La Linea (8 page)

“Maybe this trip just wasn't meant to be.”

Elena didn't answer. She pulled herself up to her hands and knees and looked at Mamá's letters scattered across the portico. A breeze had caught several and sent them out into the gutter. She picked up the one closest to her, blew the dirt off the paper, and looked at the words scrawled across the page. She held the letter open in both palms, like an offering, then let it drift back down to the ground.

Her eyes searched around in the dim light. She bent closer, and then got down on her hands and the tips of her toes, moving like a crab across the dirt, her face close to the ground, examining every square centimeter as she went.

Elena seemed to be looking for a particular letter, one that held special meaning for her. But she ignored each and every one she came across. Finally, she stooped even lower and picked up something from the ground.

“Gracias a Dios,”
she murmured. She stood and walked unsteadily toward me. In her hands was the cloth purse that had held Mamá's letters.

“Come on, Miguel. Let's get out of here.” She looked around nervously. There was no sign of Colmillo. There was no sign of anyone. Even the rats had disappeared.

“Let me help you with these.” I picked up one letter close to my shoe, folded it along its well-creased lines, and held it out to Elena to stow in the bag. The letters seemed important to
me
now. They were the only things we had left.

“Forget them, Miguel.
¡Olvídalo!
Please, let's just go. Please!” Elena reached down for my hand, to help me up. It was already hot out, but her hand was cold and clammy.

I groaned as I rose to my feet. Every part of me hurt. “Are you sure, Elena?” I asked. “The letters—”

“We have to get out of here,” Elena cut me off. Elena must have been scared to death by Colmillo. What else would make her leave her precious letters?

She steered me out of the portico, and out into the street. Dawn would come soon. The barest hint of light was visible to the east, and the sky had turned a deep blue. We turned the corner and entered the far side of the
mercado,
cutting behind to the row of stalls where we first hid from Morales.

A few farmers who'd come in to sell their mangos and chiles unloaded their goods from the backs of burros. They looked at us curiously, then went back to their work. I looked down at my filthy, torn clothes. We probably looked like fugitives. The farmers would be better off if they pretended they'd never seen us.

“Aquí,”
said Elena. She sat down on the ground in the very place where I'd taken the money she'd gotten from Juanito.

Elena turned the cloth purse inside out and put it up to her mouth. She tore at the silky purple lining with her teeth, again and again, trying to find a spot that would give way. A small tear finally appeared at one seam, now soaked with Elena's saliva. She lowered the bag, put one index finger in the tear, and ripped the lining apart. A cascade of bills fell out of the purse, onto Elena's lap. She gathered them up and put them in my hands.

“This is the other half of the money Juanito gave me.” Big tears rolled down Elena's cheeks. For once, she had good reason to cry. She had a thousand good reasons to cry.

“I sewed it into the lining here, just in case.” She pulled her knees up to her chin, and hid her face.

“¡Embustera!”
I said, looking at the little treasure in my hands.

Elena had been tricky. She'd lied to me about how much money Juanito had given her, but she'd taken the precaution of hiding half of it.

“I'll go back home, Miguel. I'll go back by myself and you go on ahead.” She dried her tears with the back of one dirty hand. “Maybe there's still enough money for you, if you're careful.”

She was solemn. She wasn't whining. She meant it.

I looked at my sister hard. Despite everything she'd done wrong, she'd won my admiration. I even admired her sneakiness. She'd done everything without giving herself away. I'd never had a clue about her intentions, not one of them.

Then together, we'd escaped Morales and Colmillo, by the skin of our teeth. Whatever we did, we had to do it as brother and sister. We'd been through too much to separate now. If Elena went to San Jacinto, I'd go too. If I went north, I'd take her with me. Still, there wasn't enough money to pay the
coyote
for both of us. We needed help.

“Look, Elena. I think we should call Papá and Mamá. They'll be worried, anyway. And, if worse comes to worse, we could ask Don Clemente for more money,” I said. I didn't tell her that he'd give us all the money we wanted. All we had to do was ask.

Elena looked down at her nails. They were chewed down so badly that several were bleeding. She knew she'd be in trouble for following me. But she nodded silently in agreement. So we made our way to the bus station, got a large pile of coins, and stood close together next to the pay phone.

I dialed the California phone number, Elena pumped in the coins, and the phone rang. It rang and rang and rang. A weary, unfamiliar female voice finally answered. No, Papá and Mamá didn't live there anymore. Yes, they'd moved. No, she didn't know the new number.

Elena and I looked at each other, unsurprised. The family had to move too often—and often unexpectedly. Abuelita, one way or another, would have the new number. But Abuelita had no phone.

“Try Don Clemente,” Elena suggested. “Maybe Papá called him with their new number.”

Don Clemente's private number was first on the list of important information I'd memorized. “Do not call unless you must,” had been written in his own hand. I nodded and dialed.

“
Hola.
Who's calling?” demanded a familiar voice.

What was Juanito doing with Don Clemente's phone? I wanted to hang up right then. I wanted to tell Juanito I knew what he was up to when he lent Elena money. I wanted to tell him to go and screw himself.

Instead, I just said, “Let me talk to Don Clemente. It's Miguel.”

A silence followed. “Juanito, are you there? Are you there?” I asked.

I thought I heard him chuckle. “What do you want, Miguel? I thought
mi tío
gave you everything you needed.”

“Just put him on. I need to ask him something.” I wouldn't give Juanito the satisfaction of knowing what had happened to me, to us.

“Well, you'll have to ask me now.” Juanito's voice was calm and cold.

“What do you mean?” I asked, but I didn't want to know the answer.

Juanito didn't answer. He let the silence hang on the line.

“Don Clemente is dead,” he finally answered. “A traffic accident. Somehow his Mercedes went off the road up on the mountain. It was tragic, really, a freak sort of thing.” He didn't sound like he thought it was a tragedy.

“So, naturally, I'm now in charge of his operation, all of his networks. The
coyotes,
the
polleros,
the merchandise—everything. If you want something, you'll have to ask me. And I'm replacing his people with mine, with those loyal to me.”

I didn't answer. I hung the phone on the hook quietly. With this conversation, the road back to San Jacinto was closed. I couldn't let Elena return by herself. She already owed Juanito money. He might decide that she owed him more than that. We had to go north with no clear plans and no help we could count on.

I took the money and split it right down the middle—half for Elena, half for me. I couldn't pretend I was her boss anymore. We bought food and a run-down hotel room for one night.

Elena sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and carefully sewed her money back into the lining of the bag. I could hide mine on my body. There was at least one good place. But who was I kidding? If someone wanted it, they'd find it, no matter where I stuck it.

The only thing I had left from the beginning of my trip was Abuelita's
Virgen de Guadalupe
medallion. With everything that had happened, I'd forgotten all about it. I took it off and inspected the links in the chain, one by one. A couple of Abuelita's hairs still clung stubbornly to the necklace, as if part of her refused to be separated from
La Virgencita.

Abuelita believed in
La Virgen
's powers of protection and guidance. I just believed in Abuelita. I checked the clasp and put the medallion back around my neck. It had seemed featherlight before, but now the cool, smooth metal felt solid and weighty against my chest.

CHAPTER 18

They called it the
mata gente,
the “people killer.” It was an ordinary freight train that passed through once a day, and it was the one way to get north without paying a
peso.
It had oil cars, rounded, sleek and shiny, and open hopper cars carrying grain or scrap metal. Ladders ran halfway up the sides of the faded orange, yellow, and brown cargo cars.

It was simple, they said. As the train slowed, you ran alongside, grabbed one of the ladders, and hopped on.

Fácil.
Everyone told us how easy it was to hop on board the train. And everyone told us about the unlucky ones who didn't make it. The ones who survived were all over town, broken and abandoned, but still living. They were everywhere.

One, a woman they called Angelita, sat outside the shabby clinic, telling her story to anyone who would listen. The train had cut off both of her legs midthigh when she lost her grip and fell beneath the wheels. She would have died if two others hadn't jumped off to drag her from beneath the train and stop the blood flowing from her limbs.

Another, called Santos, wheeled himself clumsily through the
zócalo,
begging for money so he could return to his family in Honduras. He was paralyzed from the waist down and all four fingers of his right hand were gone. They said that Santos was pushed off the train. Someone wanted his place on a ladder that already held five others.

“We're going to hop the
mata gente
anyway,” I declared to Elena.

We watched Santos steer his wheelchair toward the bus station. There were always people there willing to give up a
peso
or two, out of guilt. They were getting out of here. Santos had to stay.

“Okay, Miguel. We're young and fast, right Miguel?” Elena added. “Maybe Santos was just too slow, or something.”

I didn't remind her that we had no choice.

We walked to the train yard in the early evening. A gentle breeze lifted up some scattered papers. Halfway there, Elena skipped, then hopped, then showed me just once how fast she could run.

“See? See, Miguel?” she said. “I can do it!”

“I know!” I yelled to her. “
¡Sí se puede!
We will, Elena!”

Things had changed between us. I knew how it felt to be
macho,
to try to boss Elena around, to ignore her, to fight with her, like I did in San Jacinto. Things felt different now, since Morales, since Colmillo and Juanito.

We crossed through the yard littered with sidetracked, broken-down freight cars. I put my ear down on a track to listen for the train, the way Chuy and Lalo and I used to do in San Jacinto. The hot fat metal rail held no clues.

I crawled up into one of the cars and pulled Elena up after me. Its big doors gaped open, and we sat with our legs dangling down. From here we could see the
mata gente
coming. We'd have time to position ourselves and to get ready.

In the near distance, a small group was making its way into the train yard. One of them pointed and gestured and moved his body along a track as if he was shadowing a moving train. He loped, picked up speed, and grabbed an imaginary ladder. And then I heard a familiar voice, talking nonstop to the others.

“See, this is how you do it,” he instructed. “You just run and then hop right on!”

“Look who's here, Miguel!” Elena yelled, jumping down. “Come on!”

Within seconds, Javier had Elena in a giant
abrazo.
He reached out to pull me into the circle. I felt myself resist, but Elena grabbed my waist and tugged me in closer. We made a triangle, Javi and Elena the base, me floating loosely at the top.

“I knew I'd see you again. It is fate, really,” Javi said.

Javi's companions, a young couple, the woman pregnant, smiled at the reunion. Then they turned around and left, going back the way they came.

“They're scared of the train. I told them what to do, but who knows? Maybe they'll try, maybe they won't,” Javier said in one breath.

“Good thing you're leaving. I'm glad to get out of here myself,” he continued. “Morales stuck me in jail for a day. He never figured out I tricked him. Then he put me on the other side of the river. But, just like I told you, here I am, again.”

Javi seemed happy, even joyful, about tricking Morales and making it back. But his eyes were red, and his face was drawn. He hadn't slept, I could see that.

Within seconds, Javi put himself in charge. He took each of us by an arm and propelled us down the train tracks. “We'll get the train down there.”

He pointed beyond the end of the yard toward the dense underbrush. “It's better. I've checked it out already. The
federales
swing through the train yard every now and then.”

We followed the tracks for several hundred meters. The grass on both sides was firmly packed down, evidence that many train-hoppers had waited here before us. In the thick undergrowth beyond the grass, others had cut back the brush to make places to sleep, or to hide. A dead campfire blackened the ground in one spot. A faint wisp of smoke crept up from the center.

A pack of yellow-eyed dogs emerged from the brush and wandered toward us, sniffing the ground. The leader eyed us boldly. I picked up a rock and flung it in his direction. Javi ran after the dogs, screaming, “Go on! Get out of here!
¡Lárguense de aquí!
” I hoped the dogs weren't like the rats, another bad omen.