The Same Sky (12 page)

“Is that right?” said the man, smiling.

“Maybe,” I said. I had begun to regret the entire expedition. Visiting these desperate animals wasn’t a
lark
, as I myself had called it. Even if I did adopt one of these abandoned animals, I would leave the rest behind. I felt useless and sad.

“Have a look around,” he said. “Dogs to your left, cats to your right. You can take any dog you want for a walk. Just let us know.”

As soon as we approached the row of cages, my stomach began to hurt. There were so many of them—bounding toward us, some barking, others sitting very still. The large majority of the animals seemed to be pit bulls. Each had been given a name, and a placard was filled out, describing their personalities.
Charlie is rambunctious and would be happy in an active family with children! Roxanne needs one-on-one attention and will thrive in a childless home!
Young volunteers rinsed bowls and consulted clipboards, nodding as we passed. Classical music played loudly. The girls fell quiet, and I wondered if this place—the enormous need
on display—was too much for them. Camilla walked slowly past the dogs, stopping to peer in at each one.

In a far corner, I saw a puppy sitting quietly. He met my gaze and cocked his head. “Camilla,” I said, grasping her arm.

“Ah, there he is,” she said, following my look and nodding.

I approached the little dog.
Justin Bieber is six weeks old. He’s sweet and energetic and needs a forever family!
The puppy was part Bernese mountain dog for sure, but smaller than a purebred. He began to pant, standing up on all fours, but did not bark. I held out my hand, and he came forward, touched his cold nose to my palm. “Hey, you,” I said. He looked at my face, hope pure and painful in his eyes.

I turned around to see Camilla smiling at me, her arms tight around her girls.

“Oh, boy,” I said.

“Oh, boy,” agreed Camilla.

19
 

Carla

W
E SPENT THE
first night away from home in a Guatemalan graveyard. I held Junior in my arms as he slept fitfully, gasping once in a while, as if still underwater. Ernesto lay atop another grave, smoking his last cigarettes. We were hungry but expectant: in the morning, we would take buses to the train station in Arriaga, Mexico, where we could climb on top of The Beast. The border crossing between Guatemala and Mexico was dangerous, Ernesto whispered. He had made the journey to America twelve times. (This was his thirteenth.)

His first time, he said, was with his father, who worked picking oranges in Florida. Ernesto hated the groves, hated the tiny motel room shared with twenty men, the way his father drank beer and cursed at him. On rainy days—and sometimes the rain lasted for weeks!—the men
watched television all day long, packed into one room, growing agitated. It was terrible, said Ernesto. When I asked him how old he had been during his first year in America, Ernesto gestured toward my sleeping six-year-old brother with his cigarette. “His age, about,” he said. Still, Ernesto’s father had thought him big enough to climb ladders into orange trees, grabbing fruit as fast as he was able, holding a large and heavy sack over his shoulder.

In Florida, Ernesto had missed his mother and sisters, who had remained in Honduras. One night while his father and the other men were out at a nearby cantina, Ernesto ran away. The money he had stolen got him a bus ticket to Los Angeles, where he hoped he could find a family like the ones he saw on his favorite television show,
Beverly Hills, 90210
. But before he reached the state he had dreamed about, someone on the bus reported him as an unaccompanied minor, and he was deported.

Life in his Honduran village no longer fit Ernesto. His mother was strict, and Ernesto bridled at her rules, talking back, even hitting her. Within six months, she hired a
coyote
to bring him back to his father, where he could earn money and be out of her hair. They did not ride The Beast, but traveled by
combi
all the way to the Texas border, where fake papers got him into Laredo and on a bus to Florida.

Upon his return, his father beat him until he cried, gave him one day in the motel room to recover, then handed him a sack and brought him back to the groves. “I ran away again,” said Ernesto, “and this time I reached Los Angeles. It was not, of course, like the television show. But after a bad time, I found my family. My
real
family.”

“Your real family,” I repeated.

It had begun when Ernesto was ten years old, and a boy he thought was a friend carved the words “El Santa Muerte” into his arm with a sharp knife while other gang members held Ernesto down. Ernesto rolled up his sleeve to show me the crude tattoo. “I had no choice once I was marked,” he said, gazing at the scar in wonderment. After a moment, he lifted his head. “But it was all for the best,” he said.

I did not ask him about the gang, about what he had to do to remain in the gang. I did not ask him how he ended up bleeding in my house.

“What will you do now?” I said.

“Whatever God wishes,” said Ernesto. In the light cast by stars, his face was smooth, and I could imagine how handsome he would have been were it not for the number on his face. But then he laughed, a hopeless, strangled sound. “Or El Santa Muerte,” he said.

I did not mention that I believed in God (and not in the Saint of Death, though her name frightened me). I shut my eyes and said a silent prayer:
Please, God, watch over me. Please bring me safely to my mom
. Before long, I was asleep.

In my dream, I wore a black dress. Humberto stood at my side, also in midnight-colored clothes. I saw my mother, Stefani, and Gabriela. We seemed to be standing at the edge of something, but as I peered down, Humberto said, “Look up, only up,
mi amor
.”

I defied him. Below us was a grave, a deep earthy hole. At the bottom was a small coffin. One by one, those around
me dropped roses on the coffin. “Goodbye, Junior,” said my mother, and then I understood.

I woke gasping for breath, knowing even as I gazed at my brother’s sleeping face that I would lose him. I did not know when or how, but I was sure now that my time with him was limited. I swore to be more vigilant, to keep him next to me no matter who—or what—tried to take him away. Despite my vows, I was filled with the cold knowledge that I would fail.

In the morning, we resumed walking, ignoring our bloody ankles. Both Junior and I had good American sneakers, and we had begun the journey with three pairs of clean socks. (Junior’s socks had been eaten by the river. I gave him mine.)

Ernesto wore plastic soccer sandals, which looked cool but offered him no support. I thought he was kind of an idiot, if handsome. Around midmorning, we came upon a town, and I opened the coffee can and bought us tortillas, eggs, and cold water. We sat in the shade of a jacaranda tree to eat. “You need bandages,” commented Ernesto, gesturing to my feet. When I explained that I had no bandages, he pulled my feet into his lap and inspected them. “Feet, be good,” said Ernesto. Lavender blooms fell from the tree, dusting our hair.

“He loves you,” whispered my brother.

“He talks to feet,” I said. Still, my feet seemed to hurt less as we trekked, leaving the town and heading up a
mountainous trail. Junior whined that he was tired, and I reminded him to just put one step after another step. He glared at me, but I thought this was a useful way to think—just keep moving along the path, without worry for what lies ahead or what you’ve left behind.

Ernesto knew where to board a bus, taking my money to pay our fare. It felt sweet to sit down after walking for so long, to have a moment to feel my brother’s head loll on my shoulder, to watch the eucalyptus trees and the verdant fields. (“Verdant” is my favorite English word so far, but I have not yet finished reading
Webster’s New Century Dictionary
.) When we entered one small town, a woman climbed on the bus and gave us bread and water for free. “God bless you,” she said, handing us the food.

It was a new day before Ernesto told us to get off the bus. “We walk from here,” he said. “There’s a checkpoint ahead.” It was hard to leave the spongy bus seat, and my legs were sore and creaky. Still, we disembarked, leaving the paved road entirely, making our way to a worn trail. We trod along switchbacks as the sun grew fierce, finally reaching what seemed to be the top of something. “How far are we from Mexico?” I questioned.

“Don’t ask,” he answered. He put his hands on his hips, then pointed. In the distance, I could make out another town. “Tapachula,” said Ernesto, adding, “Mexico.”

“Will we get there tonight?” said Junior. His voice was a small, cornered animal.

“If you shut up and walk,” said Ernesto.

We shut up. We walked.

Ernesto had twice been caught by immigration entering Chiapas. Once he had been robbed. There were a few ways to cross, but Ernesto explained that if we had money, we should hire someone to carry us on a raft. I figured we might as well spend our
lempiras
now, rather than wait to be robbed of them later. The Rio Bravo seemed a world away, and I knew God would provide.

“I have the money,” I said.

Ernesto led us to the Suchiate, a much larger river than we’d crossed before. He bargained with a stumpy man in a baseball cap, then told me to give the man all of my money. I shook my head, and Ernesto stared at me stonily. I saw there was no room for discussion.

“You owe me,” I told Ernesto, reaching into my pack and giving the man the coffee can. Ernesto laughed—that joyless sound again.

The man took us one at a time, Ernesto first. As Junior and I stood on the bank, watching Ernesto cross, I wondered if Ernesto would leave us behind. I told myself we would be fine without him, but I did not believe myself. “I want to go with you,” said Junior. “I don’t want to be on either side without you.”

I pulled him close. The man returned with the raft and told me to climb aboard. I explained that Junior and I wanted to cross together. The man refused. “Take him first, then,” I said.

“You don’t want him alone with that one,” said the man.

“He’s not what you think,” I said.

“Look at his face,” said the man.

I sighed and stepped on the raft. Junior burst into tears, and I implored him to have faith. The raft was unsteady, and despite my words, I was nervous as it rocked back and forth. The man had a long pole to grip the mud below. “I know what I am doing,” he told me. “There are alligators in the water, by the way.”

When we reached the other side, I stepped into Mexico. I had left all my papers behind so that if I was caught now, I would not be sent home. I sat down cross-legged and watched as the man returned for Junior. I held my breath. My brother climbed aboard nervously, slowly. The raft leaned to the side but righted itself. In a matter of minutes, Junior was in my arms. Ernesto stood behind us as Junior and I embraced. “Now the train,” said Ernesto.

“Now The Beast,” said Junior with excitement.

“Now The Beast,” agreed Ernesto. He did not smile.

20