The Only Road (6 page)

Ángela rested with her head on Jaime's lap, her arms folded over her backpack on her chest. When they were younger, Papá used to call them (along with Miguel) Hugo, Paco, and Luis after Donald Duck's nephews—they sometimes fought, they sometimes ganged up on one another, but at the end of the day they'd curl up together like puppies in a litter. They hadn't slept that way in years, but Ángela never went through the phase of being too old to cuddle and comfort her little brother and cousin. Jaime hoped he never did either.

He pulled out his sketchbook from his own bag and balanced it on the armrest of the bench as he sketched with broad strokes the statue of the great hero.

“If there was a
presidente
like Juárez now, do you think gangs like the Alphas would be taking over México and Centro América?” Ángela asked, her eyes shut, but she faced the statue as if contemplating him through closed lids.

“No, he wouldn't allow it.” Jaime glanced from the statue to his sketchbook and back to the real statue as his left hand shaded in the eyes. “People even say that if Benito Juárez had come to Guatemala a hundred and fifty years ago, we would have never had the civil war our parents and grandparents lived through. He was that great.”

Ángela stayed quiet for such a long time, Jaime thought she had fallen asleep.

“Do you think we'll ever go back?” she asked.

Jaime looked around the picturesque park with its fountain and gazebo; the church that had made Jaime feel like he was living in art; and the statue of the man who changed Mexican history. But the view of Volcán Tacaná, half in Guatemala, half in México, was blocked by the buildings, as if it weren't there.

“
Yo no sé
. I hope so.”

“You think it'd be safe?”

If gang members beat someone to death for not joining them, what would they do to two who ran away to avoid joining them? “Maybe in five or ten years, when they've forgotten us. Or if Benito Juárez reincarnates and there's a revolution.”

Ángela let out a snort that was half laugh, half disappointment. “I don't believe in that Mayan legend that a great king will return.”

“Then, no.”

Spiderwebs of cracks crisscrossed over
the windshield of the bus taking Jaime and Ángela from Tapachula north to Arriaga. The engine rattled and groaned like every wheel rotation caused it great pain. Every dark-tinted window was wide open and still the air in the bus was hot, humid, and stuffy—no different from the buses back home.

Outside, the lush jungle foliage seemed to take over the landscape, including an abandoned immigration checkpoint.

After a best-out-of-three battle of rock-paper-scissors, Ángela got the cooler window seat but promised to change places halfway through the five-hour ride. Jaime didn't grumble. From the aisle seat he had better access to unsuspecting subjects. The church visit had inspired him, and he
was determined to capture in his sketchbook as much of his journey as possible. It was the only way to make the trip bearable, and to forget why they had to take it.

Jaime turned to a fresh sheet in his fat sketchbook; if he used both sides of the pages, he had about eighty free pages left. Plenty. An anchor to hold his sketchbook steady in the lurching bus would be nice, but every great artist had to learn to draw in less-than-ideal situations.

His first models were obvious—a young white tourist couple sitting up front, their overstuffed camping backpacks wedged between their legs. Jaime couldn't stop staring at the man's hair, orangey-red like the memory of the setting sun he and Tomás had shared. Jaime had never seen hair quite that alarming and was sure it had to be dyed. Except the longer he stared at it, and noticed the freckles on the back of the man's neck and the fine golden-red hair of his arms, the more convinced Jaime was that the color was real. If only he had his paints with him. He would have loved to try and match the exact shade. Instead he settled on switching his colored pencils between pressing lightly with the red and a bit harder with the orange. Not perfect—hitting a pothole in the road gave the man a piercing on his neck—but the color wasn't too far off.

He skipped the teenager playing on his phone (a great artist only chooses subjects of interest) and drew the family with three small children, freezing time with the moment
the little girl popped the discovered gum from under her seat into her mouth. He was about to start on the four chickens (two white with black specks, one red, and one with
plumas
so black they looked blue) crammed into a wire cage diagonally from him, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. The small elderly woman behind him in a white embroidered linen dress motioned to herself repeatedly as she babbled in Mayan with an occasional Spanish word thrown in.

“
Claro que sí,
” Jaime agreed with a grin as he turned around in his seat to face her. Although he didn't speak much Mayan and couldn't have translated her words, he understood what the little old lady wanted. He sharpened the brown pencil as the
viejita
smoothed down her silver hair wrapped in a bun.

Friends and family sometimes asked Jaime to draw their portraits—Miguel had begged for one of himself dressed as Superman, and his little cousins especially loved being immortalized as cartoon caricatures—but this was his first time drawing for a stranger. What if she didn't like it? What if he made her look ugly?

Ángela, turning away from the window where she'd been reading the name of every village they passed by, nodded encouragement.

The bus bumped up and down as it trekked north, but Jaime rested the sketchbook steadily on the backrest
as he shaded her diminutive features. He smoothed out her wrinkles and captured the brightness in her eyes. The hand-stitched embroidery surrounding the collar of the dress seemed to almost jump off the page. In ten minutes he finished and tilted the book for her approval.

She squealed with delight, placing a wrinkled hand on his cheek, but then pointed to the empty bottom right-hand corner, waving her fingers as if she were holding a pen.

Jaime remembered what his fourth-grade teacher had said when they had studied Leonardo da Vinci's
Mona Lisa
: “The famous painting is unsigned, but at least we know Leonardo painted it. If not, it would be virtually worthless.” Not that his art was worth anything, but it was fun to pretend it would be. He switched from the colored pencils to the lead one, and wrote his full name in a lavish scribble:
Jaime Antonio Rivera Muñoz.

Slowly, carefully, he tore out the page from his book. He picked at the raw edge to remove the scraggly bits of paper. It was worth it to see the
viejita'
s skin crinkle into a smile and to hear her utter words of gratitude he didn't specifically understand as her spotted hands clutched the portrait to her heart.

At the next village she once again nudged his shoulder. She stood, barely a meter and a half tall, with her fist outstretched. Jaime shook his head. “
No es necesario
.”

“
¡Sí!
” she said with such insistence it would have been
rude for Jaime to disobey. He held out his hand, and three coins tumbled into it.

“
Gracias
.” He beamed at her as she waved her hands over him in a blessing and shuffled off the bus, one hand laden with her shopping bags and a cane, the other cradling his drawing as if it were a treasure.

Ángela, who had alternated between looking out the window and watching the transaction, nudged him in the ribs. “How much did you get?”

Jaime turned over the heavier gold-and-silver coin and then the two bronze ones to read their value. “Twelve pesos.”

“Look at you, Diego Rivera,” Ángela teased. “You keep this up and you can fly us to Tomás on an airplane.”

Jaime rolled his eyes but was secretly pleased. It wasn't too hard imagining he was related to the famous Mexican painter—after all, they shared a last name. But to someday be known around the world for his paintings like Diego Rivera? He couldn't imagine how great that would be.

He did the peso/quetzal conversion quickly in his head. If he was right, twelve pesos would only buy him a drink and, if he was lucky, a cookie. Didn't matter how little twelve pesos translated to. He was now officially a “professional” artist. Nothing could take that away from him.

•  •  •

There were no villages around when two men appeared from the bushes and flagged down the bus. Their clothes
were dirty and torn, as were their faces. One had crusted blood from a gash on his forehead, while the other's bottom lip hung like a wet sock on the washing line. They each gave the driver a coin and hovered near the front instead of going the length of the bus and sitting down.

About ten kilometers later the bus driver pulled over again to the side of the road. A truck zoomed by with a whoosh that made it feel like the bus would tip over. The battered men thanked the driver and disappeared back into the bushes.

A few minutes after that, the brakes squeaked and protested as the bus slowed down again. Through the open window Jaime saw no village, no buildings anywhere in sight, just lush trees, overgrown bushes, and long grasses all squeezed together, fighting against one another for their right to live on a bit of earth. Everyone on the bus shifted to look out the cracked windshield, where lights flashed their warning.

Something was wrong.

A hushed whisper vibrated through the bus. “
La migra
.”

Orange cones blocking the road forced the bus to come to a complete stop. Only one guard was on duty, but a rifle hung from his shoulder, ready to be snapped into his hands the second he needed it.

Jaime clenched his pencil tightly.

The guard leaned into the bus, hands on the open
doorjamb, to peer inside. Jaime jerked away before they could make eye contact and felt his face burn with self-indignation. So obvious. So guilty. The guard was sure to know he didn't belong in México. But the guard just turned back to the driver. “Anyone new gotten on? Anyone I need to know about?”

The driver shook his head. “No.”

It was mostly true. After all, the men they'd picked up in the middle of nowhere weren't on the bus anymore. They must have known about the stop, and how to avoid it. Clever. And at the same time risky. The bus driver could have easily mentioned where he dropped them off; drivers back home would have if they thought they'd get paid for the information. Instead this driver seemed content in minding his own business and doing only his bus-driver job. The guard returned his gaze outside, taking in the six cars waiting behind the bus, then moved a few cones out of the way and waved them by without asking any further questions.

No one was on duty at the next checkpoint, a tiny wooden structure on the side of the road, and it was only because Ángela read the sign announcing it that Jaime even realized what it was.

He let out a deep breath. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe the stories he'd heard—stories of how
la migra
beat you up, sent you to prison, and then returned you to your country in pieces, if you were lucky—were
just stories, tales told to prevent people from attempting the journey.

Except he didn't really believe they were made up. Especially when they arrived at the next checkpoint.

A large building stood alone in the middle of the jungle. Concrete and steel with spotless white paint, just its presence radiated a sense of foreboding against the lush green.

Ten cars waited in front of them, and many more beeped their horns behind them. Loads of guards milled around, their rifles ready in their hands.

On the window seat next to him, Jaime felt more than heard Ángela utter a prayer. He could feel her fear. Jaime sent a prayer of his own, this one to Miguel.
Please help keep us safe.
As far as they had traveled, they were still only in Chiapas, the most southern state in México. They were going to need a lot of help.

Sweat dripped down their faces as they waited in the sweltering bus for permission to continue. The driver opened the door, but no breeze entered, and no one dared exit. It felt like hours before a guard stomped on with thundering steps. He didn't have a rifle, but his hand was wrapped tight around the leash of a dog. Ángela tried to wedge herself between the seat and the window. Jaime seized her hand, both for comfort and to keep her from doing something stupid. With her pathological fear of dogs,
he wouldn't be surprised if she was tempted to jump out the window and risk her chances against the armed guards.

The dog, though, was small and looked like Snoopy with floppy ears framing its cute face. His black nose twitched as he investigated the front crevices of the bus.

“Don't worry,” Jaime whispered so low he hoped Ángela heard. “He's just a sniffer. He won't hurt us.” Except dogs smelled fear, and Ángela was practically oozing in it. A sudden dread overcame Jaime. Maybe this was a new thing—training dogs to smell fear in people so the guards could weed out the foreigners.