Stranger (20 page)

Meja's fortunate, he said. She's deeply loved.

Meja sat up quickly and looked directly at him when she heard him speak her name. She grinned. Closed her eyes coyly. Tilted her head.

She likes you, Íso said.

She knows me.

They left that night. She packed her few belongings and, as he had advised, left no trace of their stay. They drove south into the darkness and he detoured the nearby towns and by dawn they were well through Oklahoma and beyond Dallas. He pulled into a rest stop north of Waco, where she used the washroom, and they sat in the car and ate cold sandwiches he'd picked up at a gas station. Egg salad and pickles. She'd slept most of the night, waking every so often to ask him if he was sleepy, and then falling asleep again herself, the memory of his profile in the glow of the dash a strange comfort. She didn't know him truly. But she did know that she could trust him. And that was enough. She had no fear of him. He was like a brother, though the one time she told him this he said that he was not her brother and he was so adamant that she wondered if she'd upset him. And she let it go.

H
E
dropped her off in Laredo in the early afternoon. On a side street near the Lincoln Port of Entry. They sat for a time. He'd turned off the engine and it ticked as it cooled. He asked her how she planned to cross. She said that she would manage. He said that there must be other ways of crossing. She had to be careful. She said that she'd come this far and she had no plans to get caught and sent back. She'd gathered her bags, one of which held fresh diapers and formula and several bananas and a sandwich that he'd bought for her at their last stop. She clutched Meja.

He asked if she wanted his help.

I'll be fine, she said, though she was completely uncertain. Fearful.

She opened the door.

He reached out a hand to shake hers. She took his hand and then with his other hand he touched Meja's head. Go with God, he said.

Thank you, she said. And she climbed out.

When he was gone, she stood on the sidewalk and waited, perhaps hoping for him to return, or perhaps hoping for a miracle. Nothing. She and Meja were alone.

She did not know how she would cross the border at Laredo. She had no papers, and she was in possession of a child who had no papers. At that time the border was sealed one way, the way into America, and it was a known fact that you could walk across the border from Laredo into Nuevo Laredo and arrive in Mexico without papers, though it was also known that you could be arrested for making that mile-long walk. For any reason. Perhaps for the look of the clothes you wore, or the tilt of your head, or the length of your hair. It was rumoured that pretty girls were stopped and interrogated and searched, simply because they were girls, and pretty, and alone. Or not alone. Perhaps there might be three girls, but they would still be searched. There were no rules. No abiding guidelines. Everything was possible, and sometimes nothing was possible. These were the rumours.

In a small park off Farragut Street, she shared a banana with Meja. Nibbled at her sandwich. Everyone she heard now spoke Spanish and she felt safer, though she knew that this wasn't necessarily so. She walked south on Santa Maria Avenue until she arrived
at a park that bordered the Rio Grande. She sat, holding Meja, and she looked across the river to Mexico. Just over there. A black boat flying an American flag moved past slowly. Two men holding rifles in the bow. There was a man playing football in the park with two young boys. She watched them until they left.

She walked up to the Lincoln Port of Entry and watched the pedestrians cross over into Mexico. Most were carrying bags or backpacks and were in larger groups. There were very few solitary travellers. She approached a young woman sitting on a bench with her two children and she excused herself.

Is it safe? she asked. To cross the border?

The woman looked at Íso, and she looked at Meja, and she said that it was always easier to get out than it was to get in. She gestured at Meja and asked, This is yours?

Íso nodded.

What's her name?

Íso told her.

The woman repeated Meja's name and she introduced herself and she introduced her young boy as Rodrigo and she held up her infant and said that her name was Ana. She said that it was very little problem if you had nothing to hide. Most just walk through. If you have a backpack, like yours, they will inspect it. Do you have papers for the child? she asked.

Íso shook her head.

Then they won't let you pass. Your child must have papers. Sometimes you can buy papers but it is much.

Íso asked if there was another way.

The woman said that there were sometimes boats. North of Eagle Pass. She should ask for a boat ride. Those were the words. A boat ride.

Íso thanked the woman, and she said goodbye to the children. She stood off to the side, under the awning of a leatherworks stand, and she watched the woman and her children cross over a long
concrete walkway that was walled on both sides. They passed through a turnstile and walked some more, and then disappeared.

C
OMING
into Eagle Pass by bus she remembered her earlier crossing and she remembered the desert and she remembered the boy. She pushed away her thoughts. She left the bus station and walked up North Adams to the Rio Grande café and ordered scrambled eggs and juice and she fed some of the egg to Meja, who happily received the food. Offered her a little orange juice as well. Cleaned her with a napkin. She wandered the streets with Meja in the sling, talking to her, telling her that all would be good. She sang for her, softly. She did not know how to find the right people. She had no idea who the right people might be. On a bench, close to the public library, she sat and watched the pedestrians and the cars passing by. Late in the afternoon, having traversed much of Eagle Pass, she found a fruit stand just off the main street, and she bought freshly cut papaya and half a lime and she ate the papaya and sucked on the lime as she squatted in the shade, Meja in her lap. She fed tiny pieces of the papaya to Meja. Men passing by looked at her in great detail and she felt their eyes on her body,
but she did not look into their eyes, and she pretended to herself that she was alone in a vast field of sunflowers and that nothing could touch her. A police car moved by slowly and she looked away and realized that she should stay off the streets. She prayed for herself and she prayed for Meja, and when she looked again the police car had moved on.

She took a room that she could not truly afford, at a motel where the desk clerk was a young woman who spoke Spanish. Íso paid up front. She studied the young woman's face and then decided to take a chance and she said that she wanted a boat ride.

The young woman didn't even look at her. She turned to the cash register and then took a key and handed it to Íso and told her the room number. She said nothing more.

Íso fell asleep immediately, Meja at her side, and she woke to the phone ringing. She knew no one who might call her, and she stared at the phone for the longest time before she picked it up.

Yes? she said.

You're looking for a boat ride? a man's voice said.

Yes.

How many?

Only me. And my baby.

So two.

My baby's young.

Three hundred, the man said.

I have only two hundred.

There was silence. Then the man said that he would pick her up at the motel the following evening at 8 p.m.

She spent the night sleeping and then waking and listening to voices in the parking lot, and she heard arguing, and then the roar of a pickup, and finally silence. She got up and laid her remaining money on the bed and by the light of a small lamp she counted three hundred and thirteen dollars. She separated out two hundred and put the rest inside her top, tucked beneath her bra. This had been her life over the past months, and she was not yet finished with it. She was very tired.

She slept and Meja woke her with hungry cries. She fed Meja. Cut open an avocado and pushed a little of the meat into Meja's mouth. She spit it out and cried. She walked Meja back and forth, jostling her, sitting down to offer a breast, but Meja wasn't interested. She was drooling and rubbing her mouth and blubbering a lot. She tried again with the breast and this time Meja accepted it. Íso told her that she was a girl most delightful and most smart and most beautiful.

She kept off the streets the following day, spending time at the library and walking through the malls and by evening her feet ached. Meja was fussy. Again she drooled and rubbed at her mouth. At 8 p.m.
Íso
stood in the shadows of the entrance to the motel and she watched. A white pickup pulled into the parking lot and sat for the longest time. Then the door to the pickup opened and a young man in a cowboy hat exited. He gestured for her and she stepped out of the shadows and approached. He indicated that she should get into the pickup, and that she should crouch on the floorboard. She looked around and she looked at the man and she thought that if she got into the truck she might disappear along with her baby
and no one would ever know. She was helpless. She climbed into the pickup and crouched amongst the garbage on the floor. Empty beer bottles and discarded fast food wrappers and cigarette butts. There was not enough room for both her and Meja, and so she sat Meja on the seat and clamped her there. The young man did not introduce himself, nor did he speak. She could smell him, a sharp scent of old sweat. He started the pickup, reversed, and shifted into drive. He turned on the radio and found a country music station and he rolled down his window and lit a cigarette. Íso had one hand on Meja, and she pressed the other against the dashboard. She kept her eyes lowered. Meja tried to stand and hold the man's shoulder. She used his shirt to draw herself up. Íso pulled her back down and told her that it was quiet time. Shhhh, shhhhh, she said. Meja imitated her and put her finger to her mouth. The man ignored both Meja and Íso, though he didn't seem to mind Meja pulling at his shirt. At some point he reached over and turned off his headlights and he slowed down and he swore occasionally as the pickup found a rut, or slid sideways. She did not like the man.

The boat was at the water's edge and it was very small. It had no motor, just two oars and a place for six people. There were four men and Íso, and there was Meja and there was the skipper. She paid the driver of the pickup and he counted the money by touch, or perhaps he was able to see in the dark. When he had finished counting he folded the bills and slipped them into his pants pocket and gestured at the boat. He climbed back into his pickup and drove off into the darkness.

She entered the boat. No one spoke. As they crossed, she heard
the dipping of the oars in the water and the breathing of the man who was carrying them across. And then Meja began to fuss and the skipper called in a soft voice for silence. Íso was sitting across from a boy, not more than sixteen, who was watching her. She didn't want to but she opened her blouse and offered Meja a breast. The boy watched. Meja latched and then leaned back and reached with her near hand and held it out to the boy. The boy took Meja's hand and called her guapa but he was looking directly at Íso. Íso wanted to turn away, but she didn't.

When the boat hit the mud and sand of the far shore, the men scrambled and the boat rocked and Íso sat holding her child, afraid that she would be tossed into the water. The man who had skippered the boat asked for Meja and Íso handed him the child without thinking, and then panicked. But he stepped off the boat onto the shore and he held out a hand for Íso and she accepted. When she was on shore he gave her back the child.

Thank you, she said. Thank you.

You are in Mexico, he said. And then he said, Go, and she went.

The boy on the boat had eyed her the whole time. Even when he held Meja's hand, he had eyes only for her. They had been facing each other, their knees had touched, and he had not taken his eyes off her even though she had given him every reason not to look. She snuck glances, but he was still focused on her. She was terrified. She'd held the baby up for him to see, as if to say, I am a mother, but he ignored the baby. On the shore now the young man was beside her and then he was behind her. It was dark and there were no lights, only the young man and her and Meja. She heard
the voices of the other men who had been on the boat and she called out and said, Please. Hello, please. I'm here, she said. Please. She ran in the direction of the voices and she came upon the men and asked if she might stay with them. They were indifferent. As they walked, the younger man followed from a distance. She did not know if three men were safer than the one boy, but she thought that one out of three might have a heart, or a code that he lived by. She was taking a chance.

She spent the night with the three men in a covey of trees, where a fire was built. She had no food, but one man, the oldest, offered some of his portion, and she took it and said thank you. Beans and tough beef in a cold burrito. She chewed slowly and when she was done she again said thank you. The oldest man asked her where she was from. She told him. She asked him where he was going, and he said that he might go anywhere. He had no home. When she changed Meja, she turned away from the men and laid a small blanket on the ground and then crouched over Meja so that the men could not see. She tried not to sleep. And when she slept, she woke and was distraught that she had slept. The boy, the one on the boat who had touched knees with her and watched her with such greed, was out there in the darkness somewhere. She was cold and Meja must have been cold as well, because she was restless and kept waking. She sat cross-legged by the dying fire and held Meja close and offered the warmth of her skin. Meja fed and eventually slept.

In the morning, she rose and gathered up Meja. The oldest man was awake, squatting by the dead fire, and she asked him the
direction of the road. He pointed and said that it was an hour from this place. He did not ask if she wanted help or if she wanted to stay or if he might walk with her. He sat on his haunches in the cold air and lit a cigarette and watched her and he told her that the danger in this place was not heat, or thirst, or snakebite, but young men who looked for girls like her.