The Maldonado Miracle (3 page)

Jose noticed again how very beautiful it all was. Harsh, rugged and silent, but very beautiful.

He reached down, dug his fingers into Sanchez's coarse hairs and said softly, "I want to go very badly, but I will miss this and you."

He rose when he heard Enrique kill the outboard and went down to the beach.

In silence Enrique and Jose climbed the short but steep, loose-dirt bank. Jose always marveled that Enrique could climb it so easily with the outboard motor on his back. His legs were powerful, the calves bulging with muscle. His shoulders were wide.

As he was lowering the oily old two-cylinder engine to the steps, Enrique said, "If I didn't hate cities so much, I'd go with you. But I would not last up there a week My nose would rot or I would get into mischief." He laughed, taking the sopping burlap bag of gutted fish from Jose.

"I wish you were coming along," Jose said.

Enrique held up a hand in protest. "I'll get a beer, Jose, and we'll talk. All day, I've tried to think of things to have you tell Maldonado, but there's nothing to tell him except that the fishing is good, the clams are fat, and the game warden is still stupid."

Enrique stalked into the dark hut, which smelled of sweat and gas and fried fish.

"Gutierrez came," Jose said.

"Ah," Enrique said disgustedly, tossing the bag into a corner. "All those men are thieves. The ones who make the arrangements are called 'coyotes.' That's true. Gutierrez will be your coyote. He is also called a 'mule' because he is a driver, too. Down here, we call them 'chicken men.'"

A pollero,
Jose thought. But he said, "He is a nice man."

"You hope." Enrique reached over to his battered table for a beer. "But I suppose Maldonado has talked to him. You tell him for me that if anything goes wrong, I'll cut his ears off."

Jose laughed, thinking it was good to have a friend like Enrique.

The fisherman popped the cap on the table edge, took a foaming drink of the warm beer and strode out the door. "I mean it," he said.

Outside, they stood in the coolness on the south side of the shack, shielded from the wind. Enrique asked, "Is there anything else I can do?"

Jose shook his head. "Just take good care of Sanchez, as you promised." He looked over at the drowsing dog. His father had said Sanchez was probably the ugliest dog on earth. He was surely the smelliest. He was a mixture of twenty breeds.

"I'll do that," said Enrique seriously. "But he better learn to like fish more than he does now. Else he'll get skinny here."

Enrique's face was weathered from the blinding summer's sun and the winter winds that managed to dodge around Colnett. Jose had noticed that he seldom frowned. The wrinkles were put there by salt and sun. Keeping his eyes on the dog, Enrique said, "I won't even look when I go past the adobe now."

Jose knew he couldn't stay here much longer. It was too difficult. He stuck his hand out, but Enrique enclosed him in a fish-scaled bear hug and pounded his back.

"Go away," he said gruffly.

Jose went over to Sanchez. The dog came erect, eyes tense. He'd been nervous the past two weeks while the adobe was stripped and the animals sold off.

"You stay with Enrique and Lick until I come back, Sanchez. All right?"

The dog whimpered.

"Stay," Jose said.

Enrique, his head down, stepped over to grab the dog's scruff.

"Stay, I said," Jose repeated.

"You go on, Jose," Enrique snapped.

Jose whirled around and began walking up the road toward the adobe, setting his teeth tight now, swearing he would not look back He heard low moans behind him; then a curse.

Jose stopped, knowing what had happened. Enrique was sprawled in the sand, beer splattered over his shirt.

Sanchez was three feet away, barking, demanding to go.

"Take that insane dog with you," Enrique shouted.

"I can't. My father would rage."

"Let him rage," Enrique shouted, and then Jose could hear him laughing.

"Gutierrez would not take him. Don't you see?"

"Tell Gutierrez not to art like an old lady. Tell Gutierrez I'll turn him in to the authorities unless he takes Sanchez—after I punch him in the mouth."

Jose grabbed Sanchez by the loose skin, and began walking back toward the hut, tugging the balking dog.

J
OSE WAS SITTING
in the front seat with Gutierrez, not saying much. As they turned onto Baja No. 1, across from the cemetery on the hillside where his mother was buried, near Bradey's, he crossed himself, acknowledging her, and then looked into the back seat, where Sanchez was perched triumphantly.

Gutierrez was still a little angry. He said, "I think that man Enrique is crazy. I don't like people threatening me."

Jose tried to keep from smiling. "He is not crazy."

A few minutes later, Gutierrez said, "Well, maybe it is best. If anyone sees you with a dog around the border they'll think you live in Tecate."

Jose nodded. He had been worrying about what his father might say when he saw Sanchez. It was like a thousand wild boar attacking, sudden as hail, when his father got angry.

The car moved past San Vicente and the narrow, lazy San Ysidro River, on toward Santo Tomás and Maneadero. It was less than two hours to Ensenada, and the road was very good.

Jose looked out the window as the barren countryside swept by, wondering when he would see it again. It was almost six o'clock, and the sun was dull gold against the Juárez peaks. Beyond them, the sky was already darkening.

As near as he could remember, he had been to Ensenada six times, four of them just this winter when his mother was in the hospital. It had always seemed a large place. In comparison to the gas station, store, and cafe at San Vicente, it was as big as Mexico City.

He'd seen television for the first time in Ensenada when he was ten. Maldonado had gone there on business, taking Jose with him. A TV set had been in the window of a Calle Primera furniture store, and they had stood outside for more than two hours that Saturday morning to watch cartoons. Jose had wondered how it worked. Then this winter, he'd watched again, thinking that some day it might come to Colnett. Ensenada was a remarkable place.

As they passed the airport the traffic became heavy. He saw the new fried chicken shop, with the picture of the white-bearded
americano
on the big metal barrel. They'd stopped there after his mother died, to buy some chicken to eat while waiting for the bus south. He'd always remember that barrel turning round and round, just after they'd come from the hospital.

He looked over at Gutierrez. "
Señor,
I want to stop at the church before we go on to Tecate."

The
pocho
frowned.

"I'll only stay a moment."

"You believe in God?" Gutierrez asked.

"Yes, and the Virgin Mary. They are good to us, my father said. They look over us."

Gutierrez cleared his throat noisily but took the lane to Avenida Benito Juárez.

That day last winter they had gone to the church before walking on to the fried chicken shop. It was on a side street, by the market, several blocks past the traffic circle and the General Juárez monument.

Gutierrez waited in the car as Jose went in. He removed his hat, lit a candle, and prayed. He prayed for his mother, his father, himself, Sanchez, Enrique, and even Gutierrez. The routine was familiar. The Maldonados seldom missed Sunday mass in the small church near San Vicente. They always walked the blacktop and then caught a ride with the Camalu cousin.

As he was getting back into the car, Jose told Gutierrez, "I said a prayer for you. You, too, Sanchez."

The
pocho
cleared his throat again and backed out. Benito Juárez was jammed, and all the lights were on. Music came from loudspeakers at the stores that sold records. All the pushcart vendors were out, and the men who sold leather goods and
scrapes
and silver jewelry from Taxco approached strolling
turistas.

Gutierrez turned at Gastelum, and they left the city, picking up speed as they got to the freeway north. He turned once more at El Sauzal, by the ocean, a place Jose had never seen. Then they were on the road to Tecate. The Chevy hummed.

It was dark now, and Gutierrez began to talk. He took a drawing out of his shirt pocket.

Jose unfolded it and held it beneath the pale yellow light of the dash.

"There is a hole under the fence where I have put the red mark. It is covered with reeds. From the road, the fence looks solid. Just push the reeds aside and go under the fence."

"Is there water?" Jose asked.

"No water except when it rains, and that's not likely tonight. It's a drain. That's why the reeds are there. I'm surprised the border patrol hasn't found it."

Jose's heart began to thud in his ears.

"Just wait on the opposite side of the road until you are certain no cars are approaching. Then cross it quickly and keep low."

Jose nodded.

"You understand?"

"Yes,
señor.
"

"I'll let you out in Hidalgo Park in Tecate. Then I'll drive on up and clear immigration and customs. You go to the border. I'll take your suitcase as if it was mine. I brought a few things of mine to put on top of yours."

Jose's suitcase was in the trunk of the car.

"Any questions?"

"No,
señor.
" Jose turned and looked at Sanchez. The dog was asleep.

The way was mostly downhill now, over Baja No. 3, past open land and small, dimly lit villages. It was farm country, and the only large town was Guadalupe. Once they passed it, Jose knew that Tecate wasn't too far ahead. A half-hour at most.

After a long silence, he said suddenly, "Suppose the patrol finds me at the fence."

Gutierrez laughed. "You put your hands up, and be very polite. Very meek."

When the car stopped by the edge of Hidalgo Park, almost in the middle of Tecate, Jose whispered, "Sanchez, wake up." The dog rose to his feet.

As they got out, Gutierrez warned, "Act very natural, Jose. I'll see you in about forty-five minutes."

The door closed again, and Gutierrez muttered, "Good luck," and drove off up Lázaro Cardenas toward the border. Jose watched his taillights until they had vanished in the sparse traffic. It was about ten o'clock.

Jose stood under a streetlight for a moment, studying the route Gutierrez had drawn on brown paper. Finally, he folded it and stuck it into his pocket. Then he said, "We'll go now, Sanchez. Stay very close to me, just as if we were going to San Vicente to buy flour."

Though he hadn't thought much about it since dig
ging it out of the yard, the ninety-one dollars—seventy-five of it for Gutierrez—suddenly seemed heavy and hot in his pants pocket. He dropped a hand to cover it, thinking what a catastrophe it would be if he lost it. Or if someone took it from him.

Walking, not slow, not fast, Jose went on until he saw the lights of the border station. At that point, he looked up at the street sign, checked the map again, and made a sharp left turn, going down a dirt street. Within two blocks, the houses began to be scattered, and the lights faded out.

Once, a car came up behind them, and Jose said to himself, just look at it, wave, and keep walking. His heart hammered as the headlights washed over them.

Aside from his breathing, and the slither of his feet over the loose dust and sand of the road, there were only night sounds. Crickets and frogs dinned in the nearby irrigation ditch that paralleled the road. It was warm, and Jose felt his shirt begin to get wet.

Sanchez kept easy pace, his big head rotating from side to side, nose sniffing.

In a few minutes, Jose stopped to study a concrete kilometer marker. He said quietly to Sanchez, "Now, we must cross the field."

He guessed the field was about half a kilometer wide. Trotting, occasionally looking back, he moved in a straight line through the knee-high weeds. Sanchez bounded almost soundlessly beside him.

When they reached the road, Jose stopped and squatted in the weeds that flanked it. The lights of Tecate were over his shoulders to the left. Now and then, faint sounds drifted through. Music and the honk of horns.

After he'd, caught his breath, he whispered, "Okay, Sanchez," and they were off again.

In a moment, Jose could see the high fence and said, "Stop, Sanchez." He made out the dark mass of reeds against the bottom of the fence. That had to be the spot.

"Come," he whispered and began to crawl. Sanchez seemed puzzled that Jose was traveling on all fours and kept bumping him. It took less than two minutes to reach the fence. He started to touch it but then remembered hearing that sometimes the fences were wired for alarm.

On his knees in the damp earth of the drainway, he carefully parted the reeds and saw the open space, about two square feet beneath the fence. He whispered to Sanchez, "Go through."

The dog stared at him, stumpy tail flagging.

"Go through," Jose repeated.

Sanchez sat down, panting heavily, his tongue out and dripping. He looked at Jose as if this were a rest time during a game.

Jose snorted with frustration and decided he'd have to go under first. He started through but found himself almost crushed in the narrow entry when Sanchez piled in beside him, like a playful hippo.

And then they were in the
Estados Unidos.

It was all so simple.

The American road was less than a kilometer away, and Jose stayed on his knees to look and listen. His dark face glistened with sweat. He made the sign of the cross and rose to a crouch, whispering, "Okay, Sanchez."

They plunged on toward the road, stopping only when the headlights of a car lifted to spray the whole area with light. Jose flattened to the ground.

Before going on again, Jose straightened up and looked both ways. Then he nodded off to the left. They angled that way, and Jose soon saw Gutierrez standing out in front of the raised hood, as if the Chevy were in trouble. The lights were on.

A truck roared by, stirring the warm air, trailing exhaust.

Jose stopped and crouched again. As the diesel noise subsided, he said softly, "
Señor
Gutierrez."