The Only Road (9 page)

He followed his cousin through the thick tropical growth to the river, where they kept watch for each other, before returning to the church hall.

“Mangos or tamales?” Ángela looked through their food bags. “Or there's still some tortillas and a tiny bit of cheese.”

If only Abuela had packed the breakfast she had made yesterday. They'd definitely enjoy it more today. Jaime's stomach groaned and ached as he remembered home. “Tortilla with mango and we might as well finish the cheese, too, I guess.”

A girl close to Ángela's age with a baby slung around
her chest and a handmade bag hanging from her shoulder looked up as she folded her tattered blanket.

“The church provides us with food.” She spoke with an accent that implied Spanish hadn't been her first language. She didn't look Mayan; Jaime wondered if she was Xinca or Pipil Indian instead.

Ángela smiled and waved hello at the baby. “Thank you, but we're already grateful for the shelter. We shouldn't take when we already have.”

The baby reached out to Ángela with thin arms. The mother hesitated for a second before passing the baby over. “Save what you have and go to the table anyway. Tomorrow we could all be starving.”

Jaime and Ángela looked at each other. The girl had a point. They only had food for another day or so and then what? Even if they boarded the train today, it could easily be a week before they got to Tomás. Or more.

“
Tenés razón
.” Ángela colloquially agreed with the woman as if she were talking to a girl friend, not the formal way she had spoken with the guard on the bus. “We'll eat what God provides.”

Jaime remembered Quico's plump belly and chubby cheeks that broke into a smile when tickled. In comparison this baby seemed frail and small. Ángela rocked her for a few more seconds before handing her back.

The girl pulled her baby close. They both giggled as the
girl burrowed her face into the tiny tummy. She adjusted the infant into some rags that worked as a carrier against her chest. “Better take your food with you, and your other belongings. Things grow legs when you're not watching.”

“
Gracias
.” Jaime hugged the backpack to his chest. If anything happened to his sketchbook . . .

The girl turned in a circle to give her sleeping spot one last check. The blanket she had used lay perfectly folded in a corner.

“Are you leaving now?” Ángela frowned.

“Her father”—the young woman looked down at her baby with a sad smile—“tried to take her away from me. I can't let him find us.”

It was then that Jaime noticed the bruises on the girl's arm, the cut almost hidden under her hair, her feet wrapped in scraps of cloth instead of shoes. Although she looked nothing like them, it wasn't too hard imagining her as Ángela. If only they could help her.

From their plastic food bag Ángela took out one of Abuela's tamales wrapped in banana leaves and a mango that had grown behind Jaime's house and handed them to the young woman with the baby. “For tomorrow.”

•  •  •

The cousins folded up the bed blankets and returned them to a
viejita
who placed them on a stack before they were allowed outside.

A grumpy woman with dark, thick braids served breakfast on a long table under some trees near the river. Her gruff glare deterred anyone from asking for second helpings. Not that anyone would. Breakfast consisted of lumpy cornmeal cereal and soupy pinto beans, both of which tasted like nothing.

“I miss Abuela's cooking,” Jaime said under his breath, though the snicker of agreement from Ángela meant she had heard and agreed.

If they were home, they'd have fried plantains, sweet bread, and sausages. Even when money was tight, there were always eggs from their chickens, fruit from the trees, and an endless supply of savory black beans.

Jaime took more bites, imagining the food had salt, sugar, or lard. Something to make it less bland. When the plastic plate lay empty on the ground in front of him, he knew Abuela would be proud. He had a feeling that picky eaters wouldn't survive this trip.

About a hundred people ate their breakfasts on the ground under the shade of avocado trees picked bare of any fruit. Grown men in various shades of tiredness. Women clumped together, keeping their heads down and avoiding attention. Quite a few children and teens, mostly without their parents. Some people were barefoot; some sported raw bruises on their faces; some looked like their soul had left their body and all that was left was a corpse operated by memory.

Jaime closed his eyes for a second and said a prayer of thanks. He had (he rapped his knuckles against the avocado tree he was leaning against) Ángela, they had food and money, and they had their health. Compared to the others huddled around this ruined church, they could be in much worse conditions.

Bright and perky for so early in the morning, Padre Kevin walked among the travelers, asking how they had slept and if they needed anything. When one teen in a cap said he needed
café con leche
, eggs, and a side of bacon, Padre Kevin pressed his hands together in prayer and then reminded him that stranger miracles had happened.

The padre came up to Jaime and Ángela with a huge smile. He must have gotten less sleep than they had, but there he was, fully alert, freshly shaved, and in hot pink shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of Jesús and the English words “Who's your daddy?”

“Ah, if it isn't my midnight
chapines
,” he said, using the colloquial word for Guatemalans, and welcomed them each with the traditional greeting cheek kiss. “How did you sleep in my luxurious house of God?” He raised his arms with pride to embrace his rundown church.

“Very well, thank you,” Ángela said as she set down her finished plate. “We appreciate you letting us stay here.”

Padre Kevin looked up at the hazy grayish-blue sky with a sense of tranquility as if Ángela were thanking the
wrong person. “Of course. And how long do we have the pleasure of your company? You can stay as long as you like.”

Jaime and Ángela exchanged looks. That part of the plan was still vague. Last night Padre Kevin had said there was always room, but maybe he wasn't good at math and didn't realize how full the church already was.

“We need to get in contact with a man called El Gordo,” Ángela said. “Do you know where we can find him?”

Padre Kevin's perky grin changed to a frown as his eyes shifted among the crowd. “You won't find him, he'll find you.”

“He knows we're here?” Jaime asked. The feeling of being watched made him shiver. He glanced at the bushes behind him, just to be sure.

“He'll be around the day before the train comes in.” Padre Kevin suddenly seemed tired. “Have you already paid him?”

Ángela nodded. “Our parents have.”

Jaime slipped his thumbs into his jeans waistband without realizing what he was doing. When he did, guilt overtook him. The money, the sacrifice his and Ángela's parents must have gone through to get everything ready in a few days. Just for their safety.
They gave us everything they had. And more.
Jaime sent another prayer to his family, sending his love and thanks. He just hoped their sacrifice was worth it.

He hoped he didn't end up like Miguel.

“Hmm, well, that's that.” Padre Kevin looked like he wanted to say more about El Gordo but instead turned to greet the next group of people.

“Wait.” Ángela got to her feet. “When is the next train? When will El Gordo come?”

Padre Kevin's face twitched as if his brain were fighting for control against his mouth. “Next train's in two days, so he'll be here tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you are too or you'll lose your money.” When he welcomed the people sitting next to them, his previous perkiness was missing from his tone.

“What should we do today?” Jaime asked as he and Ángela walked back to the table to return their plastic colored plates.

Ángela looked around as if she, too, wondered whether they were being watched from the dense bushes. “I don't know. We don't know how safe it is here. Remember the graffiti? But I don't like staying still, either.”

Good, he didn't want to wander around the town. After all, Miguel had been killed in broad daylight in the village they'd lived in their whole life. Who knew what could happen in this unfamiliar place.

Before Jaime could make some suggestions—guess the drawing, quiz each other on movie trivia, or walk through the thick bushes lining the river in search of smooth stones
for a game of marbles—the grumpy woman at the food table yanked the plates out of their hands. “You can help around here, that's what you can do. This isn't a hotel, you know. Things don't just magically get done.”

“Of course not,” Ángela said, sounding surprised and offended. Back home, everyone always helped out however they could. It was what families did.

“Yeah, well.” The woman's voice softened a bit when they didn't complain or argue. Jaime wondered if most people tried to get out of helping, or never thought of volunteering. “Padre always forgets to mention it when he makes the rounds. He seems to think that help should be given willingly, and not because one feels obligated. But then I'm left doing it all myself.”

Jaime nodded. “What can we help you do?”

“Dishes, for one thing. And you three!” she shouted at the boys behind them, who were also returning their empty plates. “You're helping with the dishes as well, and don't let me catch you stealing anything from the kitchen.”

Just like Jaime and Ángela, the boys didn't challenge the idea of helping out in exchange for food and shelter. Or maybe they were too scared; the youngest boy definitely flinched a bit. The woman's gruff “don't mess with me” tone had returned.

The tallest boy looked vaguely familiar with his ruffled black hair and dark skin, but Jaime didn't know from where.
The boy picked up a stack of the dirty plastic dishes from the ground next to the table and carried them into a separate decaying wooden building that operated as a kitchen. They all followed him without another word. The kitchen held two large steel washbasins with tubs underneath the drain and a stove with six burners, but no refrigerator. Bags of rice, beans, and ground corn sat under rickety shelves that held plates and pans. In a corner a swarm of flies buzzed around a huge banana bunch. Jaime got the feeling he was looking at the lunch menu.

Once in the kitchen and away from the grumpy woman, Ángela and Jaime set their bags in a corner. The older boy placed the dishes in a washbasin and turned to Ángela.

“
Hola
, Veracruz,” he said.

Ángela looked surprised. It took Jaime a second to understand what the boy was talking about, and suddenly it hit him. He had been on the bus with them yesterday, sitting up front and playing with his phone. Unlike the guard, it seemed he wasn't fooled into thinking they had come from the southern Mexican state.

“
Hola,
Tapachula,” Ángela replied. She didn't seem to believe he was from where he had claimed either. With the few words the boy had spoken, Jaime couldn't figure out where he came from but was willing to bet it wasn't anywhere in México.

“Acaxman.” He corrected with a wink of his green eyes, which stood out against his dark features.

Of course. Jaime had forgotten that this boy had been the first one the guard interrogated. The one who had had the easiest time convincing the guard he was local. Looking at him, Jaime understood why. The boy was wearing a white collared uniform shirt from a school in Tapachula, the school's emblem bright over the left breast with the name encircling it. Good disguise. Jaime wondered how much he had paid for that shirt.

The teen smiled perfectly white and even teeth as he continued, “Have you been to Veracruz? I hear it's beautiful.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. This guy was repeating what Ángela had told the guard. What else did this guy know about them? And should they be worried?

Ángela stood her ground, though her cheeks flushed. “Well, I feel sorry for anyone who comes from Acaxman.”

The guy grinned as if he and Ángela had been communicating in a secret language only the two of them understood. “Xavi.”

“Ángela.”

They kissed on the right cheek in greeting.

The second boy, small and scrawny but with a few dark, wispy chin hairs, adjusted his ball cap before kissing her too. “I'm Rafa.”

The third boy was Jaime's age, maybe a bit younger.
His shirt hung like a tarp to mid-thigh, and his hair looked like he'd cut it himself. This boy kept his distance. Jaime would have done the same. While it was fine to accept greeting or farewell kisses, often forced upon by his mamá's friends, it was weird to think of kissing girls his age.

The youngest boy shuffled his feet but barely raised his eyes to say his name. “Joaquín.”

Jaime introduced himself and the five set to work. Washing dishes for one hundred people was no easy task. Washing dishes for one hundred people with no running water and clogged plumbing: eternal. Water was hauled up from the river, sterilized with lime juice (which first had to be squeezed), and dumped back outside once it got too dirty.

Jaime and Joaquín were in charge of drying and putting away the plates. Jaime had offered to wash the dishes, but Ángela volunteered instead, saying she could do them faster—which was true. The other two were on water-hauling duty. Between buckets they started to get to know each other. The other three boys had just met that morning at breakfast.

“
Mi madre
in Honduras, she drinks a lot.” Rafa spilled his life story without being asked, almost as if he were bragging. “We never have enough food. She's pretty, too, so she has lots of boyfriends. I have ten brothers and sisters; most of them don't know who their real papi is. Not me. I
know mine's in Texas. I'm going to find him. We're going to get fat, discover oil, and become rich together.”