape before sitting Indian style.
He tracks their varied progress down the hill and out into the flat of the desert. Compared to the warm night air of Islas Tres Marias the night has become cold. Tightness bands his chest. He feels alone and lonely on this first night back in his country. His head aches with sinus pressure. These are not the feelings he anticipated arriving home.
The darkness wraps around him. Pillowing his head into his knees, fatigue and grief intertwining, Christopher weeps. He cries for the time lost with his family. He cries for the grief they’ve suffered. He cries for the boy he’d been when he came to Tijuana. He cries for his past, and the unknown future. How will he fit in? He will never be that young man again. He will never be the son his parents once knew. He cannot change a pickle back into a cucumber. Who am I now?
He cries for Juanita. Tears soak into his serape. Snot flows from his nose, rivers of mucus and tears, he mops up with his shirt. Taking a shaking breath, he’s empty, hollowed out with crying. He leans his head against the limestone wall and closes his eyes. Asleep Christopher jerks upright when search lights blaze across the desert and an amplified voice calls out “Alto!”
High pitched screams pierce the night. Children shriek for their mothers. Single men split off from the group and run. Border patrol compresses the several groups into one and herds them into their jeeps and trailers.
Christopher watches his compadres rounded up. Eventually the search lights turn off. Car doors slam. Synchronized head lights of the vehicles drive off together. He thinks if I’m captured by the Border Patrol without identification I could be returned to Mexico and Islas Tres Marias.
It’s a bitter realization. He is across the border on United States soil but without identification he could still be returned to La Luna. He backs further into the cavern. The night has become cold and the ground hard. In the distance he hears the soft yelp of coyotes. Why didn’t he think to bring bottled water? He remembers the last time he became dehydrated. Initiated; Redemption’s Warrior, the Divine Transmuting Flame. Huddled behind some boulders he drops into an uneasy, wakeful sleep.
Dawn falls across the open desert and Christopher sits at the opening waiting for enough light to walk down the desert outcropping. Diffuse gold and pale desert greens mingle. Christopher rubs his face. Looking again across the desert he shouts, “I’m Home!” The stiffness of sleeping on rock falls away. Excitement energizes his muscles.
But he’s had no food or water in twenty hours. Why didn’t I prepare?
He sets out slipping down the hill. At the bottom of the incline he heads north. North to home and family in Los Angeles, I’m home.
In the saddle between two hills, a tamped down section of dirt is littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers and aluminum foil along with tamale corn husks. He is on the trail of previous illegal immigrants. Litter marks the trail. He thinks it’s not the rock carrions of the boy scouts marking the trail. Casual littering: A dark side of illegal immigration.
The outskirts of San Diego glitter in the fading dawn. Excitement bunches his muscles and he breaks into a jog. Freedom the elixir quickens his pace. Arriving at a freshly bulldozed firebreak he follows the path. Surrounding vegetation has been recently burned in a wild fire. The sound of a helicopter overhead reverberates in the ground beneath his feet. Literally out of the blue sky a “Whomp, whomp” announces the helicopter descending upon him.
Should I hide? Should I wave my arms? He dives for the ground. The brush is low burned stubble. It provides no cover. Lying flat on the ground, tuffs of grass barely one foot high; dust flies, the ground quakes. In the midst of billowing earth the helicopter lands. Choking Christopher decides to stand up. He’s been spotted.
Voices carry as the flying machine is disengaged.
Momentarily confused, he realizes they’re speaking English. For a moment he hears the words but cannot decode their meaning. His eyes are burning. Air born dirt, debris stirred by the helicopter is sticking to him. Dismayed he realizes he’s coated in dust. To the border pa
trolman exiting the helicopter he looks like a brown man covered in dirt.
Two uniformed men run towards him, pistols drawn. Guns! Do they think I’m a criminal? Wait! They think I’m an illegal alien. Christopher’s heart pounds so loudly it rings in his ears. He struggles to find English words. When have I forgotten how to speak English?
Why didn’t I think to practice English? He forms a stumbling sentence. With a placating gesture of hands he says, “I’m sorry for running.” Horrified to hear he speaks with an accent.
The officers stare him down. Legs in a wide stance, guns still pointed at him. They are ready for trouble. Clipped masculine voices, speaking in clear English, order him, “lay flat with your hands behind your head.”
They cuff him.
The last time he felt hand cuffs bite into his wrists his car was hijacked and he was abducted. Repeating the experience on United States soil is more than disturbing. Spitting out dirt he yells “I’m an American!”
Their silence is the only response as they drag him to his feet. In a panic he continues. “My name is Christopher Marcos. My home and family are in Los Angeles.”
Desperation fuels his words. He stumbles. “Please look me up in your records. My parents must have reported me missing.” Stress has thickened his accent. “On my birthday, I went missing on my birthday.”
The officer holding him by the plastic flexible cuffs says, “Sure brown man. My name is Mickey Mouse. My country is the Magic Kingdom.”
Both men snicker.
What a nightmare. Traveling across Mexico I was terrified to be identified “gringo.” Now I worry about being identified as an illegal alien.
“Please,” he pleads, “I went missing on my eighteenth birthday.”
To the men watching him he looks and sounds like a Mexican. And he was walking a path carved out by illegals before him.
Redemption's Warrior Page 16