Christopher groans. Why didn’t I think to practice English? I’ve thought day and night of my American citizenship. What an emergency. I could be sent back to La Luna.
Hostility radiates from the uniformed officers. One of them growls, “Hey buddy.” He gives a yank on Christopher’s cuffs. “We don’t take kindly to people impersonating our missing children.”
Hauling Christopher toward the helicopter, looking over to his partner he says, “These idiots are really getting good with their stories. Next he’ll be telling us he is a La Jolla surgeon.”
Enjoying their banter, his friend adds, “Maybe he fell off his yacht in Cabo and had to sneak across the border because his passport was stolen.”
The King’s Run. Christopher chimes in, “Yes! My passport stolen! Stolen by the Tijuana police!”
“Sure buddy. We’ve heard those Mexican cops are corrupt.”
This brings a chuckle. The men begin a conversation about the drug cartel. More and more children are sent across the border, clogging the system. Border patrol busy with the children, allows opportunistic and dangerous illegals to sneak past the international line.
Christopher can only endure their frustrated witticisms as he’s dragged into the helicopter with each Border Patrol officer maintaining an iron grip on his elbows.
The pilot turns, looking over his shoulder, “Why are we wasting fuel on one illegal?”
The officer clicks into his safety harness saying, “This Mexican could be mixed up with drugs. A wise guy with a vocabulary the accent is one hundred percent Mexican.”
The second officer says, “We’ll check him out at headquarters. Maybe he’s wanted in Mexico.”
Christopher hangs his head in despair. He swallows, desperately thirsty.
On the ground officers escort Christopher into the deportation building. From there he’s led into a small examination room. A table and two chairs fill the tiny space.
A black woman in uniform tells him to sit and wait. She removes his hand cuffs.
Dehydrated he can barely form the words. He asks, “May I have a glass of water?”
“I see you speak English,” she retorts.
Beside himself with frustration and fatigue Christopher yells, “Yes, I speak English. I’m a United States citizen!”
“Ah, a smart-mouth,” looking over her shoulder as she exits, she says, “Do you still want water?”
Christopher can only nod. His outburst has used the last vestiges of his energy.
She huffs out of the room. “They don’t pay me enough to take attitude off an illegal.”
The room swims. He burns with a dry heat. His eyes burn so painfully the only relief is to close them. He is swollen with frustration locked tightly into joints and muscles. To be back in his country yet on the cusp of being ejected is more than he can bear.
More pressing is his need for food and water. The last days of waiting for El Coyote he barely ate. Now he could drink a gallon of water. He’s hungry too. The emptiness presses on him. He feels hollow and alone. He even feels faint, discombobulated. How can I make them see me, Christopher, a citizen of the United States?
After all he’s been through he’s at a loss.
The officer brings him a glass of water. Making eye contact with her he says, “thank you.”
He is shaking. It takes two hands holding the plastic glass to bring it up to his lips. The room is spinning. The walls and floor, across the furniture, are small infinitesimal cracks. A roll of thunder and the cracks widen. Light is pouring through the fissures leaving Christopher disoriented and confused. How many days has it been since I’ve eaten? When Officer Goldberg enters the cubicle Christopher slumps defeated in his chair. Goldberg’s voice cracking like a whip, commands, “Sit up!” He peers into Christopher’s eyes. “Are you on drugs? Are you a mule? Show me your arms and feet.”
Goldberg straddles the chair backwards. He is a large well-muscled man in his thirties. He has a wife and daughter at home whom he loves. And he loves his country enough to protect its borders and maintain its sovereignty.
Silently Christopher offers Goldberg his inner arms. Peeling away his new but now dirty socks reveals his feet. Goldberg nods. He studies the report in front of him. Christopher has lapsed into silence. After struggling to live through and escape La Luna, to be back in his country, unable to reach his family, it has broken something within him.
Traumatized to find his words accented. His hopes are dim that he’ll have a better conversation with this supervisor. For the first time since his arrest in Tijuana he has given up. This quest has taken every bit of ingenuity and fight he can muster. He has no more to give, it’s true. We all have a breaking point.
Goldberg looks at Christopher. “My people tell me you are a wise guy. You’re even impersonating a missing person.” Squeezing the top of the chair, scowling at Christopher, he says. “How did you come by this information?”
Christopher is silent. He wants to speak over the knot lodged in his throat. He wants to tell this man his whole terrible story. He needs the voice of Christopher the American, not the voice of Christopher the gringo prisoner on La Luna He thinks I’m not sure my parents would recognize my voice. Hungry and dehydrated, he wonders, can I form a coherent thought or sentence?
Goldberg continues. “What brings you to our borders?” He growls, “Are you setting up a connection?”
Taking a deep breath for one last try Christopher says, “Sir, my name is Christopher Marcos, if you’d hear my story.”
Gold berg leans his elbows onto the table. “We don’t listen to stories here amigo. Where we found you tells us you made a border crossing last night. If you’re a citizen why do you need to sneak into our country?”
“If you’d listen,” Christopher begs.
Goldberg stands. “I don’t have time to play your games. Davis in here now, help Bernice cuff this guy for deportation.”
Dios! After all this I’m going back to Islas Tres Marias? The room darkens. Every ounce of strength is leaving his body. He is at one with a great void, an empty vessel. The room is fragmenting into a million pieces.
A great terror seizes him, shattering. The puzzle broken Christopher doubts he’ll be able to put the pieces of himself back together. He stumbles and Goldberg grabs his elbow. He is eye level with the officer’s chest. The blue dragonfly bounces. Vivid, florescent blue holograph highlights Goldberg’s name tag.
A flash of inspiration and Christopher comprehends the dragonfly’s message. He says, “Goldberg. Wait. Officer Goldberg, do me a mitzvah. Call my mother’s Rabbi at the Temple. He can identify me. Call Rabbi Foxx. The Rabbi. Wilshire Boulevard Temple.”
“Mitzvah?” Goldberg grabs Christopher’s elbow for the second time. With a penetrating stare he asks, “Are you Jewish?”
Christopher smiles for the first time since he kissed Juanita goodbye. “My mother is Jewish!”
Officer Goldberg rubs his chin. “Okay. Davis, hold that order for a minute.”
Christopher’s legs are wobbling. They feel like rubber. He sways drunkenly.
“Bernice,” shouts Goldberg, “bring this man some juice.”
Smiling at Christopher he says, “I’ve got a good feeling about this call.” He pulls out his phone from his back pocket.
To avoid falling Christopher sits. He lands hard on the plastic chair. The woman officer hands him a large plastic glass filled with pineapple juice. Watching Goldberg talk to directory assistance he sips slowly.
He listens as Goldberg asks for Rabbi Foxx. The connection is so clear from across the room Christopher hears the Rabbi. “Yes, I am Rabbi Foxx. Christopher? Christopher Marcos? Why yes, I know him. I officiated at his mother’s Bat Mitzvah.” Rabbi Foxx’s voice raises, filled with excitement. “Christopher disappeared on his eighteenth birthday. Do you know where he is?”
Goldberg smiles at Christopher. “Yes Sir. I’m looking right at him.”
Rabbi Foxx cries out, “Praise God. We thought he was
dead!”
Officer Goldberg looks over at Christopher. “Welcome home Mr. Marcos. The Rabbi knows you.”
EPILOGUE
Reviews from Billy Blue and crew of the Wave make Christopher’s cheeks heat red with pleasure and embarrassment. Providing security to local businesses began as a neighborhood job when Christopher and his buddy Joe were teens. Over the years it has grown to include providing security for visiting performing artists at the Los Angeles Forum.
Shaking Billy’s hand Christopher says, “Bill I know you love American barbeque. You have some downtime. Why don’t you bus your crew out to my house for a barbeque on Sunday?
“Ya know mate, I’d love to,” Billy lays a friendly arm along Christopher’s shoulders. “I insist on bringing the brews.”
“You got it my man. I’ll set it up with your manager. Ginger right?”
A hand raised, saluting Billy yells over the noise, “I’ll see you Sunday.”
Sunday dawns with blue skies. Christopher slept in after a busy evening preparing for today’s barbeque. He awakens to the smell of buttermilk pancakes. He pads across the plank wood living room floor in bare feet. A terry cloth robe, a recent Father’s Day gift, is loosely belted. Steaming coffee with milk is waiting for him.
He takes a sip and smiles. Cutting into hot pancakes with melted butter and syrup never fails to make him happy. Pouring more syrup he envisions the day’s tasks. They are preparing for an afternoon of fun with family, friends, Billy Blue and the crew of Wave, as well as security industry associates.
By late afternoon it’s not easy moving his Dad away from preparing Lumpia. Christopher has assigned him supervision of the barbeque pit. He has a knack for cooking tender ribs. Ribs have soaked all night in Christopher’s marinade. Pineapple salsa, a pot of barbeque beans and King’s Hawaiian bread will round out the meal.
The crowning achievement will be Christopher’s Lumpia taught to him by his father. Christopher is explaining the ingredients to his daughter. Eight year old Cisne, standing on a chair peeks into a steaming pot. The party ebbs and flows, currents are balanced between Christopher in the kitchen and his father at the barbeque. Christopher says “Cisne honey, go into the back yard. Find out who is ready for desert Lumpia.”
Christopher’s family, friends, employees and their families celebrate raucously with the Canadian Wave band and crew members. Sitting on the patio are his mother and Rabbi Foxx. Heads bent together they are in a deep discussion. Christopher thinks they’re probably discussing the infinite expressions of Mitzvahs.
The light of candles in glass jars brightens the air. Chewing a butt of an unlit cigar Rabbi Foxx is gesturing passionately. Christopher catches his mother’s eye and smiles. She will keep track of him throughout the evening. She can never get enough assurance her son is alive and well. A left over from the time he was missing. He nods at her with understanding.
Across the yard Billy is wearing a sauce soaked apron. Christopher laughs. His friend is learning American barbeque from Christopher’s Filipino father. It’s music to his ears, his father’s laughter drifting across the backyard.
In front of Christopher are several trays of desert Lumpia. He has prepared the dish as a surprise for Juanita. Cisne has rematerialized at her chair by Christopher’s side. She says, “Daddy they are ready for desert Lumpia now!”
Cisne’s name translates from Spanish into ‘swan.’ Tonight she’s wearing a blue dress with a white collar. Juanita, at her daughter’s request, appliqued a white swan on the lower right half of the dress. It is surprisingly stylish and fresh, as is his daughter with her dark hair and brown eyes. She has Juanita’s sparkle.
For a moment in Cisne’s face he can see many women; his mother, grandmother, his wife, Juanita. In that split second all the important women in Christopher’s world looks back at him through the eyes of his daughter. Juanita’s swan peers over his daughter’s shoulder.
Rapping on Christopher’s arm with a wooden spoon Cisne says, “Dad, come back. The world needs you here tonight, making desert Lumpia for mom and everyone else.”
Christopher laughs. “You are a ‘sassy girl.’” Cisne is quick to laugh or scold depending on the needs of the moment.
Christopher remembers the phone call he made from the immigration room. When Juanita answered his parent’s phone the world stopped spinning. “Juanita! Is it really you?”
Laughing and crying Juanita says, “Christopher! Come home! We are waiting for you.”
A thrill runs through him remembering. As he looks for Juanita in the midst of their party they share a sweet and knowing glance. The air sparkles around her!
Christopher will never take for granted her unique beauty. It is a reflection of her soul, her work as a healer, the depths they have traveled together. Lifting a tray of desert Lumpia he swings Cisne off the chair and says, “Lead the way. Who is ready for desert Lumpia?”
Billy Blue turns away from the grill. He faces Christopher with a beer held high. “To my friend Christopher Marcos, the best security man in the business and to his beautiful family. Thank you for a fantastic evening. You live a charmed life my man.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Jennifer Morse, trained as a marriage and family therapist, has spent her life studying mysticism, striving for balance between conventional life and the mystical.
William Mortimer, a successful businessman and nationally ranked bodybuilder, researches alternative medicine and nutrition in his quest for well-being and longevity.
They reside with Aidan the Goldendoodle in the White Mountains of Arizona.
Redemption’s Warrior
Copyright © 2014 By Jennifer Morse and William Mortimer
All rights reserved.
Redemption's Warrior Page 17