The Only Road Page 6

  Tired. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He had fallen asleep in Pancho’s truck; he had dozed off in the bus. He never thought whether Ángela had as well. He didn’t even know if she had slept the night before.

  He licked his lips. He wasn’t used to worrying about other people. That was Mamá’s job. And Ángela’s. And Miguel’s. What would Miguel do?

  The answer came as if Miguel were right there whispering in his ear: break things down and look at everything logically. Un paso a la vez. One step at a time.

  Jaime gave Ángela’s shoulder an extra squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. First thing we have to do is find this church. We’ll have to ask someone.” Preferably not the old man who was now shouting random words at the light post.

  Ángela took a deep breath as she tried to regain control. “We have to be careful. The security checkpoints we went through, they weren’t just for drug traffic. Remember the Salvadoran woman. Los mexicanos really don’t like us. They think we’re all criminals and not as worthy in the eyes of God.”

  He knew all this, of course. He knew their lives were at stake. Just as he knew what would happen if they were sent home. “We have to find this church. We can’t sleep here.”

  “Right.” Ángela stood up, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll have to find a pay phone and use our last pesos to call Papá. Hopefully he can get ahold of Padre Lorenzo, who can—”

  Jaime waved her to stop. His attention returned to the graffiti like a magnet pull. Something was written under the hateful words. He edged closer to the grass median that divided the bus station parking lot from the street, to be sure he read correctly. “God welcomes all at Santo Domingo, 17A. Norte.”

  “Ángela, look!” He pointed at the writing. “Could it be a trick?” The address could lead them straight into whatever gang ran Arriaga or into la migra headquarters. But he had a feeling they could trust it. Late as it was, with no one around to ask, it was their best option. There were no pay phones in sight.

  “We don’t have another option,” Ángela said. “We have to try it.”

  The street corner in front of the bus station told them what number avenue they were on and the cross street in front. Assuming Arriaga worked on a grid of some kind (as Tapachula had, as well as the villages back home) with number streets going up or down, they should eventually find the church. If they had the right address.

  They followed the dark paved highway until it crossed the railroad tracks and the streets changed from sur to norte, but then encountered a series of wrong turns.

  In the dark, in a strange town, every place seemed dangerous. Down one gravelly dirt street, rowdy voices screamed behind closed doors until something like a gunshot demanded silence. Ángela and Jaime grabbed each other’s hand and ran the other way. Another wrong turn led them down a dark street where two men outside a bar leered and beckoned to Ángela.

  “Ven, muñeca, I want to show you something.”

  Jaime did what Miguel would have done: he told them off for being disrespectful pigs whose mamás had not raised them properly and that they should rot in hell. Except while Miguel would have said it out loud, Jaime said it inside his head. Outside his head they both ignored the men and hurried to find a safer street.

  After some other streets that dead-ended at someone’s house or by the river, they finally found a street that crossed 17A Norte. A wooden cross with the faded words “Santo Domingo” written on it was nailed to a post. An arrow pointed down the street.

  Smoke rose into the night sky from what smelled like a bonfire, and laughter echoed from the nearby river. The residential street of crumbling houses ended in front of a rundown church. Its stone and concrete structure was barely standing, requiring the aid of rope and string in a few places. A few men sat outside on the steps smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and speaking in low voices. When Jaime and Ángela approached, the overweight man in the middle stood up.

  “Are you looking for shelter? I’m Padre Kevin, bienvenidos.”

  Padre Kevin looked nothing like any priest Jaime had ever seen before, with his sandals, flowery Bermuda shorts, blue tank top, and the cigarette stuck to his bottom lip. But he wore a silver crucifix around his neck, and the faded words painted on the wall behind him did say “Iglesia de Santo Domingo.” At least, Jaime told himself, he didn’t look like an officer or a gang member either.

  “Gracias,” Ángela said. “Do you have space for us?”

  The priest inhaled from his cigarette and laughed. “There’s always space for God’s children, just as long as you don’t mind squeezing a bit. You, kid, do you want to sleep with the men or stay with your sister and the women and children?”

  Too tired to think, he shrugged. Of course he didn’t want to stay with the little kids, but he’d never slept anywhere without a family member in the same room, or a cousin in the hammock next to him.

  “We’ll stay together,” Ángela answered for him.

  Padre Kevin took a deep drag from his cigarette before handing it to one of his compañeros. He led the way into the church, which was little more than a large room with pews pushed to one side. Through the moonlight seeping from the open windows, Jaime saw mounds and shapes huddled across the floor.

  “If you need the bathroom, the river’s less than two hundred meters away. The church’s plumbing is clogged, but there’s a water basin through that door over there.” Padre Kevin kept his voice low as he pointed out the features of their first night’s accommodation.

  He gave them two tattered blankets and waved to a spot near a wall that was free. Ángela laid one blanket over the dirt floor. They took off their shoes and lay down, using their backpacks for pillows, and covering themselves with the second blanket.

  It had been twenty-four hours and five hundred kilometers since Jaime’s parents had woken him up in the middle of the night. Now, as he lay next to his cousin on the hard, dirt floor in a rundown church run by a weird priest, he took a deep breath. Before he’d finished exhaling, he fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sun coming through the open church windows woke them up earlier than they would have liked. But even without the sun, the people shuffling around and babies crying would have gotten them up anyway. It took a few blinks for Jaime’s eyes to focus, and a few more for his brain to register what the church looked like.

  To say it didn’t compare to the church in Tapachula would be like saying a rock wasn’t like a rainbow. The two had absolutely nothing in common. This one had a “natural” skylight where the roof had caved in, no paintings, and a crucifix that was little more than two branches tied together into a cross. Patches of the stone walls were missing; dust crumbs from the wall next to Jaime and Ángela clung to the tattered blanket. Bits of cloth were sewed together to make a curtain in the middle of the room, separating them from the men. In the thick humidity, body odor mingled with dirty diapers and whiffs from the polluted river occasionally joined forces. When Jaime grabbed his shoes, a black cockroach scurried from the laces to find a new hiding place.

  And then there were the people. About fifty women and children crammed into their half of the church, making it hot and stuffy despite the draft. On the other side of the curtain there were probably just as many men. Or more.

  “Is everyone here going to El Norte?” Jaime asked Ángela as he gave his shoes a good thump before putting them on.

  “Me imagino.” Ángela looked around at the women and children waking up. “Gangs like the Alphas are all over Centro América.”

  Jaime stopped to think about it. If there were about one hundred people here, in this one little church, in a little town, how many other immigrants were there in other refugee centers throughout México? There must be thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, heading to El Norte every day. That couldn’t be right. He must be adding it up wrong; Miguel had been the one good at math. On the other hand, Jaime’s logic made perfect sense. “Even if only half of them make it across the
border, which we know is very hard, how can one country fit so many extra people?”

  Ángela licked her lips as if she didn’t want to think about that. “That’s why they’re building a wall. I saw a picture of a fence going into the ocean. They say it’s to keep their country safe. But really, it’s to keep us out.”

  Jaime recalled a couple of photos that Tomás had sent of the ranchland where he worked—pastures and mountains with no buildings as far as the eye could see, so different from home, where houses clustered together with banana trees growing between them like weeds. True, El Norte was huge, and there were some empty parts. But how long would the land stay empty, especially if there were thousands sneaking in each day? He knew they were unwanted, unwelcome. He could only hope that there’d be some room left in the world for him and his family.

  He followed his cousin through the thick tropical growth to the river, where they kept watch for each other, before returning to the church hall.

  “Mangos or tamales?” Ángela looked through their food bags. “Or there’s still some tortillas and a tiny bit of cheese.”

  If only Abuela had packed the breakfast she had made yesterday. They’d definitely enjoy it more today. Jaime’s stomach groaned and ached as he remembered home. “Tortilla with mango and we might as well finish the cheese, too, I guess.”

  A girl close to Ángela’s age with a baby slung around her chest and a handmade bag hanging from her shoulder looked up as she folded her tattered blanket.

  “The church provides us with food.” She spoke with an accent that implied Spanish hadn’t been her first language. She didn’t look Mayan; Jaime wondered if she was Xinca or Pipil Indian instead.

  Ángela smiled and waved hello at the baby. “Thank you, but we’re already grateful for the shelter. We shouldn’t take when we already have.”

  The baby reached out to Ángela with thin arms. The mother hesitated for a second before passing the baby over. “Save what you have and go to the table anyway. Tomorrow we could all be starving.”

  Jaime and Ángela looked at each other. The girl had a point. They only had food for another day or so and then what? Even if they boarded the train today, it could easily be a week before they got to Tomás. Or more.

  “Tenés razón.” Ángela colloquially agreed with the woman as if she were talking to a girl friend, not the formal way she had spoken with the guard on the bus. “We’ll eat what God provides.”

  Jaime remembered Quico’s plump belly and chubby cheeks that broke into a smile when tickled. In comparison this baby seemed frail and small. Ángela rocked her for a few more seconds before handing her back.

  The girl pulled her baby close. They both giggled as the girl burrowed her face into the tiny tummy. She adjusted the infant into some rags that worked as a carrier against her chest. “Better take your food with you, and your other belongings. Things grow legs when you’re not watching.”

  “Gracias.” Jaime hugged the backpack to his chest. If anything happened to his sketchbook . . .

  The girl turned in a circle to give her sleeping spot one last check. The blanket she had used lay perfectly folded in a corner.

  “Are you leaving now?” Ángela frowned.

  “Her father”—the young woman looked down at her baby with a sad smile—“tried to take her away from me. I can’t let him find us.”

  It was then that Jaime noticed the bruises on the girl’s arm, the cut almost hidden under her hair, her feet wrapped in scraps of cloth instead of shoes. Although she looked nothing like them, it wasn’t too hard imagining her as Ángela. If only they could help her.

  From their plastic food bag Ángela took out one of Abuela’s tamales wrapped in banana leaves and a mango that had grown behind Jaime’s house and handed them to the young woman with the baby. “For tomorrow.”

  • • •

  The cousins folded up the bed blankets and returned them to a viejita who placed them on a stack before they were allowed outside.

  A grumpy woman with dark, thick braids served breakfast on a long table under some trees near the river. Her gruff glare deterred anyone from asking for second helpings. Not that anyone would. Breakfast consisted of lumpy cornmeal cereal and soupy pinto beans, both of which tasted like nothing.

  “I miss Abuela’s cooking,” Jaime said under his breath, though the snicker of agreement from Ángela meant she had heard and agreed.

  If they were home, they’d have fried plantains, sweet bread, and sausages. Even when money was tight, there were always eggs from their chickens, fruit from the trees, and an endless supply of savory black beans.

  Jaime took more bites, imagining the food had salt, sugar, or lard. Something to make it less bland. When the plastic plate lay empty on the ground in front of him, he knew Abuela would be proud. He had a feeling that picky eaters wouldn’t survive this trip.

  About a hundred people ate their breakfasts on the ground under the shade of avocado trees picked bare of any fruit. Grown men in various shades of tiredness. Women clumped together, keeping their heads down and avoiding attention. Quite a few children and teens, mostly without their parents. Some people were barefoot; some sported raw bruises on their faces; some looked like their soul had left their body and all that was left was a corpse operated by memory.

  Jaime closed his eyes for a second and said a prayer of thanks. He had (he rapped his knuckles against the avocado tree he was leaning against) Ángela, they had food and money, and they had their health. Compared to the others huddled around this ruined church, they could be in much worse conditions.

  Bright and perky for so early in the morning, Padre Kevin walked among the travelers, asking how they had slept and if they needed anything. When one teen in a cap said he needed café con leche, eggs, and a side of bacon, Padre Kevin pressed his hands together in prayer and then reminded him that stranger miracles had happened.

  The padre came up to Jaime and Ángela with a huge smile. He must have gotten less sleep than they had, but there he was, fully alert, freshly shaved, and in hot pink shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of Jesús and the English words “Who’s your daddy?”

  “Ah, if it isn’t my midnight chapines,” he said, using the colloquial word for Guatemalans, and welcomed them each with the traditional greeting cheek kiss. “How did you sleep in my luxurious house of God?” He raised his arms with pride to embrace his rundown church.

  “Very well, thank you,” Ángela said as she set down her finished plate. “We appreciate you letting us stay here.”

  Padre Kevin looked up at the hazy grayish-blue sky with a sense of tranquility as if Ángela were thanking the wrong person. “Of course. And how long do we have the pleasure of your company? You can stay as long as you like.”

  Jaime and Ángela exchanged looks. That part of the plan was still vague. Last night Padre Kevin had said there was always room, but maybe he wasn’t good at math and didn’t realize how full the church already was.

  “We need to get in contact with a man called El Gordo,” Ángela said. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  Padre Kevin’s perky grin changed to a frown as his eyes shifted among the crowd. “You won’t find him, he’ll find you.”

  “He knows we’re here?” Jaime asked. The feeling of being watched made him shiver. He glanced at the bushes behind him, just to be sure.

  “He’ll be around the day before the train comes in.” Padre Kevin suddenly seemed tired. “Have you already paid him?”

  Ángela nodded. “Our parents have.”

  Jaime slipped his thumbs into his jeans waistband without realizing what he was doing. When he did, guilt overtook him. The money, the sacrifice his and Ángela’s parents must have gone through to get everything ready in a few days. Just for their safety. They gave us everything they had. And more. Jaime sent another prayer to his family, sending his love and thanks. He just hoped their sacrifice was worth it.

  He hoped he didn’t end up like Miguel.

  “Hmm, well
, that’s that.” Padre Kevin looked like he wanted to say more about El Gordo but instead turned to greet the next group of people.

  “Wait.” Ángela got to her feet. “When is the next train? When will El Gordo come?”

  Padre Kevin’s face twitched as if his brain were fighting for control against his mouth. “Next train’s in two days, so he’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you are too or you’ll lose your money.” When he welcomed the people sitting next to them, his previous perkiness was missing from his tone.

  “What should we do today?” Jaime asked as he and Ángela walked back to the table to return their plastic colored plates.

  Ángela looked around as if she, too, wondered whether they were being watched from the dense bushes. “I don’t know. We don’t know how safe it is here. Remember the graffiti? But I don’t like staying still, either.”

  Good, he didn’t want to wander around the town. After all, Miguel had been killed in broad daylight in the village they’d lived in their whole life. Who knew what could happen in this unfamiliar place.

  Before Jaime could make some suggestions—guess the drawing, quiz each other on movie trivia, or walk through the thick bushes lining the river in search of smooth stones for a game of marbles—the grumpy woman at the food table yanked the plates out of their hands. “You can help around here, that’s what you can do. This isn’t a hotel, you know. Things don’t just magically get done.”

  “Of course not,” Ángela said, sounding surprised and offended. Back home, everyone always helped out however they could. It was what families did.

  “Yeah, well.” The woman’s voice softened a bit when they didn’t complain or argue. Jaime wondered if most people tried to get out of helping, or never thought of volunteering. “Padre always forgets to mention it when he makes the rounds. He seems to think that help should be given willingly, and not because one feels obligated. But then I’m left doing it all myself.”

  Jaime nodded. “What can we help you do?”