Tarnished Beauty (5 page)

Jamilet struggled to release herself, but the more she pulled, the tighter the ropes dug into the flesh of her wrists and ankles. In minutes she was winded from the effort.

“You're wasting your time,” Juan said, shaking his head at the pitiful sight. “I'm an expert when it comes to tying knots.”

One man kicked dirt in Jamilet's face as he walked by, and mumbled a curse under his breath. He was clearly glad to be rid of the degenerate young man, and eager to get on with the next phase of the journey before it was too late. As he prepared to cross the river, he proceeded to unfasten his belt, and remove his boots and all of his clothing, until he stood fully naked in the sun. Jamilet had never before in her life seen a naked man, and despite her fear and confusion, she became momentarily transfixed by the sight and the curious patches of hair that grew all over his body, making him look as though he'd been dipped in egg and rolled in batter, some places sticking better than others. Most curious of all was the man's penis, which reminded her of the deformed and feeble arm of an infant.

“The
joto
wants you, Jose,” one of the men shouted when he noticed Jamilet's gaping interest. “Maybe you should give him a taste.”

“Leave him alone. It's bad enough we tied him up like this,” Juan replied.

“You want him for yourself…,” the troublemaker jeered back, but he was too busy with his own preparations to take it any further.

“You took my money,” Jamilet said, craning her head around and up to look Juan in the eye.

He glanced at the other men, and then quickly retrieved the bills she'd given him from his back pocket, and stuffed them into her boot, making it appear as though he was only tightening the ropes. And as he did so, he whispered, “The rope is lightweight. A few strokes across a sharp rock and you'll be free. Then you should go back home, and pray to God that He forgives you for your perversions. Besides,” he said, glancing toward the river, and shivering at the prospect of what awaited him, “small as you are, you'll never make it across.”

As Juan left to join the others at the bank of the river, Jamilet contemplated telling him that they were mistaken about her, but the sight of so many naked men, and the realization that she would have to do the same, led her to conclude that her situation would worsen rather than improve. She kept quiet and watched sullenly as Juan stripped down like the first man, rolled his clothes and provisions into a tight bundle, and then carefully tied it all on top of his head and under his chin with his belt. It was well-known that a group of Mexican men slinking through the fields with their clothes dripping wet was certain to arouse suspicion and a call to
la migra
. The ranchers who lived near the border could spot them like eagles, and it was rumored that even their wives made calls to the authorities while keeping watch from their kitchen windows as they did the dishes. The illegals were often caught and detained before the dishes had dried. But if they managed to keep their bundles out of the water as they crossed the river, in a matter of seconds they'd be dry and dressed, and dispersing into the adjacent fields, easily blending in with the other ranch hands in the area.

Soon the men could be heard screaming, blubbering, cursing the frigid water and slippery rocks like wounded cows. Their bellows endured for some time, and several required much coaxing before they felt brave enough to cross. Eventually their boisterous complaints faded into the roar of the river, and Jamilet couldn't be sure if they'd perished or made it to the other side.

It took little more than an hour for Jamilet to release her hands, using the strategy that Juan had suggested. She spent the rest of the day and most of the evening crouched at the bank of the river watching it flow past like an enormous glistening snake, carrying twigs and branches and the occasional plastic bag and tin can along its undulating back. She ate the last of the apple she'd been saving and drank frequently from the river. She listened to the wind whispering through the trees, and even more intently to the stillness that settled itself in between the sounds of nature all around her, hoping to hear the true voice of God somewhere in its midst telling her what to do next. But all she could be sure of was the beating of her own heart, and the breath entering and leaving her body reminding her that she should be grateful to be alive, and nothing more.

The moon was high in the sky when she removed her clothes and rolled all she carried into a neat bundle. Everything, that is, except her boots; certain, as she remembered the complaints of the men earlier, that she'd be more sure-footed with them on while stepping on the slippery rocks that carpeted the river bottom. With the bundle tied securely to the top of her head, she stepped into the river, and braced herself against the water that swirled about her ankles and up to her knees, her thighs, and filled the warm spaces in her groin with a turbulent cold that was excruciating and terrifying all at once. Although she was panting and trembling violently, she continued to go deeper into the river that surged up to her waist, lapping at her breasts like a hungry sharp-toothed child. She clamped her eyes shut against the pain, gathering as much strength as she could, and before long found herself gazing into the familiar and hideous face of the fear and rejection she'd lived with all her life. If truth be told, the river water was warm by comparison, the sticks and debris that pounded into her body no more threatening than a friendly poke to the ribs.

And then, when she felt herself on the verge of succumbing to the bitter cold, the river sang to her. “Life without despair is possible,” it sang over and over again within the deepest heart of its roar. “If you can endure…If you can endure…” The voice, more powerful and captivating than the ugliness of her past, plowed a valley through her consciousness, deep to the core of her soul, and she followed its call through the darkness until she heard nothing and felt nothing except for a numb and deathlike peacefulness. She was certain that she'd been taken by the river and that she was floating like a leaf on the surface of the water, spinning and dipping along with the currents, moving with a power that surpassed her most paralyzing fears. And there was nothing she could do but let herself go wherever it led.

When Jamilet collapsed on the bank of the river, she was unable to move, and hardly even to breathe for a long while, but her mind soared with the joyous realization that she'd made it to the land of miracles. When she was once again able to feel the blood pumping through her arms and legs, and had determined that she hadn't suffered any serious injuries, she dressed in clothes that she had managed to keep mostly dry, and spent the remainder of the night huddled at the base of a thorny bush that smelled of orange blossoms and mint. And there she slept soundly.

 

The next morning, she was awakened by a strange prickly sensation all over her body. She opened her eyes to discover an army of plump black ants. She leaped to her feet, ripped off her clothing in a flash, and jumped into the river without a thought of the horrifying experience of the night before. Back on shore she began to whip every garment she'd been wearing against the trunk of a tree until she was certain that all of the ants were gone. But as she made her way toward what appeared to be a dirt road leading away from the river, she thought she felt one or two surviving ants crawling down her back. They remind me that I'm a survivor too, she thought with satisfaction.

She hiked for several hours through a forest of willow and cottonwood trees draped dreamily over one another. Although she found the dappled shade of the forest refreshing, she became concerned when she detected no sign of previous travelers. She'd been told that the best trails were littered with trash and human excrement. Because of this, it was said that if you lost your way at night, you need only follow your nose to find it again.

Her canteen was nearly empty when she spotted a farmhouse less than a mile in the distance. As she got closer, she could see that it was a simple one-story structure with a wide covered porch. A laundry line could be seen in the front yard, off of which hung several pairs of denim jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Judging by their impressive size, it was clear that they belonged to a very tall and stocky man. Jamilet approached cautiously, crouching low as she emerged from the shade and protection of the forest. She decided it was best to follow a thicket leading away from the house, toward the barn where she hoped to rest for no more than a couple of hours. If she was lucky, she might find something edible as well. Animal feed would do, anything to stop the nagging ache in her belly.

The barn door was ajar, and she slipped through with little difficulty. On the ground was a burlap sack that smelled of manure, but no matter, it was large enough to serve as a cover. Taking it with her to the darkest corner of the barn, she curled up like a cat, but before she had the opportunity to settle in beneath it, the barn door yawned open, and the silhouette of a small person, perhaps a child, was visible in the doorway. Also visible was a double-barreled rifle poised at the hip. After more careful inspection Jamilet saw that it was not a child, but a young woman, no more than twenty, and obviously in the last weeks of her pregnancy. She wore a dress several sizes too big for her frame, and workmen's boots that reached up to her knees. Her reddish hair was loose around her face, and looked as though it hadn't been brushed in days. But her most distinctive feature was an enormous bruise on her left cheek and eye, swollen enough to make her otherwise pretty face appear lopsided. Jamilet could clearly see it illuminated in the shaft of light that entered through the uneven slats of the barn wall.

But the young woman's injury didn't impair her vision. She quickly spotted Jamilet crouching in the corner. Jamilet scrambled to her feet, and as she did, the young woman pointed the barrel of the shotgun directly at Jamilet's head. “Get the hell off my property,” the young woman commanded. “I already called the border patrol when I saw you skulking around, and they move fast, so you better do the same if you know what's good for you.”

Jamilet reached for her bundle to do just that, and the woman said, “I'll shoot you in the nuts if you try anything stupid.” She lowered the barrel until it pointed directly at Jamilet's crotch this time.
“Los huevos,”
she said in Spanish, suspecting the stranger didn't understand English. “Bang bang…
los huevos.”

Jamilet responded in English, “I don't have
huevos.
I'm a girl just like you.”

The young woman lowered the barrel slightly, and then raised it again with a start, peering into the darkest corners of the barn, as though expecting someone or something to jump out at her.

“I'm alone,” Jamilet said softly. Even with a rifle pointed directly at her, she was unable to muster the strength to feel even a little bit afraid.

The redheaded girl lowered the rifle a bit. “I never heard of a girl crossing on her own before. And I sure as hell never met a wetback that speaks English so good.” The woman appraised Jamilet with guarded fascination. “And why are you dressed like that?”

“I thought it would be safer to travel as a boy,” Jamilet answered with a shrug, realizing that she couldn't have been more wrong.

“We don't need any more Mexicans here, boys or girls. I don't understand why you don't stay in your own country where you belong, why you keep sneaking over like thieves.”

“I came to see a doctor,” Jamilet said.

“They got doctors in Mexico.”

“Not the kind of doctor I need.”

A momentary glint of intrigue softened the woman's expression, and Jamilet wasted no time. She pulled her shirt up and turned around so the worst part of the mark, where the skin was thickest and shiny red, was visible.

“Holy shit!” the woman exclaimed. “It looks like you were skinned alive!” She was about to say something more, but was interrupted by the crunching sound of wheels rolling across the gravel driveway outside. Moments later, a car door could be heard to open and close, followed by steps up onto the wooden porch. A man's voice called out, “Nancy. Hey, Nancy!”

The woman became momentarily flustered, and seemed confused about what she should do next. She lowered her shotgun so that the barrel pointed at the floor, and stared blankly at Jamilet, watching her as she tucked her shirt back into her pants. “Wait here and don't make a sound,” she said, and then she left, taking the extra time to close the barn door securely behind her.

Peeking through the slats of the barn wall, Jamilet watched the woman who she assumed to be Nancy make her way across the yard and over to the porch to join the men waiting for her. She leaned casually on her shotgun, and crossed one boot over the other while conversing in an offhand manner with the two officers in dark green uniforms. A long bus of the same color with windows covered in wire mesh was parked in the drive. Four Mexican men were sitting in back, three sleeping and one watching the scene on the porch. Jamilet immediately recognized Juan, and when he lifted his hands to scratch his nose, she saw that he was handcuffed as well. In spite of everything, she felt bad for him. He had protected her as well as he could under the circumstances and she hoped that his detainment would be a short one.

Nancy pointed out beyond the road, toward the woods that Jamilet had traversed, and then entered the house, returning moments later with a can of beer for each officer. They accepted her hospitality with a nod before stepping off the porch and climbing back into the bus. As it headed down the road in the direction that Nancy had indicated, a thick cloud of dirt rose up from beneath the tires, obscuring the vehicle from sight although it was possible to hear the rumble of the engine for some time afterward.