Santiago's Road Home Page 5

  “I think you need to remember your own words,” María Dolores whispered in his ear. “It’s okay to be scared, and to care. That’s part of your bravery too.”

  Words rose to argue with her—that wasn’t what he meant at all. And besides, he just said it to comfort the five-year-old.

  He felt an impulsive need to break away and flee, but he was stuck. He’d have to leave, eventually, but a few more minutes would be okay.

  “Do you really want to stay and work in the tavern?” María Dolores again spoke quietly, her head still next to Santiago’s.

  “No.” He lifted Alegría from his lap and slid off the bed, unable to have them there so close any longer. “But you need to take care of ustedes dos.”

  “How much money does the coyote want?”

  “Nine thousand five hundred pesos por persona.”

  “So?”

  “That’s nineteen thousand pesos.”

  “Three times nine thousand five hundred is twenty-eight thousand five hundred.”

  “You can’t spend that much money on me!”

  “Mira.” She got off the bed and took his chin in her hand so he’d look at her. “You asked to come with us, and I agreed. That’s part of the deal. I knew what that meant. But let me say, if you want to stay with us, you have got to stop thinking we’re going to leave you at any moment.”

  He tried to look away, but her hand remained under his chin. He averted his eyes. “It’s that—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care. We look after each other. You found a coyote; I take care of the finances. It all works out.”

  “But you said you’re not rich.”

  “I’m not,” she agreed. “I got my first job at eight and was kicked out of the house at thirteen. I’ve had to work hard most of my life and put up with a lot of bad things to get here. But I also know money isn’t everything. It buys neither happiness, ni amor. I can’t take it with me when I die. I might as well use it while I have it. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  He struggled to see the logic of that. All his life he’d heard what a burden he was, how expensive it was to keep him fed and clothed. But here María Dolores seemed almost indifferent to money. It didn’t make sense.

  “You don’t have to understand what I’m saying.” Her tone softened. “I just want you to know that I get to decide how I spend my money. If that means getting the three of us across the border, then I’m doing that, because I think it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

  He saw no benefit in disagreeing. What he’d do was simple: He’d help them get to el otro lado. Once there, he’d go to some rich city and get a job that paid him thousands of pesos a day so he could pay her back. They say everything is possible in el otro lado if a person works for it.

  “You have to come with us, Santi, have to.” Alegría hugged his leg, sitting on his foot.

  He nodded.

  María Dolores smiled and gave him an affectionate shove on the shoulder. “So tell me, who’s this coyote that’s taking the three of us? Don’t say it’s that Domínguez.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The sun blazed bright and hot when they piled into Domínguez’s ancient, rusted station wagon the next day. The indecisive cowboy sat in front with Domínguez, still dressed in his fancy duds like he was ready for a date. Another man—Luis, from Central America by the sound of his accent—shared the back seat with Santiago, Alegría, and María Dolores. The little girl got her own seat because María Dolores said it wasn’t safe for her to ride on her lap. A married couple, Tano and Vivian from the city of Chihuahua, occupied the rear-facing seat in the way back of the station wagon. Despite the intense sun, Domínguez promised the car operated on four-hundred AC—roll down four windows, drive a hundred kilometers an hour, and you had air-conditioning.

  Before they left Capaz, Don José had pulled Santiago aside. “You’ve been a big help. If you think of it, send me a postcard from wherever you end up in el otro lado.”

  Santiago averted his eyes. “What if we don’t make it?”

  Don José waved that possibility away. “You guys’ll be fine. You know I don’t get involved, but Domínguez is one of the few good ones. I’ve watched him his whole life. He knows the desert, and better yet, knows how to survive in it. Listen to him, and he’ll get you there safe.”

  Then he handed over three ice creams from the freezer behind the bar. Under one of the paletas, Don José included a folded slip of dull green paper. It showed an old-fashioned-looking white dude in the middle and numbers he recognized: $20. But it looked nothing like the colorful twenty-peso notes he was used to with a white background, blue and red ink, and a less old-fashioned Benito Juárez on the right.

  “Are you sure?” he asked as Don José headed toward his customers. From what Santiago had heard, this note was worth a lot more than twenty Mexican pesos.

  Don José narrowed his eyes and shot sideways looks across his tavern, reminding Santiago that anyone could be listening. “No one buys the frambuesa. Too exotic.”

  He had a point. Santiago had heard of “raspberry” but had never tried it in any capacity. He started to tuck the twenty dollars into his pocket but changed his mind. Too easy to steal, or lose. He let one of the ice cream bars drop to the floor. With the pretense of picking it up, he stuffed the money down his sock.

  Now in the car, the raspberry paletas long gone (though Alegría still wore the evidence of red “lipstick”), Santiago could feel his foot sweat where it touched the paper money. The rest of him felt surprisingly comfortable despite the hot air blasting through the open windows.

  “We’re heading west, not north,” said the cowboy up front when they turned from the main road onto a rutted dirt track.

  Domínguez nodded. “Tienes razón. We are heading west.”

  “But we need to go north,” the cowboy insisted. “It’s called El Norte for a reason.”

  “And you don’t think we’re heading west for a reason?” Domínguez gestured to the barren dirt road in front of them.

  “You’re deliberately getting us lost before you abandon us, aren’t you?” the cowboy accused. “Leaving us to die like you did those other guys.”

  Vivian, the woman seated with her husband Tano in the way back, called out, “Could you please tell us, Señor Domínguez, what really happened to those people who died?”

  Domínguez lit a cigarette and took a drag before responding. “Rumors say I abandoned them. Really, they were dying already. Fools brought beer to celebrate the crossing instead of water. Everyone knows alcohol dehydrates. Then we got caught in a dust storm for a full day. All that and the heat, I knew they wouldn’t make it any further. I went to get them some help, telling them to stay in the shadow of a few boulders. I returned later to find them scattered and dead from exposure. Don’t know anyone who could have done different, and many who wouldn’t have bothered returning to look for them.”

  “You should have died along with them. Murderer!” the cowboy wailed.

  Domínguez slammed on the brakes, almost sending the cowboy through the windshield. María Dolores braced herself against the back of the passenger seat while her left arm flew out to block Alegría and Santiago from sailing through the middle. Luis, the man next to Santiago, knocked his head against Domínguez’s seat. Only the couple in the back sitting in reverse wasn’t jostled.

  Domínguez’s cigarette fell to the ground as he burst out of the station wagon and walked around the car to open the passenger door. “Get out.”

  The cowboy shifted nervously, glancing around the dry landscape. No brush or boulder offered more than a few centimeters of shade. No sign of civilization existed in any direction. He curled his body over the seat-belt buckle. “No, you can’t do that. You can’t leave me. I paid you.”

  Domínguez pulled a wad of money from his pocket and held it under the cowboy’s nose. “If you think I’m a murderer, take it and get out.”

  “I’m sorry, please, no. I didn’t mean it. Please, don
’t leave me here,” the cowboy sobbed.

  “Then shut up, and stop pretending you know how to do my job better than me. Next time I have to stop the car, I will kick you out.” Domínguez punted a rock in demonstration.

  “Excuse me, Señor Domínguez,” Vivian called out again. “Since we’ve stopped already, is it okay if I pee really quick?”

  Domínguez muttered a few bad words under his breath before jerking his head in consent. “You won’t find much privacy, but take five minutes anyway. After that, I’m leaving.”

  The couple climbed out of the back along with Luis, and María Dolores rushed off with Alegría. Santiago exited the car only to get away from the cowboy, who remained with his seat belt still fastened.

  Domínguez dusted off his dropped cigarette and walked a few meters away from the car. He kept shifting in a tight circle, attempting to relight his cigarette, but even with his back against the breeze, he struggled to get a light. Noticing his distress, Santiago walked over and cupped his hands around the flame. A couple of seconds later a puff of smoke came from the mustache covering Domínguez’s mouth.

  “I knew I liked you,” the man said by way of thanks. He offered a cigarette to Santiago, who shook his head. Cigarettes reminded him too much of la malvada.

  Instead he took in the barren landscape of northern Chihuahua. Dirt, sand, and stones dominated the terrain more than vegetation. Even the cacti and other spiny plants were sparse in this area. A couple of birds flew overhead that knew where to find enough nourishment to continue living in the desert.

  “Maybe I should pee too,” he said once Domínguez had gotten halfway through his rescued cigarette. “How far are we from the border?” He hoped the question would come across as conversational rather than demanding.

  “About a kilometer or so.” Domínguez puffed out some smoke. “But we’ll drive right alongside it on this track for another hour. Around Capaz, there are too many eyes and ears. I know one guy who always walks his pollos right to the border patrol outpost on the other side, and la migra just drives them straight back to México. But the desgraciado has the people’s money and a free ride back home, so what does he care? Makes it hard for the rest of us, just trying to make a living.” Domínguez shook his head in disgust.

  Santiago nodded sympathetically.

  “So does that mean those mountains are in el otro lado?” He pointed north to a range in the far distance.

  Domínguez took a deep drag as he nodded. “Yup. Those are in Nuevo México. Steep and dangerous to cross, but it’s also the most direct way to Valle Cobre on the other side. Old mining town. Should be there in two or three days. Because it’s hard to get to from this side, la migra usually doesn’t bother with it. No buses run there, and cell phone reception is nonexistent in that valley. But they have a working pay phone. Call someone to get you, and you’re home free.”

  “Is that where we’re going?” Santiago took in the mountains, studied their shape and ridges, how one part had a rock face that went straight up as if something had removed a slice. But he also imagined a town on the other side with chickens and goats scattered around the pay phone in front of a rickety shop that sold overpriced, out-of-date snacks.

  “Not sure. Depends on the little one.”

  Santiago’s defenses shot up. “She’s tougher than she looks. And I’m not going to let anything happen to either of them.”

  “From what I’ve seen of you, I believe that.” Domínguez threw his cigarette onto the ground and walked back to the car. “Pee break’s up. You all got thirty seconds to get back in the car.”

  Small embers from the cigarette sizzled in the dry grass around it. Santiago smothered them out with the toe of his new sneaker before joining the rest.

  The cowboy still hadn’t moved from his spot in the roasting car other than to fan himself with his hat. Domínguez took one look at him and shook his head.

  “Switch places with the kid. I’d rather have him as my copilot.”

  The cowboy didn’t budge.

  Domínguez grabbed him by the shirt collar, leaving grime on his immaculate crossing outfit. “I will not say it again.”

  The cowboy hastened to unfasten his seat belt, but instead of going through the open car door, he crawled over the seats, afraid that once outside, he’d never be let back in. Santiago didn’t doubt that the thought had crossed Domínguez’s mind.

  A pang of guilt went through Santiago as he fastened the seat belt in the front. Up here he had plenty of room on the bench seat and good air circulation. The back seat was now filled with three adults and a child; María Dolores didn’t trust the cowboy and put herself between him and Alegría, meaning the little girl who couldn’t touch the vehicle’s floor had plenty of space while her mamá in the middle struggled for legroom.

  Sorry, Santiago mouthed, but María Dolores shrugged it off.

  Once the car got back in motion, Domínguez chatted to Santiago as if they were the only ones there. He pointed out the fuzzy mullein plant that could be used as wilderness toilet paper and warned about eating the flat cactus pads, nopales, which, while tasty, needed to be properly harvested to prevent the tiny prickly glochids, or “hairs,” from embedding in the mouth and tongue.

  “See those two fingers sticking out in the mountain range? Down between those two rocks there’s a slot canyon with a nice cave. We’ll ditch the car soon to cross the border, and we should get to the cave sometime tonight. That’s where we’ll sleep off the heat of the day tomorrow. It’s harder to see, but night travel beats the heat.”

  In the sky, the sun still shone intensely. If Santiago had to guess, he’d say they had about two hours before sunset. And then a whole night before sunrise; the two fingers along the same mountain range Santiago had asked about earlier were much farther away than he’d thought.

  “And then?” Santiago asked, wanting to add to his mental map.

  “And then— What the—”

  A cloud of dust loomed behind them, and from it charged a white SUV. Domínguez accelerated with a burst, jostling everyone in the old station wagon. From the back seat, Alegría began to cry in fear, and some of the grown-ups did too.

  Low to the ground and on a rutted track, the old station wagon couldn’t compete with the modern SUV built for off-road clearance, which soon began to overtake them.

  A window rolled down, and the flash of a gold watch and silver gun barrel gleamed in the sunlight.

  “Get down!” Domínguez yelled as he yanked the steering wheel hard.

  BANG!

  The car swerved off the track. Too fast, too sharp, the vehicle hit the dirt on Santiago’s side while the other side rose in the air. He hugged his arms over his head as everyone screamed. The car continued hurtling through the air until it slammed to a stop and the glaring sun went out.

  CHAPTER 11

  Blood and sweat stung Santiago’s eyes as he blinked. His hands searched in front of him and found shards of broken glass.

  “María Dolores? Alegría?” His voice came out in a croak. Indistinguishable moans and cries responded instead of words.

  He wiped his eyes and tried to figure out why the ground was so close to his pounding head. The seat belt had done its job, holding him fast and secure, but upside down.

  It took some maneuvering to squeeze out through the open window and into the fresh air. Only the slightest speck on the horizon reminded him of the white SUV that had shot them off the road. Most of the station wagon’s roof had collapsed as it lay belly up with its wheels spinning slowly. Smoke came from the hood, and some part of the motor still made noise. Any minute, the car could explode.

  On his hands and knees, Santiago crawled over to the back-seat window. He could just make out the ball that was Alegría. Glass fragments still remained along the edges of the frame from the window that only rolled down halfway. He removed them quickly before lying flat on his belly to reach into the narrow opening.

  “Alegría, it’s me, Santi. I’ll help you out.�
�� He kept his voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “I got you, mamita. I got you.”

  He couldn’t tell if she even heard him over her cries. At least she was crying. Silence would have been worse. He eased her out, her fingers digging into his arms. He looked her over quickly, relieved to see nothing more than a few scratches and bruises, while she cried into his ear with her thin arms almost strangling him.

  “Mamita, I have to help your mamá and the others,” he said soothingly, stroking her hair, not knowing whether her heart or the pain in his head pounded louder than her cries.

  But she refused to let go, wrapping her legs around his waist and locking her feet against his back. Like a possum, she held tight even as he peered into the overturned car.

  “María Dolores, are you okay?” A tangle of legs and arms made it unclear what belonged to whom, and whether they were still intact.

  “I’m not sure,” María Dolores mumbled. Some of the body parts shifted. Bleached hair stood out against the dark interior to finally reveal her face, also scratched and dirty. “Yes, I think so. But I won’t fit through that window. The frame is too smashed up.”

  He tried the door; it wouldn’t budge. With Alegría still clinging to him, Santiago rushed to the other side of the car. Luis crawled out from a slightly larger window opening while the mechanical noise from the engine continued to click.

  “My arm!” the cowboy wailed from inside the car. “I think it’s broken. I can’t move. The seat belt won’t come undone. It’s so hot, I’m dying!”

  “Cállate ya. No one who’s really dying has that kind of lung capacity,” María Dolores scolded.

  “Here.” Santiago crouched down to the warped window and pulled out his dull pocketknife.

  The cowboy took it and tried to saw the seat belt. “I can’t do this left-handed. It’s useless,” he whined.

  “Oh, give it here.” María Dolores grabbed the knife from his hands. “I swear, my five-year-old is more resourceful.”