Crossing the Wire (3 page)

I
STAYED AWAY FROM THE FOLDS
of the mountain, where brush choked the ravines. The slopes I was climbing were steep and mostly bare. The hike to El Cristo Rey usually took three hours. Today, knowing I might be leaving, I stopped along the way to appreciate the greening valley and the surrounding mountains.

Rico's father once told me that our side of the mountain used to be covered with pine forests. The Spanish cut them down to use in the mines and to build the cities. The land has been drying up ever since.

I wondered if these things could be true. Rico's father carried grudges, against the Americans and even the Spanish of hundreds of years before, who must have been his ancestors, in part if not mostly. I asked my mother once if any of our ancestors were Spaniards. She didn't think so. She said we were Tojolabal, descendants of the Maya.

I was grateful that Rico's parents weren't going to hold a grudge against me for last evening, for telling them what Rico had done. It had been terrible, trying to find the words to tell them, terrible what the words had done to them. Rico's mother gave one sharp cry, and then she was speechless. I saw the color go from her face and hope from her eyes.

They believed me when I explained that Rico had told me only the night before. They didn't even blame me for not warning them. “Working with his brother, that will come to grief sooner or later,” Rico's father said at the door.

“But why?” I asked.

“Because Reynaldo lacks honesty. I told him as much once to his face, which is why he has done this. To spite me.”

The door groaned on its hinges shutting behind me. From now on, the house of the Riveras was going to be a sad and lonely place.

The tolling of the village bells, carrying far up the slopes, brought me back to my feet. I climbed higher until Los Árboles was like a toy village and the road from Guanajuato to Silao shrank to a ribbon. I sat down again and took it in once more, the world I had known. Even with the forest missing, it was beautiful.

It was home. All I remembered of the forests of Chiapas was their emerald green color, and the jaguar. The great spotted cat had come to the edge of the forest and looked at me one day as I was playing on the grass behind our house with its roof of thatch. I was too young to even be afraid.

When I was older, and told my father of this memory, he didn't
say I had imagined it. Papá told me that our ancestors had built some of their greatest temples to the tigre. The powers of other animals didn't even come close.

Nearing the top, I spiraled around the summit of El Cubilete, the Tumbler, until I reached the road, which was jammed with cars, taxis, and tour buses creeping into the parking lot. I hurried to get past the diesel fumes. Inside the horseshoe-shaped shrine, the plaza was crowded with pilgrims of all ages. Many were on their knees, with eyes lifted to the sky and the gigantic statue of bronze.

I was disappointed to find it so crowded. It was a Sunday, but Easter was still a month away. I wasn't even going to try to get into the chapel. Stepping to the side, I took a long look at El Cristo Rey standing atop the chapel's roof, rounded to represent the top half of the world. One of the angels at His feet offered the crown of a king, the other a crown of thorns. I felt sorry for Him. Christ the King, with arms outstretched, had too many prayers to listen to. It wasn't like my family was the only one in trouble.

I had to get away from the crush, yet I wanted to stay close by awhile, someplace where I could do my thinking. I found it on a low concrete wall next to a bus from Mexico City. From my perch I could see Los Árboles, and think about what I had to do. The noise behind me wouldn't matter.

When my mind cleared, I saw my path. We didn't have another choice. Somehow, I had to make the journey north. For my father, for the family. I had to find work. I had to send the money home.

From out of nowhere, a figure in black sat down next to me, an
old priest. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Please, padre.”

“One of the great statues of the world,” the priest began. “I suppose you know why it was erected here.”

“The top of El Cubilete is at the exact center of all the land in Mexico.”

“You are very bright.”

“Well, I learned it in school.”

“Where are you from?”

I pointed. “That village way down there.”

“Not big enough to have a priest?”

“Once a month.”

The priest's eyes went from Los Árboles to my hands, rough as the skin of an iguana, and back to the village again. “I've been watching you. You seem to have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“That's almost what it feels like,” I admitted.

“Your father is no doubt working in El Norte.”

Uncomfortably, I nodded my head. I didn't like to tell the story of my father. I didn't want sympathy.

“With so many men away,” the priest said with a sigh, “it's as if the villages of Mexico are filled with widows and orphans.”

As we spoke, the bus had been filling with passengers returning from the shrine. As the last few boarded, the priest got up to join them and pressed something into my hand. I saw that it was some peso bills.

“The people on the bus gave me this for talking to them on the way here,” the padre explained. “No doubt your mother needs it more than I do. And by the way, it appears to me that you have very strong shoulders.”

I thanked him, and said that I would remember him. I watched the bus go, and then I started down the mountain. It wasn't long before I stopped to count the money. I was surprised when I found out how much it was. It might even be enough to take me to the border.

As I ran down the mountain, a dust devil was whirling in my mind. “Bus money!” I began by announcing. I showed my mother the bills and told her how I had come by them.

My mother crossed herself. Her eyes were large as ten-peso coins. “Surely this is a sign. Twice, a priest has given us bus money. Praise be to God and His blessed mother.”

“I should leave soon, before the deserts get too hot.”

“I understand. Your father always left by now.”

“I guess I should leave tomorrow.”

It pained my mother too much to reply with more than a nod.

“I'll go through Guadalajara, like he did. And cross in Arizona, like he did.”

I went to the creek with a bar of soap, washed my hair and scrubbed my skin raw. The bathing pool was in the shadows. The cold water felt like the stings of a thousand scorpions. I was filled with doubts. Was I brave enough to go through with this? How was my family going to manage without me? What if it didn't rain, and
the barrels that collected water from the roof remained empty? Our family used to have a burro to haul clean water from upstream, but we traded it for the milk goat. I wished I'd dug a new pit for the outhouse. Now my sisters would have to do that.

As I returned from the creek I saw my little brother waving from the rooftop. The entire family was waiting. During the summer, we watched the sunset together from the roof. It was always cooler up there. On the fourteenth of March, there was a cold wind blowing. I climbed the ladder to join them.

Lined up on the bench, facing the great statue, we watched our last sunset together. My mother had put on her finery from Chiapas: her blouse embroidered with many colors, and her long black skirt. This was all so out of the ordinary, it was more than a little scary for my sisters and little Chuy.

“Victor is leaving in the morning for El Norte,” Mamá began. “To find work, for the sake of the family, like your father used to do.”

“Will he be back for Christmas?” Chuy asked, as if I was already gone.

“Chuy,” Graciela said. “Victor might not be back for years.”

Chuy broke into tears and held tight to his mother. My sisters were trying to be brave. Teresa, the oldest, gave me a look of such pride I will remember it as long as I live.

My eyes went to the summit high above. The sunset was over. El Cristo Rey was a silhouette against a band of violet surrendering to black.

Chuy usually slept beside me on the floor, on the mattress we shared. Not this night. I heard my little brother cry himself to sleep in the next room with his mother and his sisters.

Never in my life had I felt so alone. Unlike Rico, I wasn't a brave person. I had no desire for adventure.

With the leaving so close, I couldn't sleep. I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.

After awhile my mother appeared at the doorway. “I can't sleep, Mamá.”

“Neither can I. Let us keep each other company while we still can. I've been lying awake thinking that I should have made you some hot chocolate. Now I have another chance. Would you like that?”

“Very much.”

We pulled on warm clothes and went outside. I started a fire in the stove of mud and cement my father had made. My mother heated the milk slowly, breaking off the last pieces of the hard chocolate. It was expensive, for special occasions only. Slowly, slowly, she kept stirring as the chocolate dissolved. At the last, she twirled the molinillo stick between her palms to make the froth.

She took the pot off and let the mixture cool. All the while, the half moon and stars were wheeling. I wished I could stop them. It was impossible to find the right words to say.

My mother poured the hot chocolate into our cups. “It's good,” I said.

“Yes, but with a bitter sweetness tonight, my son.”

“Now that the time is so close, Mamá, I am so unsure. I have to go, but I don't know where I will find the strength, and the courage.”

She touched her heart. “In the part of you that is always home, no matter where you are. Think of us, and it will help. Always know, you are never alone.”

“How long can you hold out here without money arriving?”

“We can sell the goat and the chickens. We can get by on the garden until the first frost, around the Day of the Dead. Once it freezes, that would be the end.”

In the morning, my family didn't walk with me. Inside the house, they emptied out their tears as I walked the long silent mile to the bus alone. It was a cloudy day, and I was shivering under my jacket. The village bells began to toll. The sound reminded me of the day my father was lowered into the ground. I wished I had thought to visit his grave before setting out.

The bus was pulling up. I had told myself that I wasn't going to look back at the village, but I couldn't help it. When I did, I felt as weak as an old cornstalk rattling in the winds of winter.

T
HE BUS STATION IN
S
ILAO
was crowded. Remembering what had happened to my father here, years before, I kept a good grip on my shoulder bag. What little money I had was stuffed in my underwear. I tried to look unafraid, as if I knew what I was doing. All the while, I felt like a bird out of the nest before it was ready to fly.

I counted five different groups of travelers in the station. Many of them wore straw hats like mine, sneakers like mine. I wondered how many were campesinos, and leaving their fields for the first time. Most carried small nylon backpacks, which meant they were headed for the States. Like me, they were waiting for the bus to Guadalajara.

I wondered if any of these men had one of those famous green cards the Americans gave so few of. My father never had one, and neither did Rico's. Without a green card, you were illegal on the
other side. You were a mojado—a wetback—as my father had often called himself. He said that the name came from swimming across the Rio Grande River into Texas, but really it meant all the illegal workers, even if they crossed on dry land.

Probably all these men were going to be mojados—“wets”—same as me. The difference between us was the coyote money they had on them, American dollars earned in the States, big money like Rico was carrying three days ago when he passed through here with the group from Los Árboles.

How I wished I was traveling with a group of experienced men. All Rico had to do was follow along, and when the time came, pull out his money to pay the coyote who would smuggle them across.

Without staring at the men in the station, I was looking them over carefully. I had to find an ally, someone else in my situation. There had to be people like me, who had to go north but didn't have coyote money. It only made sense that they wouldn't band together and make a group. A man alone, or maybe two, would have a much better chance of sneaking through.

At last I spotted a man with a small backpack who entered the station by himself, bought a ticket, and stood alone. If he was heading north, here was someone I should keep an eye on.

The man was taller than average, lean as a fencepost, about thirty. No doubt he'd made many crossings. Experience lay heavy on him, like a tree much carved upon. His shaggy hair, drooping mustache, and downcast eyes—one with a sleepy eyelid—made him look like someone to stay away from, a lone wolf kicked out of the
pack. A lone wolf was what I was looking for, but this one I was in no hurry to meet.

My bus was called. I went out to the platform and lined up. Several of the mojado groups were getting on this bus, and so was Sleepy Eye.

As I boarded, I was amazed by the plush seats with high backs and headrests, and by the air-conditioning. My mother had told me that the first class buses would be the quickest and safest way to go. It was how my father had traveled to the Arizona border.

Stay alert, I told myself as I started down the aisle. I noticed that the mojados were putting their backpacks in the overhead compartment opposite the seat they were choosing. To keep an eye on their things, most likely. I would do the same. Two-thirds of the way back, I came to the first open seats. My lone wolf was on the aisle. I stowed my bag above him, ducked into the row directly across, and sat at the window. I had to keep track of him, just in case he turned out to be the one.

The bus pulled out of the station and left Silao behind. Out the window, I was looking over the horizon of my world. From here on, every single city and town, every mountain and valley, was going to be new and strange. It was exciting, but even more, it was scary.

Once on the open road, the bus went much faster than the buses I was used to. The ride was smoother and quieter. The driver had the radio tuned to the powerful signal of Radio XEG, La Ranchera de Monterrey. I loved ranchera music, the stories that the songs
told, the dramatic, emotional singing. Rico couldn't stand ranchera, especially the mariachis. I pictured him pulling out his headphones and turning up the volume on his own music.

After a brief stop at Salamanca, we were on our way again. The song that was soon playing throughout the bus was the famous “Camino de Guanajuato.” With the first notes, my heart swelled. It's the song of my tierra. The cities of Salamanca, León, and Dolores Hidalgo appear in it, and so does El Cristo Rey atop El Cubilete.

I looked around at the mojados surrounding me and found that I was not the only one dabbing at tears. Under the bill of his black baseball cap, even the eyes of the rough-looking lobo across the aisle looked moist. Rico thinks “Camino de Guanajuato” is ridiculously Mexican, dwelling as it does on the great sadness of life. At the end, the singer says he remains in his beloved town, but you can tell he is looking back with longing, and remains there only in his heart. It was almost too much to bear as I sped into the murky dusk and an even murkier future.

People talk of Guadalajara, a great city of beautiful churches. From the bus, in the dark, I didn't see any. At the city's huge terminal I threw my bag over my shoulder and lined up for my ticket for the next bus, which would take me all the way to the border city of Nogales. After paying, I was left with less than five dollars' worth of pesos. A man with no legs was selling plastic-coated pictures of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Of course I had to get one. I had no wallet to put it in, so I slipped it into the front pocket of my jeans.

Inside the Guadalajara terminal, there was not even room to sit on the floor. A good many of the throng were obviously mojados on the move. The place was so crowded, it was impossible to spot the men who were going north on their own, if there were any.

The departure board showed eleven buses heading for the border: six for Nogales, five for Tijuana. By chance, when my bus was called, my lobo also went out to the platform. I stayed close on his heels, telling myself I shouldn't be scared off by the weirdness of that sleepy eye. What if he turned out to be my only chance?

A third of the way back, he took an aisle seat on the left side. I stowed my bag and gathered my courage. “Sorry,” I said, and squeezed by his knees, almost falling into the window seat. He gave me a look that said I was an idiot.

The bus filled up, and we took off. Several hours went by with only the thrum of the wheels below. No radio this time. People turned to the food they had brought aboard, talked quietly, or slept. I ate two of the tamales my mother had packed for me. Now and again, someone would go to the back of the bus. From my seat, I couldn't tell what they were doing. I got up the nerve to make conversation with Sleepy Eye. “Do you think the States will give everybody a green card and make us legal, like the rumors say?”

The man looked annoyed, but he answered. “Their President started the rumor, but I'll believe it when I see it.”

I motioned over my shoulder. “What's in the back? Where are people going?”

He gave me that look again. “To the toilet.”

“Oh,” I said. “I've never been on a first-class bus before today.”

He closed his eyes. This conversation was over. A couple hours went by. By this time I needed to go to the bathroom, but was afraid to squeeze by him.

It must have been the middle of the night when the driver braked so hard, it woke everyone up. Just ahead, police lights were flashing, lots of them. An accident, I guessed. My seatmate unsnapped his shirt pocket and took out what might have been a roll of money. He stuffed it in his underwear. “Roadblock,” someone whispered. “Customs police.”

I had never heard of customs police. I had no idea why they were stopping the traffic. It wasn't long before I found out.

A burly policeman in a tight, starched uniform boarded the bus. He said something to the driver. Bright lights came on, a shock to my eyes. The policeman glared down the aisle. The bus fell silent as the grave. His gun belt held a big pistol. “Passports, tourist cards, identification!”

My heart missed a beat, maybe two or three. I didn't have any of these things. “I've never carried identification before,” I said to my lobo. “Do I need it?”

“I guess we'll find out,” he said with a shrug.

“Is it against the law to travel without identification in your own country?”

“No, but this bus goes to the border.”

“Who are they looking for?”

“Guatemalans, Hondurans, Salvadorans, Nicaraguans, South
Americans—anybody who doesn't have the proper documents to be in Mexico.”

“Why do they care?”

“It makes the Americans happy.”

By now the policeman was only three rows ahead. “People have told me I look Guatemalan,” I said desperately.

“I'm not surprised.”

“But I'm Mexican!”

“Don't tell me, tell him.”

“What will they do?”

“Deport you to Guatemala, unless you are very lucky.”

By this time I was terrified, and the customs policeman had arrived. My seatmate handed over his military registration card. I stared at it, wishing I had at least brought my father's. The policeman stared at the picture, then at the man, then at the picture. “Your name is Miguel Escobar.”

“Yes.”

“You are from the state of Guanajuato.”

I almost answered before I realized that the policeman was still talking to this Miguel.

“Yes.”

“What about this kid? Is he with you?”

“I don't know him.”

“I am also from Guanajuato,” I hurried to say. The words came out without enough breath. I sounded afraid.

“I didn't ask,” the policeman said, taking a long, suspicious look
at my Mayan face. A smile was growing at the corner of his mouth. He was happy. He had a mouse under his paw. “Very well, now is your turn. Passport!”

“No documents, but I am Mexican.”

“Birth certificate!”

“I'm Mexican, born in Chiapas, close to the border with Guatemala.”

“If I want a geography lesson, I will ask for it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I can explain why I don't have a birth certificate. My father tried to get one for me when we still lived in Chiapas. He walked all the way to the town of La Realidad for it, but the office was closed.”

The policeman looked as sympathetic as a snake about to strike. I hurried to explain that my family then moved to the state of Guanajuato when I was five. That I was from a village named Los Árboles located at the foot of El Cristo Rey.

“This will not do,” the policeman snapped. “This proves nothing. Stand outside.”

I sputtered, and pleaded, and almost cried.

“Outside!” he ordered.