The Only Road Page 12

  “¿Cómo?” Ángela gently removed Joaquín’s arms from around her neck and let him grip her hand instead. She glared at the dog as if she still had mixed feelings about her, especially after the cleaning the mutt had given Ángela’s face. Vida ignored the glare and thumped her tail.

  “We went to the safe house,” Xavi started, and everyone else continued talking at once too.

  “Even though we heard it had been closed,” Rafa butted in.

  “We had to meet you,” Joaquín whispered.

  “But you weren’t there,” Xavi continued.

  “We were, for a bit,” Jaime said.

  Xavi nodded. “We know, we—”

  “We had to get off the train a few kilometers from Lechería. This place is swarming with migra officers,” Rafa bragged, as if proud of their clever escape.

  “We know.” Ángela smiled.

  Joaquín nodded to the dog. “Vida warned us.”

  “By the time we got to the safe house, you must have left,” Xavi said. “We climbed onto the roof and slept there just in case you’d come back.”

  “We should have thought of that,” Jaime told his cousin.

  “I missed you.” Joaquín clung tighter to Ángela.

  “This morning Vida started sniffing around the sidewalk,” Xavi went on.

  “I thought she had to take a dump,” Rafa joked.

  Xavi shook his head. “She must have remembered your scent and followed it. When we got to this street, she dashed to the car. Seconds later you guys crawled out.”

  The wide grins returned to all their faces.

  Jaime bent down to scratch Vida’s one ear. He knew dogs were smart, but she had only known them for a day and still remembered them, her pack, after that long train ride. Her family.

  Ángela leaned over to pet her too. “Gracias, mamita.”

  They started walking through the streets of Lechería, where children in white uniform shirts headed to school and old women pushed shopping trolleys filled with groceries. The boys had heard from others on the train that there was a bridge where they could get information for the next stretch of their journey. Vida trotted between their legs, eating scraps she found along the street littered with trash and leaves, never straying more than a few meters away even though they didn’t have a rope to keep her close. If it weren’t for the blue thread peeking out from her coat, no one would guess she had undergone “surgery” just a few days ago.

  Joaquín, who had not let go of Ángela since he dived into her arms, swung the hand that held hers. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Ángela smiled down at the young boy. “A bit.”

  A bit? They were starving. At least Jaime was, now that Joaquín had reminded him. Yesterday’s food on the train hadn’t been enough for one meal, let alone the whole day. His throat was parched from the train, not to mention all the dust under the car.

  The three boys grinned at one another like they had a secret. That’s when Jaime noticed a plastic bag swinging from Rafa’s hand.

  “Where’d you get that?” Jaime asked.

  “You were right, Ángela,” Xavi said with a teasing smile. “It is beautiful in Veracruz.”

  “The people that live there are poor but so nice. They kept throwing us food. Like that cartoon where food comes from the sky,” Rafa said.

  Jaime’s nose scrunched up as anger built up inside. The boys had ridden on top of the freight train illegally and had gotten free food thrown at them while he and Ángela had paid a lot of money to almost get cooked alive? How could that be?

  But his jealousy quickly faded when Rafa placed a fat doughnut filled with sweet potato into his grimy hand. He downed it in two bites before swigging the water Xavi held out. Never had he tasted anything so wonderful in his life. A banana and a small piece of meat later and it was like a black cloud lifted from his body. If only he could wash his face and hands, he’d be back to feeling human again.

  The bridge wasn’t far and they got there around midmorning. Cars roared above them while slower traffic crossed underneath the bridge. The stench of urine mixed with car exhaust dominated the area. At first it looked like no one was there. Then Jaime noticed a cloud of cigarette smoke coming from the gap between the bridge and the sloping support beam. He peered closer and saw a figure propped against the concrete.

  “What do you patojos want?” a man demanded. His voice wheezed, but the accent still sounded Guatemalan.

  “Excuse us, señor,” Xavi said. “We were hoping for some information on the next train north.”

  The man took a last drag from his cigarette and flicked the butt in their direction. “What will you give me?”

  They all looked at one another. Jaime didn’t want to give up the twelve pesos he had earned on the bus. This man didn’t seem like the kind who would take a drawing as payment.

  “We have two sugar doughnuts,” Xavi said, ignoring the scolding look that Rafa sent him.

  “Bring them here.”

  Xavi took the plastic bag with the doughnuts and walked up the steep underside of the concrete bridge to give them to the smoker while the rest waited below near the road. The man gobbled one up and set the bag with the other by his legs.

  That’s when Jaime realized both of the man’s legs ended at the knees in dark stumps. Joaquín took a sharp breath and Rafa looked like he was about to ask what happened, but Ángela nudged him to be quiet.

  “A bit stale,” the man complained as he brushed the sugar from his mustache and beard, but then reached for the second doughnut. “So, first thing you need to know is that it’s almost impossible to get on the train here in Lechería; security is very tight. You’re better off boarding near Huehuetoca, twenty-four kilometers away. The train won’t stop, but it slows down enough to jump on board.”

  Jaime blinked. Twenty-four kilometers? He’d never walked that far. That would easily take all day, maybe part of the night, too.

  “Can you tell us how to find Santos?” Ángela said.

  The man pressed against the concrete underneath him to change into a better position. He grabbed one thigh and then the other to shift them a bit. “Do you have any more doughnuts?”

  Xavi shook his head. “Those were our last ones.”

  “Que pena.” He acted like he wouldn’t say anything else without another bribe, but he lit a new cigarette and blew the smoke in their direction. “There is no more Santos. They killed him two days ago.”

  Sadness for a man he’d never met filled Jaime. Or maybe it was selfishness, disappointment. How much money had his parents lost in that transaction? But at least they hadn’t paid him for the whole journey. Maybe they could use the money that had been meant for Santos to pay someone else. The possibility of being cooked alive in another boxcar did not appeal to him, but neither did riding on top of the train.

  Xavi sent a sympathetic nod in his direction. “We’re sorry to hear that. Thank you for letting us know.”

  “How shocking. A guanaco with manners.”

  Jaime shifted uneasily. While Guatemalans didn’t mind being called chapín, to call a Salvadoran a guanaco was insulting. Especially after they had given him two perfectly good doughnuts.

  Xavi, however, didn’t let the insult bother him. “You still haven’t answered my first question. When’s the next train?”

  “Where are you going?”

  Xavi stepped back as he lost some of his composure. “Excuse me? We’re all heading north. To los Estados Unidos.”

  “I know that, guanaco imbécil,” he snapped, flicking ash at Xavi. “But from here the trains go in four different directions.”

  “Ciudad Juárez,” Ángela said quickly to keep peace.

  “Mexicalli,” Joaquín whispered.

  “Whichever is shorter,” Rafa said.

  Xavi, Jaime noticed, didn’t mention a destination.

  The man swore and took another drag from his cigarette. “Típico. Nuevo Laredo is the next train and the shortest journey. That train comes tomor
row night. Mexicalli the following morning, Ciudad Juárez that afternoon. Sure you have nothing else to eat?”

  Xavi dug into his pocket and tossed a hardened caramelo his way. The man caught it with one swift gesture.

  “Follow this road up toward Huehuetoca until you get to the third bridge. If you get there before sunset, volunteers drive by with a food wagon. The food tastes like sewage, but it’s edible. Tell Olga she better bring me a plate.”

  “Thanks again.” Xavi ran down the steep concrete to the road, where the others were waiting.

  They hadn’t gone far when the legless man shouted out his last piece of advice. “If you don’t want to end up like me, you’ll watch out for the train wheels!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It didn’t take long to get to the third bridge. Instead of waiting around doing nothing until the food van came, Xavi decided to try to find some work at the nearby mercado. His phone, the only thing he had owned, had been picked from his pocket on the train.

  “I’m selling the charger, and it might be smart to get some food and water for the train as well. We can’t count on people throwing us supplies again.”

  Jaime remembered the hunger and thirst from his train ride. Working to pick up some extra supplies was a good idea. The money to pay Santos remained sewed in their jeans; Tía’s instructions to save it echoed in Jaime’s mind.

  Hundreds of stalls crammed into a warehouse building that made up the mercado. With no straight aisles, the place was like a labyrinth of tables and displays. Fruits and vegetables of every color and degree of ripeness crowded tables. Handmade shirts waved next to a cobbler measuring an old man’s foot. Pirated DVDs turned on wobbly stands.

  Most of the vendors in the mercado, however, didn’t have enough money, let alone work, to spare. Others swore and told them to go back home.

  A man held his shoe up in the air as if he were going to hit them with it. “Get lost, desgraciados, before I call la migra to kick your scrawny butts.”

  Rafa turned to tell the man off, but Xavi grabbed him by the shirt and they scurried away. As hard as it might be for la migra to catch them with all the people milling about, there was no point in looking for trouble. They were a bit more cautious, and polite, when asking the next vendors for work.

  “Ven chico,” one man with a gray ponytail called out to Jaime. “You can help us unload the fruit from the truck.”

  Jaime agreed by lifting one of the boxes the man indicated, staggering under the weight. Still, it was a job, and this man was the nicest anyone at the mercado had been. Two stalls away, Ángela hacked away at pineapples to sell in chunks for a woman who looked about a hundred years old. Around the corner Joaquín scrubbed clean the cages holding live chickens. The other two had disappeared with Vida into the crowded marketplace, still looking for work; the merchants seemed more willing to trust girls and younger boys than teenagers.

  After an hour carrying heavy boxes, the gray-ponytail man gave Jaime two overripe, squashed papayas and a pat on the back. Better than nothing, he supposed.

  On the table at the other side of Ángela, a woman with more gums than teeth sold turrón made with almonds, sugar, and egg whites. Jaime spent ten minutes haggling the price of a broken piece and a water bottle with the twelve pesos he’d earned on the bus.

  Xavi, Ángela, and Joaquín didn’t fare much better. As they got ready to leave the mercado an hour before sunset, they collectively had four cracked raw eggs, some broken tortillas, a slab of lard, and a handful of overripe fruit, all of which they put in Ángela’s backpack. Vida had dodged kick threats but made out with a pretty full belly. Jaime didn’t want to know what she’d found along the market floor, but at least she seemed happy.

  They waited for Rafa at a busy street corner near one of the entrances to the mercado, where the smell of pork rotating on a spit had their mouths watering.

  “Every year for my birthday,” Jaime said with eyes closed to savor the moment, “Mamá makes the best pineapple pork.”

  “Last year’s was amazing,” Ángela agreed. “Tía Lourdes brought up the pig and Miguel gave up, after two weeks of trying, to become a vegetarian. It was around that time Mamá tried to show me how to make her flan de coco, the best dessert on earth. I still can’t make it like she does.”

  Ooh, what Jaime wouldn’t give for some coconut custard right now. “I can’t tell the difference.”

  Ángela nudged him with a smile before turning to Joaquín. “What about you, papi? What food do you miss?”

  “Black beans with tostones,” he said, referring to fried green plantains that Jaime liked as well. “But I’ll never eat them again.”

  “Of course you will. We’re all going to make it. You’ll see.” Ángela wrapped Joaquín in a hug and didn’t see the young boy’s dark eyes moistening. He said so little of his life, but Jaime wondered if maybe someone close to him used to make the beans and tostones, someone who might have died, or been killed.

  “Well, my abuela,” Xavi said to lighten the mood, “makes the absolute best pupusas. You know what they are?”

  Joaquín nodded, but both Ángela and Jaime shook their heads.

  “Fried corn masa, stuffed with meat, beans, and oozing with cheese—”

  Jaime waved his arms in the air. “Okay, stop. You have even Vida drooling.”

  The mutt yipped at the sound of her name and sure enough, a wet drop marked the pavement below her open mouth. They had agreed to wait for Rafa before breaking into any of the food they’d been given, but if that boy didn’t show up soon, they might as well forget about him.

  A yell came from the market, and they all turned to see none other than Rafa zooming toward them.

  “Go, go, ¡ándale!” he screamed.

  Jaime grabbed Ángela’s hand and they took off with Xavi and Joaquín at their sides, Vida at their feet.

  “Grab him!” an old man shouted after them. People stopped their shopping to look around, but Jaime couldn’t hear anybody chasing them. After a few blocks he glanced over his shoulder. There was no one there. Hands on their knees, they caught their breath as they looked around. No one came after them.

  “Well, that was fun.” Rafa grinned while readjusting his ball cap. The others stared back at him, not grinning.

  “What happened?” Xavi took a deep breath as if he didn’t want to know the answer.

  Rafa shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Old geezer didn’t want to pay me after all the work I did, so I took these.” He held out two packs of cigarettes.

  Jaime and Joaquín jumped to Ángela’s side as Xavi grabbed Rafa by the shirt and looked like he was about to beat him up.

  “You almost got us caught for a couple stupid packs of cigarettes?”

  “Y chicle.” Rafa showed them the fruity bubble gum he’d also stolen. “Want some?”

  “¡Idiota!” Xavi let go of him and threw his arms in the air as he paced back and forth. “This is exactly why Mexicans hate us here. For stupid acts like that.”

  “He was trying to stiff me after I cleaned his display,” Rafa insisted, but Xavi wasn’t listening.

  “I have not come all this way to get arrested over cigarettes.” Xavi marched back to Rafa and pointed a finger in his face. “If you ever pull something like that again, you’re going to wish you were back in Honduras.”

  “Fine, man. I’m sorry.” For a moment Rafa looked scared, but then he smiled and waved his hand again. “Here, have some gum anyway.”

  Xavi swore, paced a bit more, and then sighed as he took a piece. Rafa then offered some to everyone else. Jaime didn’t chew gum often and didn’t realize how much he missed it. Sweet and fruity, it was like a fiesta in his mouth. He and Joaquín competed to see who could blow bigger bubbles. He didn’t like that Rafa had stolen it, but since he had, there was no reason not to enjoy it.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Jaime said as he tried to retract the bubble that had burst over his chin. They walked slowly back to the bridge, where th
ey hoped the legless man was right about the food truck.

  Rafa blew his own bubble and slipped it back in his mouth so it’d pop inside. “I do sometimes, but that’s not why I took them. They’ll be good for bartering. For some people, cigarettes are more important than food.”

  Jaime didn’t know what to say. For once, Rafa seemed to have a very practical idea.

  • • •

  There were about forty people huddled under the third bridge in small groups when they got back. Old, young, in between. Some were missing teeth or limbs. Some had gashes so deep or beatings so bad Jaime wondered if there was a doctor they could go see. One man had had all his clothes stolen hours before and sat naked, asking everyone who came if they had a spare pair of pants. It was like being surrounded by the homeless, which Jaime supposed they all were. From the sound of their accents there were a few southern Mexicans, but most were Central American from Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras; at least half of them had given up hope on ever getting to El Norte and had resolved to stay in Ciudad México or return home. The Promised Land, they decided, was a dream for other fools.

  The food wagon was run by a local charity. It fed them mushy chicken-flavored rice with some beans mixed in, which was better than the legless man suggested, and powdered lemonade. After a few days of barely eating anything, Jaime liked the feeling of finally having a full stomach.

  The five of them were tucked away where the underside of the bridge met the concrete hill at the top of the bridge. Dirt had been hollowed out, giving them more cave than exposure. A good thing because many of the others under the bridge were getting drunk on cheap liquor or high on glue. So far, they were leaving Jaime and his friends alone. Jaime hoped Rafa wouldn’t provoke anyone with his big mouth.

  Light from a streetlamp shone enough for Jaime to sketch out their little group—Joaquín fast asleep with his head on Ángela’s lap and his arm around Vida, who also had her head on Ángela; Ángela leaning against the concrete, her hand stroking Joaquín’s hair; Rafa looking through a dirty magazine he found; Xavi lying down with his knees bent and arms behind his head. Jaime could hear him as he told Ángela about their experience on the train.