When at last we take different trains, we do not say adiós, only hasta—until. For you never know when a sparrow with wide dreams and little bright eyes will come hopping hopping into your life again.
Another stretch on The Beast and then, thanks to the tips of Beast Riders who have been here before, like a miracle here I am now. In a camp beside a big river that thrashes thrashes before me, deep and murky. The Río Bravo they say. Called Rio Grande on the other side. With Cejas’s enchanted camera I take a picture of this great river that I soon must cross.
The air is heavy heavy. Steamy. I am sweating like a tamal, with fear of the crossing and of the heat. As always I am called Chavo Viejo. And I am. This gray day in late January, among perfect strangers all looking across the river with yearning eyes to a glittering place for a glittering future, quietly I become older—fifteen. Nobody knows this but the river, wide wide and weary since forever with stories of others like us.
Here, surrounded by people and yet alone, I celebrate myself.
I think of the piñata song. Dale dale dale. No pierdas el tino, porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino. Ay Dios, I hope with all my hope that I do not lose the road. The Angels. That is the way.
From here I can see the United States. Gringolandia. Toño seems close now, but he is still far from me. Since my beating I have not spoken with him. Forever it seems.
For a long time, after sundown, I stand in the dark, held in the palm of night.
This place I have reached. Like The Beast it is dangerous but not as dangerous as the big city nearby. Here, at least, some of the Beast Rider brotherhood would help me if I needed it. The camp swarms with rateros and killers but mostly with ragged people like me, who have dreams so close that still may not ever be lived. Dreams once shimmering, then fading away. People who need jobs or seek family, who, to keep going these long rough years, have begged and scrounged for food. When starving, even stolen it. They have faced death from the trains. They have faced gangs. Now somehow they have to make it.
There on the other side of the river, dreams barely flicker, like the last gleaming of the day’s sun.
Last chance. Last chance.
I will cross that river, I promise myself, even though I cannot swim. Then Abue’s words come swimming back to me. Hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you. And I do that, with all my might.
There comes a day I have been waiting for. The day I call Toño again. I have no cell phone, but somebody lends me one—for a price. My last pesos.
Before calling, I take my time, trying to remember my brother’s voice. In my mind I try to hear it, but it is from my heart that it comes spooling. Just a plain voice. But dear. The years, the years. Since when I told him I was coming. Will he sound the same?
Then—Toño is on the line.
I wait, trembling. I cannot trust my voice. I breathe deep. And so for a time only the silence speaks.
“It is you?” I say softly at last.
“It is me.”
Before our hastas, Toño promises to tell our family that I am okay. Then quickly we make a plan. Next thing, I am meeting a coyote, smuggler of people, one who will get me where I need to go. I tell Toño that I am now a white-hair so the coyote will know me. Toño will send him money when I am safe in the United States. Toño knows this one from his own dark journey. Toño knows that the coyote cannot completely be trusted—who of his kind can?—yet this dangerous man is my best chance. He is El Alacrán, The Scorpion.
Toño’s last advice: Do not anger him and do what he says. He has killed people.
I wonder, How easily would he kill me?
By my white hair he knows me at once. Coming toward me like some crawling thing. “Chavo Viejo” is all he says.
El Alacrán. He is named for the hard-shelled old man of the desert. But he is more like a pirate walked straight from a story a teacher once read to my class. Dark-skinned, bearded, with broken teeth and a broken smile, if ever one erupts. This one, he bristles with knives and has the body of a crusher of bones. To complete the picture, El Alacrán wears an eye patch, from when the eyeball was gouged out. A pirate eye patch. De verdad. Really. Everything about him seems black black. When he talks—a rare thing—even his speech. Toño warned me to be wary, for when The Scorpion is not snarling and slashing himself out of brawls, he drinks.
¡Dios mío! This is the guy Toño has chosen to bring me closer to him. Now my life is completely in the hands of El Alacrán. Well, him and his “team” waiting on the other side. For hardly anybody crosses alone. The danger of capture is too high. The saying goes, “It takes a network to smuggle a man.”
XIV
A day at still-dark dawn. El Alacrán and I steal to the edge of the big-water river. Many hopeful river-crossers are creeping close, ready to churn into the waters. But the burning gaze of El Alacrán keeps them at a distance from us. From the Glittering Side, Border Patrol guys roar, “Go back! Go back!”
No stars. Not one. But my eyes quickly grow used to the dark. Already I feel the steamy heat coming. Soon it will blaze.
The riverbank. My insides freeze when I am here. I cannot swim. But somehow I must, I must.
Here it is overgrown with bruja-haired trees and scraggy deep grass up to the shoulders. Though scary looking in the dark, these vegetations will hide us El Alacrán has said. From guys on both sides who want to catch us. Some of these tipos are armed with electric things to stun people. Most have guns with bullets to just snuff them lifeless. They prowl the tall grasses and the witch-haired trees waiting waiting, to stop people like me.
They are supposed to keep unarmed people alive Toño has told me. But often they do not. They just shoot. Probably they would even shoot a turtle trying for a river crossing. That is what I think.
For days before we make our move of danger—to cross over—El Alacrán, eyes glazed from guzzling Tequila, has slurred into my ear certain survival rules: “Chavo Viejo, listen good. When we go, follow me. Do not say one stinking word. Do not move one stinking weed. Do not take one stinking breath or we may be stinking dead.”
“Got it?”
“Sí.”
From him, “stinking” sounds like the worst word ever to pass lips.
Crack! He gives me a wicked slap that sprawls me to the ground.
“Not one stinking word,” he snarls as if we have already begun our escape.
I tremble at his ferocity. I have got it. Ay do I!
This is it. The moment that I have been struggling toward these three terrible years. I feel deep danger, sí. But I feel also an excitement that I have never before known. I feel my life about to change forever.
“Now!” El Alacrán hisses. And into the mouth of peril we plunge.
We slide through the tall grasses on our panzas. Silent silent. I feel fright beyond fright. There are whirlpools, I have heard. There are snakes. But the guys with guns are scarier than snakes. Snakes do not shoot.
I think of El Alacrán’s rules. I try for silence. I try for stillness. But what if the gunmen can hear my heart thundering? What if they can see my whole self shaking the grasses? Suddenly panic overtakes me. I have not told him that I cannot swim. If he knows this, he himself might just hold me under.
Abue, I pray, hold on to my hand. Keep me from drowning in this fearsome water.
El Alacrán knows a shallow place where we can cross. But the gun-guys know it also. They tromp it. They stalk it. They wait. From nowhere now a form appears like spreading ink. An officer close by. He spots me I think and I go stiff with fear. No, no, no, I moan inside like a wounded thing, I am caught again.
Suddenly a voice shouts, “Over there! Grab him!” Others add to the noise. They are after some other poor soul. There come frenzied rustlings. Scramblings. El Alacrán moves fast fast. Whatever plan he had before has changed.
“Run for it! Now!” he whisper-rasps.
I scream a prayer inside me and plunge for a little lump of land groping itself into the shallower waters. S
quelching through the sucking mud, I make it. Thanks to Dios. No swimming. No drowning. No getting killed—not even by El Alacrán.
Shots blare behind me. Somebody wails, “¡Me mataron!” They killed me.
I just stumble, scramble, limp-run like a crazy thing alongside El Alacrán, never once looking back. My feet, heavy with my soaking tennis shoes, feel El Norte beneath them, but they do not pause. They keep going, carrying me deep into the trees of this riverbank, deep into the land of Tejas.
The witch-haired trees and the grass and El Alacrán, they have helped. But mostly the guy who got wounded—or killed. By distracting those who guard this river crossing, he has, without knowing it, gotten me across to safety. Now the sun is full up, warm, comforting. Somewhere a dove mourns. A thought flickers in my brain. I wish I knew that man’s name.
XV
So. Another miracle. The most miraculous so far. The Beast is behind me! The river is at my back! After plannings and more plannings by El Alacrán and the rest, dodging bands of police and border patrols, I Manuel Flores, shivering with fear and cold, have touched the earth of the United States. This ruedacaca, trying again again, has reached this place at last. Toño. Now he is closer.
I finally stop running, double over and pant pant. My sides are heaving from hobbling so fast. El Alacrán allows me half a moment to recover. My clothes are torn by the yanking claws of the trees. Because of my great fright I remember little of the river crossing except the cry of the man who saved me and my burst for freedom.
I am dripping with the big waters and mud of the Rio Grande. These run down my legs and splop to the ground. I close my eyes to better feel the falling water. The water I have crossed. I have made it! I think in wonder.
Quickly, with my pretend-camera from Cejas, I click a picture. Of my muddy shoes standing firmly upon the soil of this land. I hope that my first tennis shoes, stolen by thugs, somehow got this far. But mostly I pray that Cejas has.
What would Abue and Papi think if they saw me now? In my mind I see the hand of this America opening to me. I feel Toño near near. Through all my trials, this is the one time I allow myself tears.
“¡Muévete, güey!” El Alacrán curses at me to keep going.
We run like the devil from the Border Patrol shouting shouting. Well, El Alacrán runs, I hobble. They know we are here. In spurts we rush. We crouch behind bushes. We rush. We crouch. We rush again. My breath is gone, but I keep going. Through barbed-wire fences. Past a water tank. A shack. Till suddenly lights blink—on, off, on, off—ahead. My heart bangs—on, off, on, off—too when I see the signal. The Border Patrol has caught us!
But no. The rest of the coyote-team is here in a van, bashed around and scraped by many escapes, I believe. I think, This van has seen some things. The team is popping with impatience to get away. I look around for El Alacrán. To say my thanks. For saving me—and for not in an anger-burst killing me. But, like a fistful of smoke, he is gone. Vanished. ¡Púfalas!
At once these strangers whisk me off in the van. Shivering in my wet clothes, I am cramped in the back on a narrow seat, next to other wet and desperate ones. Sometimes they speak of their relief in getting this far. Me, I say nothing. I just breathe breathe.
Soon we stop at a scruffy building, to bathe and put on dry clothing. So we look like normal people, not ones escaped from a river crossing. When we come to a checkpoint, the driver shows papers. Also he shows money. The guy next to me pokes me and winks. “Money is the way to grease everything,” he says.
Then we drive a long ways. To a city. A big one. Buildings erupt from every space of ground. And streets. Like great gray snakes. These snake-streets swarm with cars roaring all over the place. On the outside I set my face to be fierce. On the inside I cringe from this terrible, loud Bigness.
From the front seat somebody shoves envelopes at me and the others.
“Here’s your docs,” he grunts, “and dinero.”
Papers and money to finish my journey. The papers are fake, I know, but the money is real.
I am tired tired. Enough to sleep for days, but I cannot. I am still tight with fear of capture and also with excitement—to be at last in the United States.
Finally, the van slows to a stop.
“Bus station. Everybody out,” the driver barks.
With beautiful clean clothing and beautiful false papers, I limp toward a beautiful bus with a thin-as-a-pin dog painted on each side, a bus bound for Los Angeles, The Angels.
Nobody says adiós. Nobody says “Vaya con Dios.” The van just slinks back where it came from. It is all right. Inside myself I give gracias to even the bad ones, to all those who have helped me arrive to this place. I raise my hand to nobody, and to everybody at once. I do not look back. I step into the bus.
“Hey, kid, want a seat?” somebody asks me, patting the place next to him and staring at my grandfather hair. Suspicious, I keep going.
I find a place alone, by a window, so that I can look out and watch Gringolandia rush by me. My papers, my money and food—from the coyotes, but paid for with Toño’s hard-earned money—I keep on the window side of me so that nobody can just ease close and grab them. Trust nobody. The Beast Rider life. It will not be easy to let go of it. Maybe that is good.
My first bus. It is gray. It is glorious. And—it has a bathroom!
The bus hisses and coughs as we move out into traffic, but it does not jolt and lurch like The Beast. When we make turns it does not lean till you want to scream for fear of leaning right off the tracks. The wheels do not forever shriek. They keep a steady rhythm, a kind of road hum, as we roll on our way.
Looking out, I see myself in the window. Shiny. Like a mirror. I see my wild white hair—and along with it I remember the terrible things.
My plan is to stay awake. To see every mile, every inch that I pass on the way to Toño. But that plan does not happen. I think that almost at once I fall asleep on the deliciously soft seat. I must sleep nearly the whole way—a couple of days, anyway—for the next thing, the bus chuffs to a stop. I have reached The Angels.
In a small fright, I check my pockets. I have not been robbed—yet.
Once I am off, I walk slowly. I breathe carefully. In case I am moving inside of a dream. In case this moment, like a trail of cloud, floats away. Just goes. Though I barely move, my eyes flick everywhere. They search every face. Doubt grabs hold of me and will not let go. What if I got the date wrong? What if I miss him? What if—? What if—? What if—?
All sounds go still. I am no longer breathing. I am looking from some place outside. Caught in this strange silence. The world seems to slow down, to slant, and me with it. I feel suddenly stunned with emotion, stronger than I have ever known. Then, here in this bus station, standing still as stone among the many people pushing, jostling in slow and silent motion, is a person I know in my deep heart, without a signal, without a word, without a photo. Toño.
THE ANGELS
XVI
When he spots me a glow lights his face. We rush for each other and embrace, and for a long time we stay like this, holding each other. We are both shaking.
Then we just stand there amazed that this moment has come. At least I am. Toño looks amazed also.
“Dios mío, how you have grown, hermanito!” he chokes out at last. Me, I cannot speak.
I am fifteen. Almost a man. But linking my arm in his I will not let Toño go. Not for one single moment. Nor he me, it seems, though he is older by seven years. Suddenly my feet become stupid. If on their own they would wander all over this big L.A. without a plan other than to avoid polis. But luckily Toño has one. First thing, he swerves me into a church. When the big doors creak closed we no longer hear the noise of the street.
We hear peace. For inside it is quiet, except for the rustling clothing of a few old women down on their creaky old knees. In this place there is a fragrance of incense and the whispers of all the faithful who have ever entered. There is the coolness of the much-trodden stone floors and of the
waxy breath of candles. We two slip one coin each into a little box and light candles of our own. Actually, I get two candles. One for the unknown man at the river crossing. Toño and I do not speak, but I am certain we both light our velas for Mami. And we give thanks for those dear and far away and for the great miracle which has brought us to each other once again.
We kneel. Then we slide into a shaky pew. Lapped by the prayers of years, we sit in silence. In this moment I am overwhelmed by all that has befallen me—and him. And the grace that has reunited us. Toño is grateful also, I know, for on this slab of ancient wood, in this old and holy place, shoulders touching, I can feel my brother weeping.
El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Porciúncula. The Town of Our Lady Queen of the Angels of Porciuncula. A mouthful. This, Toño tells me, is the complete and real true name of the place where I am. Where we are, Toño and I. Together.
“Is not that the most beautiful name you have heard in your life?” he asks me vigorously.
“Sí, it is a name of glory,” I say. The City of Angels. Angels brought me here, I believe.
The Angels. What a place it is. Toño and I leave the church and hurry hurry along the street, eager to call home. I look up. There are buildings tall tall with mirror sides that gleam with sun. Buildings so high they scratch the sky. They touch the clouds themselves. I feel small. Dazed. For a few heartbeats I believe my mouth falls open. Enough for grillos to hop in, if grillos live here. Ay!
I do not for a minute forget that I have sneaked into this country. Like a wild creature, eyes darting darting, I keep checking for trouble. As I did upon my long journey to get here.
Strange trees line the streets. Their thin bare trunks reach up up up into the sky so that I must lean back to see them completely. They are topped with shaggy clumps of great big leaves that look like they might just bend these trees over at any minute. When I see them I gape, up up up.
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