“As to the plates,” my father continued, totally unaware of the look Gustaf and I had given each other, “I can say that the company leased the vehicle, and everyone knows leased vehicles come with license plates from all over.” My father waited to make sure Gustaf agreed, but Gustaf’s face was as blank as it was when he beat me at poker the night before. Then my father turned to me expectantly.
“It’s not going to work,” I said, looking steadily into my father’s eyes. He had to know that I was not the same little boy he used to comfort when there were nightmares.
My father clenched his jaw. It was a gesture I remembered. He used it when he needed to control rising anger. Still, there was a tone of irritation when he spoke. “I thought about this carefully. If I’m stopped, I’ll say that my company is in San Angelo and I came to install some new units at the Desert Air Motel in Sanderson. I paid Mrs. Ortega, the day supervisor at the hotel, twenty dollars to say that was the case. If the Border Patrol doesn’t believe me, I’ll hand them her phone number and ask them to call her.”
I smiled. That sounded a lot more like the father I used to know. The man who thought he could convince anyone to do things for him. And when they didn’t, he got quietly angry.
Father walked to the porch for the coffee. He sipped to see if it had cooled down and then drank half of the liquid in one gulp.
Gustaf smiled at me and then approached my father slowly, eyes on the ground, pondering. He looked up and tugged at his ear before speaking. “Speaking as an impartial observer, I have to say that there’s something fishy about a repair vehicle full of disorganized equipment. And, no offense, but you seem like the kind of guy who would try to sneak a Mexican in the back of his van.”
There was a moment of silence. My father’s face turned red.
Then I laughed.
Gustaf seemed relieved that his observation had been well received, at least by one. My father still seemed too flustered to respond, so Gustaf pointed in the direction of the barn. “Follow me,” he said. “I got an idea.”
My father took his cell phone out to check on the time. The old watch with the worn-out leather band had been replaced by the cell phone. “We really should be going,” he called after Gustaf. “I’d like to make it to St. Louis, Missouri, tonight. Then get home tomorrow morning.”
Gustaf did not hear or chose not to. He walked to the side of the gray barn and stopped in front of a rusty aluminum trailer. The back of the trailer was a ramp. Gustaf lowered it, lifted the bar that went across the entrance, and walked in. In front of the trailer was another bar. Gustaf lifted that as well. Just beyond the last bar, the trailer had a built-in container for hay. Gustaf reached in there and lifted out a dusty blanket. He turned to my father. “Emiliano can crouch in here. I’ll sprinkle some hay on top of him and put the horse in the trailer.”
“Thank you. He’ll go in the van.”
Gustaf ignored him, looked at me, waited for me to decide.
“I’m grateful for all the planning you did.” This was true. It was obvious that my father had put in a lot of thought on my behalf and part of me was touched. But it was not up to him anymore to make decisions regarding risks that affected my life. I went on, looking straight into my father’s eyes. “But this is my life and it is my decision. I’ll go in the trailer.”
My father shook his head, more sad than angry, it seemed. He said to Gustaf, “Do you know the risk you are taking? Why would you want to take that risk?” Then, looking at me, “Do you want him to take that risk?”
For a moment there, it felt as if I had to choose between two fathers. But it wasn’t about picking sides. “It’s about me not getting caught. I can’t afford to get caught.” There’s something I have to do in Chicago. “It is much less likely that I will be caught in the horse trailer. Much less. Look at him.” I pointed at Gustaf. “They will never suspect him. He’s Gustaf Larsson. He’s the kind of person they want in this country.”
Gustaf coughed and laughed and choked all at the same time. When he recovered, he said to my father, “You asked me why I would want to take the risk. First, I’m with Emiliano. I don’t see the Border Patrol searching me. I’ve gone through that checkpoint on 285 must be fifty times by now and they just wave me by. So I don’t see much risk. And …” Gustaf looked at his feet, stammered, and turned slightly red. “If Emiliano wants to go to Chicago, then he must have good reasons for wanting to, and I’m willing to help him.”
There was silence. The only thing I could say was thank you. Finally, my father spoke. He sounded slightly defeated. “All right.”
Gustaf spoke up before my father could say anything else. “There’s a fork in the road where 285 meets Farm Road 2400. That’s about twenty miles after the checkpoint. I’ll go first and wait for you there. I’ll get the halter.” Gustaf disappeared inside the barn.
The horse in the corral stopped and pricked up his ears, as if aware that he was being talked about.
“You really prefer to ride with that smelly animal?” my father asked when Gustaf was far enough not to hear.
“That smelly animal never abandoned me,” I answered.
Then I went to get the horse.
The horse skittered and pulled and kicked a few times, but he finally let me lead him into the trailer.
“This isn’t a good idea,” my father said from outside the trailer. “The box Emiliano’s going in has no cover. Anyone who peeks in the trailer will see him.”
“I’ll throw some hay on top of him,” Gustaf said, moving my father aside and climbing in. “All right. Assume the position,” he said to me with a grin.
I took a deep breath and crouched into the hay trough. I could lie on my back with my head resting on a dusty blanket and my arms crossed on my chest.
“You look like you’re in a coffin,” Gustaf said, trying not to laugh. “Now close your eyes.” Gustaf began to sprinkle hay on top of me. “I’m thinking that maybe I’ll just drive on to San Angelo and sell you to the dog food people.”
It took me a few moments to realize that Gustaf was talking to the horse.
I sneezed. Sneezing, that was something we had not anticipated. If I sneezed when we reached the checkpoint, then what? Getting caught by the Border Patrol would be the end of Sara and me. I’d get sent to a detention center. Hinojosa’s phone would be taken away from me. Hinojosa’s men would find Sara before Yoya and I could stop them.
“I’m going to tap the brakes three times when I see the Border Patrol. You’ll feel the trailer lurch. After that, no sneezing or any other noises that don’t sound like horse. All right?”
I sneezed again.
“Practice squeezing your nose and holding your breath before we get there. The whole thing won’t take but thirty seconds. You won’t die if you don’t breathe for thirty seconds. Either that or practice making your sneezes sound like a snort.”
“I hope he’s okay in there,” I heard my father say.
“Ahh, he’ll be fine.”
Then a door closed and the engine roared. I smelled exhaust, and we were off. I removed some of the hay from my face and placed it by my chest where I could reach for it and cover myself when the time came. The horse breathed on my face.
“Stop it,” I told him. “You stink.”
The horse shook his head and neighed in what sounded an awful lot like mischievous laughter.
It would be a half hour or so before we reached a Border Patrol checkpoint. I put my hand over my abdomen to still the nervous cramps that I was getting. Small pieces of straw somehow found their way into my armpits. Drops of perspiration rolled from the top of my head down my forehead and into my eyes. I knew it wasn’t the heat that was causing the perspiration. You are afraid, that’s what you are. Speaking to myself was another sign of fear. I couldn’t stop thinking of all that would be lost if I got caught. Not just my life, although the fear of losing that was considerable. It was Sara’s sacrifice and my mother’s. My poor mother choosing to be without her son
and daughter so that we could live, so that I could be the person God wanted me to be. But I did not believe in God, did I? Something happened to me out there in the desert when I thought I was going to die that made me … what? Believe? Yes, it was a kind of new belief. I started to believe, if not in God, then in the need to do something good with my life.
“Why not?” I asked the horse. “Don’t you think I’m capable of doing something good with my life? I know that my recent past was … well, I made some mistakes. But you probably have too. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not just saying all this because I’m scared. And anyway, you’d be scared too if the roles were reversed. If I get caught, I could die. My sister could die. There are girls who are suffering right now, being forced into different kinds of slavery, who will never get any help unless we get the names hiding in the cell phone. So you have to act normal when we get to the Border Patrol. Don’t prick up your ears like you do when you see me coming.”
The horse only nibbled at the hay on my hair.
Then I felt the trailer slow down and lurch three times. It was Gustaf letting me know that we were approaching the checkpoint. I reached down to the sides and threw as much hay as I could over my legs. The horse sensed that something dangerous was about to take place because he neighed and then I heard the sound of his hoofs on the trailer. I had this incredible urge to pray. I thought of my mother and Sara saying the Rosary together and now I wished I had not made fun of them so often. Suddenly, I realized that we had stopped and the words “Help me” came out of my lips. I buried my head deeper in the blanket, grabbed a few more strands of hay, and placed them over the top of the blanket. The horse’s big head hovered over me. There was a thumping coming from somewhere and then I felt that it was my heart. I inhaled and held my breath. After a silence that lasted longer than I could hold my breath, I heard a strange deep, gruff voice:
“Good morning, sir. Can you get out of the car and open the trailer for me?”
We sat at two school desks facing each other. We laughed when we discovered that we could still fit in them. It was Sunday, one of the two days when women detainees could receive visitors. The dozen tables that crammed the classroom that was now a visitors’ area were all occupied.
“I want to thank you …” I started to say as soon as Sandy sat down, but she stopped me by putting her hand over mine.
“We only have thirty minutes, so let’s use them wisely.”
I nodded. No tears. That’s what I told myself while I waited in line to see Sandy.
“Let me go ahead and say it,” Sandy said, removing her hand from mine and balling it into a fist. “This is ridiculous! This is … I don’t even know what to call it. This is … unbelievable!”
It was unbelievable to me too at first. But it was beginning to sink in that I could be here for a long, long time.
I turned my attention back to Sandy. She was shaking her head as she spoke. “There’s no reason for the ICE officer assigned to this facility to deny you bond. You had a sponsor. You were no flight risk. My dad has been a lawyer in Alpine for forty-two years. I’m a park ranger, for God’s sake. I am so incredibly angry …” Sandy stopped herself when she saw my eyes fill up with tears. “I’m sorry, my ranting is not going to do you any good.”
“It’s doing more good than you know,” I said.
“You’re not angry?”
“I’m afraid to let myself be angry. Anger is not very helpful in here. It doesn’t have any place to go, you know.”
“My father is appealing the decision to deny you bond with an immigration judge. He’s coming over this afternoon so you can sign some papers.”
“Maybe the whole image I had of the asylum process was wrong, naive somehow.”
“How so?”
“I imagined that all I had to do was show the authorities the evidence of actual persecution, of actual threats, as in people machine-gunning our house in Juárez. I had all that hard evidence I had collected in that flash drive I gave to your father. They would see my articles in El Sol about the Desaparecidas, the e-mails threatening my life, the work I did to rescue my friend Linda and the other girls being held by Hinojosa. I imagined I could bring lots of witnesses to testify on my behalf—Special Agent Durand, the FBI agent who helped me, the neighbors who witnessed the shooting of my house. I saw my case as fitting within the legal reasons for asylum under the law of the United States. Was I wrong about the United States?” Be positive, I reminded myself again. You’re not being positive. But I also needed to voice my doubts to someone. Maybe Sandy could help me shore up my ebbing faith.
Sandy shook her head for a few moments and then leaned forward, all business. “Okay, I guess it’s time for me to remind you of the Sara that I found walking quickly, almost running, in Big Bend National Park. Remember how she was determined to get medical help for the wounded man she left a mile or two behind, the same man who had just tried to kidnap her, rape her, and probably kill her. That Sara believed in something. That’s the Sara who needs to be here right now, every day, until she gets out.”
I exhaled deeply. Sandy was giving me what I most needed. “Yes, you’re right,” I said.
“Good. Are you okay? Are you being treated well? That’s a stupid question, I know.”
“It could be worse. That’s what we all say in here. It’s true, you know.”
Sandy sighed. Then, changing the subject, “My dad tells me that Gustaf Larsson has grown quite fond of Emiliano. Apparently, he’s a big help to him around the ranch. I know your father was going to pick him up this morning and …”
I raised my hand to my mouth and glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, leaned, and whispered, “It’s very important that no one know where he is or where he is going. No one should know that he is still here in the United States.”
“The people who attacked you in Big Bend?”
“Yes. They could still be after the phone.”
“Do you know for sure?”
“Not for sure. But these are not the kind of people who give up easily.”
“But are you safe here?”
“Yes. I am. If they found out I was here, they would know that I don’t have the phone with me. Everything I had was taken from me when I was admitted. It’s Emiliano I’m worried about. Not just from the people who want the phone but … if he gets caught by ICE and deported. He’ll be killed if he is sent back to Mexico. I wish I could talk to him … before he leaves with Father.”
“Why don’t you call him? I’d let you use my cell, but they confiscated it when I came in. Can’t you call him from the public phones they have here?”
I sighed. “The women here all swear that phone calls are monitored. ICE listens in to find out where undocumented relatives live. I don’t want to take a chance. I can’t sleep, thinking about Emiliano getting caught. How he’s going to make it across the Border Patrol checkpoints.”
“He’ll figure something out. Did you have a message for him? I could call him as soon as I leave here.”
I thought for a moment. What could I tell Emiliano that would not worry him? “No … I think it will be all right.”
“Tell me.” Sandy reached over and tapped my hand.
“Last night I was remembering something that Father said while he was here. I told him about how we were attacked in the desert and he got really nervous. He started talking about his wife and his father-in-law and how afraid they were to be harboring an illegal immigrant. I didn’t tell Father the reason we were attacked. I didn’t say anything about Hinojosa’s phone and I’m glad I didn’t, because that would have made his family even more hesitant to take in Emiliano. Anyway, I wanted to warn Emiliano not to tell Father that he is carrying Hinojosa’s phone.”
“Do you want me to call him and tell him?”
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to protect Emiliano but I also didn’t want to influence his relationship with Father’s family. “No.” I finally decided that Emiliano had good instincts. He
’d know whether to tell Father about the phone or not. He had to feel his way through that. How much could he trust Father? That was something he had to determine on his own.
“Your father is quite the go-getter,” Sandy said, smiling. “He tried to install an air-conditioner system in my dad’s law offices while we waited to hear about the bond. My dad tactfully declined, but your father gave him his business card and told him he’d come over and install it anytime.”
“That sounds like my father, all right.” I remembered the fancy business card he had shown me. “He likes being Bob Gropper.”
We laughed.
Sandy said, “I’m sorry … all of this is so hard.”
I stared out the window and shook my head. Then I said slowly: “What’s so hard is that it doesn’t make sense. The whole process of who gets asylum and who gets detained, who gets a bond and who gets released, who gets a visa and who gets deported. I mean, it’s not as rational as I imagined it would be.”
“I don’t think acting rationally is a top priority for the politicians running this country.” There was a touch of anger in Sandy’s voice for the first time. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, but also firm. “But you need to believe that somewhere along the line, people will do the right thing. My father will make sure that they do.”
I was grateful for her confidence just then. Her faith was stronger than mine. “Is it bad for me to doubt and to be afraid? For me, for my brother?”
“I think that it is very normal for someone who has gone through what you have gone through, both in Mexico and after you crossed over, to be afraid and to not trust.”
“Wrap it up, folks! Start saying your good-byes! Five minutes!” a guard shouted into the room.
“Hang in there, Sara.” Sandy leaned over, grabbed my shoulders, and shook me, as if to awaken me. “Keep the faith. And don’t be afraid to be angry. Anger can help you be the Sara I picked up on that dusty road, the one who believes in doing good no matter the cost.” We stood at the same time and faced each other. Sandy took a step toward the door and then turned toward me. “Remember when I offered to introduce you to my father and said that he could help you with your asylum petition?”
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