The Only Road Read online

  He picked out a red-and-white-striped shirt, a faded but intact pair of blue jeans, and some white socks that looked new. His shoes he kept; they were smellier than rotten cheese but still worked. The Batman underwear he picked was a bit tight on the waist, but sometimes you needed to sacrifice comfort for coolness. His old clothes went into a heap where they would be washed, mended, and offered to someone else.

  Ángela chose mid-calf aqua-green pants, a flowery shirt, and sandals. After having worn plain, blending-in colors, she wanted something pretty.

  They hadn’t slept all night, but there was something else they needed to do before crashing in one of the three rooms crammed with bunk beds.

  The mantra Jaime had memorized in Tapachula came back to him as he tapped his leg in rhythm. 5, 7, 5-5-5-5, 21, 86. Doña Paloma let everyone use her phone for two minutes to call anywhere in los Estados Unidos. Jaime swallowed a few times to clear his dry throat. He could feel his heart pounding through his whole body. He couldn’t do it—they’d have to communicate a different way. E-mail maybe. Something where he could plan what he would say. He had never made a phone call in his life.

  Tomás’s voice recording sounded foreign as he asked callers to leave a message. At least that was what Jaime guessed he said. The recording was in English, and he called himself “Tom.”

  Jaime licked his lips and took a deep breath to calm his nervous heart. What if Tomás didn’t get the message? What if he never came? “Ah, hi. It’s me. Jaime. Your brother. We’re here. Me and Ángela. In El Paso. 2910 Wee-Joo—”

  “You pronounce it ‘Willow,’ ” Ángela interrupted over his shoulder.

  “Ah, Wee-Lo Estreete,” he corrected. “See you soon?” And he hung up quickly, his face red and heart hammering in his ears like he’d just crossed the border again.

  Ángela chuckled and pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “You really need to work on your English.”

  • • •

  They woke up at lunchtime to some very strange food. Doña Paloma had prepared sandwiches with some kind of salty brown nutty spread and sweet red mermelada. When they asked her what the sandwiches were, she said, “Peanut butter and jelly.” Jaime wasn’t sure if he liked the combination—salty, sweet, and sticky—but ate it anyway. His abuela would have been proud.

  The sixteen other people staying at the house huddled around the giant television watching English soap operas and talk shows, but Jaime and Ángela spent the afternoon outside with Vida. Doña Paloma had a nice backyard with a high fence that kept out peering neighbors who might report the suspicious amount of “cousins” she always had at her house. After spending weeks outdoors, it was strange being confined inside a house that reeked of bleach and insecticide.

  Jaime rescued his old holey socks before they were thrown away and managed to wad them up into a lumpy ball. Once Vida got over the fascinating smell, she learned to play fetch quickly. Every once in a while she’d leap into the air with a great twist, flash the blue belly stitches Ángela said still needed one more day, and land squarely on four paws with the sock ball in her mouth. Jaime could scarcely believe this was the same dog who’d survived a murderous dogfight, had been found with half of her innards showing, and then had been stitched up by kids before traveling across a dangerous country. It was a lot to go through, and most dogs wouldn’t have made it. Most people wouldn’t have either.

  “I was expecting two of you, not three,” a voice came from the backdoor.

  They both jumped and turned to the shape emerging from the shadows of the house.

  Jaime’s face went from caramelo brown to café with lots of milk. Ángela went even paler.

  “Miguel,” she gasped.

  The figure at the door smiled, one side of his mouth going higher than the other. His eyes were so dark they couldn’t be seen in the shadow except for the bright white surrounding them. He brushed his shaggy hair out of his face just like Miguel used to do. Everything like Miguel.

  But it wasn’t Jaime’s cousin.

  “Tomás,” Jaime whispered, but couldn’t move any closer.

  Vida wiggled toward the stranger with her tail wagging, licking his legs as if he were a long-lost member of her pack.

  The figure stepped into the sunlight. Wrinkles scrunched around the corners of his eyes; a scruffy beard grew on his cheeks. While in the shadows he could have passed for a twelve-year-old, now in the sun he looked older than his twenty-five years. But still it was him. Jaime’s brother.

  “Well, are you two going to say hi?” Tomás’s smile widened to become more lopsided.

  Jaime and Ángela ran the few paces to him and jumped into his arms, something they hadn’t done since they were four and seven.

  Tomás hugged and kissed them both, then kissed and hugged them again. “I can’t believe you’re here. Do you two know how lucky you are?”

  Images of others flashed through Jaime’s head—the Salvadoran woman on the bus, the man under the bridge without any legs.

  Xavi.

  He thought of little Joaquín, Eva and Ivan from the train, and even crazy Rafa, and hoped they had been lucky as well.

  “We . . .” Jaime paused to look at Ángela. Mothering responsibilities forgotten, she still had her arms around Tomás, her head against his chest, like a little girl. “We had help from many people along the way.”

  Pancho with his sacks of used clothes; Padre Kevin, who liked ridiculous outfits; Señora Pérez. All of whom seemed to have been sent especially to help them.

  Jaime glanced up, the other two following his example, and stared at the pale blue sky without a cloud in sight. They stood there, feeling eyes looking at them from above, until Vida yipped and returned them to the backyard of a safe-house in El Paso.

  “I’m sorry about Miguel,” Tomás said, rubbing both of their backs. “He was a good kid. Smart, good-looking. Took after his cousin.”

  Jaime couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Except more humble.”

  Tomás shook his head as if he didn’t believe that and then smiled back.

  “Let’s have a look at you.” He held them at arm’s length. “Ángela, I wouldn’t have recognized you, you’re so beautiful. And you, hermanito, when did you start growing a mustache?”

  Jaime bounded to the window to check out his reflection. It was faint, but sure enough, there were definitely some dark hairs growing on his upper lip.

  “It’s not real—I know you just drew it on,” Ángela teased. Jaime stuck out his tongue at her.

  “We need to call our parents. They’ve been so worried.” Tomás put his phone on speaker and called Tío Daniel, Ángela’s papá, the only one in their family with a phone. But it was Abuela who answered.

  “Tomás, what is it? No, I don’t want to know. Please don’t tell me.”

  “Está bien,” Tomás reassured their grandmother. “I have them. They’re here.”

  “¿En serio?” Abuela asked in disbelief.

  Tomás waved at them to speak.

  “Hola Abuela,” Jaime and Ángela said at the same time.

  Abuela gasped, and Jaime heard her start to cry. He imagined her holding her heart as she leaned against the counter full of her tortillas. “¡Gracias a Dios! I must tell everyone. The whole family has been praying for weeks. Bless you three.” And she was gone.

  They stared at the phone for a few minutes after she hung up, thinking about Abuela and their parents, Guatemala, and home.

  “C’mon, let’s get going.” Tomás put an arm around the two of them and kissed them once more on the top of their heads.

  They went through the house with Vida in Ángela’s arms and Jaime clutching Tomás’s hand. They thanked Doña Paloma, and Tomás slipped her some extra money for taking care of his family.

  They climbed into the red truck Tomás had borrowed from his boss, and they drove out of El Paso, Texas, and into Nuevo México. They passed one checkpoint, but the officer just glanced in the truck and waved them along without even askin
g a question.

  Jaime turned to the last blank page in his sketchbook and tapped the remaining pencil stub on his lip as he wondered what to draw. Cacti covered the landscape along with flowering spiny plants. Cattle herds near the road and speckled in the distance were more common than people or houses. At one point three brown-and-white Bambis, which Tomás called pronghorn antelopes, leaped across the road. Sometimes they drove for twenty minutes without passing another car. Everything was big and sparse, and nothing like home.

  During their journey Jaime had only worried about getting to his brother and safety. Now a whole new set of concerns took over. What was it going to be like to live here, where there was no one? Would he ever be able to speak English properly? What if he never stopped missing his family back home? What if, after everything, they still got deported?

  Next to him Ángela stared out the open window with Vida on her lap. She turned to look at him. With wide eyes and a deep breath she mouthed, “We made it.”

  Jaime started sketching without realizing what he was drawing. The perspective was from behind instead of facing forward like he normally drew. He made rough lines into right angles until he had the three-dimensional image of a rectangular box. Or the bed of a truck. From there he worked on the back of the heads of each of the passengers. A shaggy, taller head on the driver’s seat with one arm dangling out the window. A smaller head with shorter hair growing a mustache (even though that couldn’t be seen). Next to the other window, long tresses whipped in the breeze from another head. And finally a white-and-brown-patched mutt with one ear and a flapping tongue.

  “You see that mountain over there?” Tomás said. “Millions of years ago it used to be a volcano. Home is just on the other side.”

  Jaime looked up and smiled. It was just like Pancho had said.

  In the background of his drawing a volcano appeared. Instead of being lush with foliage and half-hidden with fog, this volcano held clumps of brown-green bushes with rocks on the top that seemed to wink in the setting sun.

  Together, as a family, they drove toward the volcano, and their new home.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  “Look out the window because this is the last time you’ll see your country.” These were the words my mother heard when she and her family left Cuba in 1960, following the Cuban Revolution and the rise of communism. My mother immigrated to the United States with her parents and siblings when she was seventeen; my father immigrated at nineteen and had to work hard to save enough money to pay for his parents’ and siblings’ passage. They didn’t meet until they got to Miami.

  Both of my parents had to leave everything behind: homes, possessions, friends, but mostly family members they thought they’d never see again. In my mother’s case, it was the grandmother who had raised her and the aunt and cousins who had lived in the same house she had. They traded everything for an unknown future, a life they had to start new with only two changes of clothes and five dollars in their pockets—the Cuban government didn’t allow them to take anything else.

  At the time of my parents’ immigration, Cubans were allowed to enter the United States legally and were granted residency, then citizenship. Sadly, legal immigration is much harder to come by these days, regardless of which country the person comes from. People desperate to immigrate today face many dangers and expenses, and still run the risk of being sent back home if caught. It’s a sad, worldwide conflict that is close to me, one without an easy solution. For me, had my parents not been able to leave Cuba when they did, my life would be very different, and the opportunities available to me in communist Cuba would have been limited.

  While Jaime and Ángela are fictitious characters, their story is similar to millions of real immigrants. In recent years there has been a huge wave of children traveling alone from Central America to immigrate illegally into the United States; their parents unable to leave the rest of their family behind. Many are fleeing towns where gangs are terrorizing the citizens and “recruiting” children and teens to join them, or die. To many, leaving is the only choice, the only road. If they stay at home, they will die; if they leave, they might live.

  Jaime and Ángela were very lucky on their trip; most people do not have it so easy. Murder, abuse, robbery, drug addiction, loss of limbs, kidnapping, imprisonment, and deportation are all common outcomes. Some give up and return home in worse condition than when they left. Those who continue hold on to the hope of a better life and the prospect of reuniting with family members already there.

  For so many Latin Americans, whether Cuban or Guatemalan, if there is no family, there is no life.

  Glossary

  Note to the language enthusiasts: Spanish is a very phonetic language to read, much easier than English! Here are a few basic pronunciation rules: J and sometimes x are pronounced like an h. LL makes a y or j sound, depending on what country you want to be from. Ñ is a bit tricky it sounds like “nee-eh.” If there’s an accent mark, emphasize that vowel. There are other rules, but that’s enough to get you reading most Spanish!

  abran las bolsas: Open the bags. Can refer to a purse or backpack.

  abuela: Grandmother; grandma. Saying abuelita would be like saying “granny.”

  adentro: Although it means “inside,” it has the implication of “get inside.”

  ándale: A command to hurry up. It can also mean “come on.”

  aquí: Here; over here.

  ay: A very common sound or exclamation. It can mean “oh” as in “Oh my dear!”, “ah” as in “Ah, I don’t know,” or “ouch” as in “Ouch, you stepped on me,” as well as other meanings, depending on the tone and the words that follow it.

  Benito Juárez (1806–1872): A revolutionary hero, he brought liberal reform to Mexico and is considered one of Mexico’s greatest presidents.

  bien: Usually means “good” but also means “fine,” especially when following the question “How are you?”

  bienvenidos: A greeting, meaning “welcome.”

  bruja: In its simplest terms it means “witch,” but it can also signify “herbalist” or even “fortune-teller.”

  brujería: Witchcraft. It is not always seen as evil.

  bueno: Means “good” but can also be used as an interjection like “okay.” Bueno and bien, although they both mean “good,” are used in different cases and are not interchangeable.

  café con leche: A small cup of coffee with milk, often drunk with lots of sugar. A staple in many Latin American countries.

  cállate: An order to be quiet, like “shut up.”

  caramelo: A caramel or sometimes a generic candy.

  cariño: When Ángela says this to Joaquín, it’s a term of endearment meaning “sweetie.”

  carretera: Highway; road.

  Centro Americanos: Central Americans, or people from Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama. Mexicans are not considered Central Americans.

  chapín/chapina/chapines: A slang word for Guatemalan. For a boy it’s chapín, for a girl it’s chapina, and chapines is the plural. Guatemalans often call themselves these words and they are not offensive terms.

  chicle: Chewing gum.

  chico: Boy; kid; guy. As an adjective it also means “short” or “small.”

  ciudad: City. Ciudad México means “Mexico City” and Ciudad Juárez means “Juárez City.”

  claro: Clearly; obviously; of course.

  claro que sí: Similar to claro but with more enthusiasm and often the confirmation to a question, meaning “of course!” or “certainly!”

  como:  As a question it means “how” or implies “I don’t understand.”  Within a sentence it usually means “such as.”

  compañeros: Used for companions or schoolmates but it can even be a word for buddies.

  con qué: With what.

  Conejo: Rabbit. Because of their illegal work, most coyotes will not use their real names.

  coyotes: A slang word for smugglers, especially those who smuggle ill
egal immigrants over the border from Mexico into the United States. They get their name from the sly, cunning, and mischievous animals that live throughout most of the southwestern part of the United States and northern part of Mexico.

  curandera/la curandera: Witch doctor or healer; a woman who takes care of villagers who are sick by supplying herbal remedies and can also lift evil curses that have been placed on her patients.

  desayuno chapín: A traditional Guatemalan breakfast often serving beans, eggs, cheese, corn tortillas, and plantains. Other additions, such as avocados, sausages, and tomatoes, are also common.

  desgraciados: An insult without a real English translation but it carries the implication of loser or scoundrel. As an adjective it also means “unlucky.”

  Diamantes: The name of a made-up gang in Ciudad Juárez, meaning “diamonds.”

  dieciséis: Ángela’s pretend age, meaning “sixteen,” but she’s really fifteen, or quince.

  Diego Rivera (1886–1957): A famous Mexican painter whose last name is the same as Jaime’s, although they’re not related.

  dola: Not a real word, but how Jaime says “dollar.”

  Don: A term of respect added before a given name, similar to “sir.” For Padre Kevin to call El Gordo “Don Gordo” is respectful, even if the padre has no respect for the smuggler.

  Doña: The female form for don and used to show respect, similar to “ma’am” but used before the woman’s first name.

  dormir: When the lady driving them to the safe-house says this, she’s literally saying “to sleep” but the meaning is understood to be “you’re sleeping.”

  el chico salvadoreño: El chico means “the boy” or “the guy” and salvadoreño means “Salvadoran,” so together it’s “the Salvadoran guy.”