Until I Find Julian (3 page)

“We worked at the factory until we could buy nails,” Abuelita told me. “We'd picked up boards that floated down the green creek.”

She held out her hand to show me her crooked fingers. “From raising the roof.” Still she smiled. “We loved doing it.”

They painted the house blue, but not just an ordinary blue. It was the color of a bluebird's wing, the color of the sky on a hot summer morning.

Julian's favorite color.

Later, Julian drew pictures of all of us on the walls. He stood on the table in the kitchen, his head grazing the ceiling, and painted wrens flying in and out of birdhouses, just the way they did outside. And while he worked, he tossed English words to me over his shoulder.
“Broom,”
he'd say. “You use it to sweep for Abuelita. Weed the vegetables. You do that too.” He grinned. “Not often enough.”

How did people speak such a hard language?

But Julian wouldn't give up. Every day a new word!

I move now and feel a quick pain in my side.

Ahead, the coyote yells at a woman who's fallen behind. “Leave the baby,” he shouts, “or I'll leave you here and you'll both die.”

I watch, terrified. What will she do? What can she do? But the woman struggles on, and the coyote turns, paying attention to someone else.

I scramble to my feet, holding my side.

The coyote stops, his arm raised, standing completely still.

I hear it too.

The rumble of a motor growing louder.

Lights flashing through the yucca trees. It's a truck coming fast, too fast for me to think, to run.

Who could it be? Police? Or even worse: thieves, looking for money?

The coyote, baseball hat gone, dives behind a jumble of rocks; the others scatter like ants, dropping bags, the baby wailing as the truck swerves toward them.

The lights sweep over me. I drop down and dig myself into the ground, my heart beating so fast I can hardly breathe, my mouth open, sand on my teeth, on my tongue. I don't dare to whisper, but I think:
Don't see me. Don't…

The travelers disappear behind rocks, behind scrub bushes. It's as if they don't exist. Even the baby is silent. The truck idles; two men in front lean forward, searching for them. But it's no use. After a few moments, they turn the truck and disappear too.

Nothing is left but paper bags filled with fruit and bottles of soda, or water, hot from the day's fierce sun, a few pieces of clothing, a baby's blanket, all scattered across the ground.

The coyote, a shadow, head down, comes from behind the bushes and heads back the way we've come. He just misses me. I turn slowly and watch after him, listening as he whistles to himself.

I crouch there, afraid to move. Suppose the men in the truck come back?

And then I realize I'm alone. Not one of the travelers returns for his things. I'm really alone.

Sounds surround me: wind, beating insect wings. A lizard darts away, its feet and curved tail leaving delicate traces behind it.

Everything is suddenly still: the small creatures, and even the wind. It's as if the earth knows I'll never find my way to the river that flows along the border. I'll never find Julian in the north.

All the stories I've heard about people crossing the border come flooding into my head. Mami, when she was twenty, hoping for a job, was lost for hours, and then caught and sent home. Mr. Juarez, who'd lived across the creek from our house, was killed by coyotes for a few pesos. A boy from our village was turned away from the border four times, and finally gave up.

I raise my head, remembering the bags left by the travelers. I can't wait to taste the fruit, to feel its sweetness sliding down my throat that's as dry as the desert sand.

And bread! I'll bite off huge chunks and eat until I'm full. Maybe I'll find another sweater and that poor baby's blanket for the cold nights.

What would Mami say? How terrible to be glad I'd have what the poor people left. But I am glad, my thirst is terrible, and in another moment I'll have something to drink.

I crawl forward slowly, my side aching, and hear something.

What?

A large animal?

I cover my head with my hands.

It's not an animal. It's the sound of feet.

If only Julian were still at home with us.

If only I were home, writing in my book, the stray cat curled up next to me, the sound of the creek out back, water lapping against the rocks.

Someone is right behind me,
coming fast.

If I get hurt I'll be no help to Mami and Abuelita, no help to Lucas. And I'll never find Julian!

A foot digs hard into my back, pushing me down. I spit out a mouthful of earth.

Someone breathes over me. “Move,” the voice mutters.

I slide out from under the foot slowly, dirt scratching the side of my face and my arms. “Don't.” I try to sound hard, to sound tough.

“Pathetic.” There's something strange about that high voice.

I peer up over my shoulder.

A girl stares at me, her hand to her mouth!

Her face is filthy. Her jeans are in tatters, the hems in strings. Her ragged shirt is stained, and one sleeve is gone.

Her hair hasn't been combed in weeks; maybe it's never been combed. It hangs in thick ringlets down her back—probably dark, but dirt covers it, so it looks almost gray, even though she must be about twelve years old, my age.

I stand, wiping my face, then my shirt, trying not to groan as I feel the pain in my side. I look up at her; she's tall and gawky like a stork. Her sharp elbows stick out as she rests her skinny hands on her hips.

She grins. “It's a wonder you've lasted out here as long as you have, bumping into things, yelling at a little fall. Probably crying like a baby.”

“Wrong,” I say, in a voice that matches hers.

“You're looking for the river,” she says. “A hard place to cross, impossible if you can't swim.”

“I can swim.” My voice is hoarse; I'm so thirsty and my tongue is so thick I can hardly get the words out.

I have a quick thought of that soupy creek in back of our house: shallow, cool, not wide enough to take more than a few strokes. A place to dip my face. A place to stand with Julian to hook a fish for dinner.

She tells me about a horrible death by drowning in that river: choking, both feet tangled in reeds, eyes sealed shut in mud.

This girl is trying to scare me. She's doing a good job! I can't let her know that, though.

I take a step away from her, and then I'm almost running toward the bags the immigrants left: the water, an orange half-hidden in the sand.

I sink down, the girl almost forgotten, and twist off the top of a bottle. With my head back, I drink until I can't hold any more.

She's next to me now. She picks up a canvas bag, empties it in the sand, and picks through everything, dropping pieces of fruit and bread back into the bag, a bottle of water, then takes time to roll a small blanket tightly so it fits on top.

She wraps a sweater around her neck and glances at me as she tears the rind off the orange with her teeth. She sucks on the fruit, her nose turned up. “If I'm going to save your life, I should probably know your name.”

“Mateo.” I stare at her. “Why would you help me? You don't even know me.”

She runs her tongue over her lips, which are caked with sand, hesitating, staring again. “No time for that now.” She shoves her hair off her face. “Call yourself Matty. At least try to sound as if you come from the north.” She spreads her arms. “I'm Angel. A guardian angel, like Gabriel or Raphael in the Bible. I'm just missing the wings.”

She pokes out her hand.

Angel the stork,
I think. We shake hands. Crazy thing to do in the desert.

She doesn't wait for me. She slings the bag over her shoulder and begins to walk. “I know this place better than anyone,” she calls back. “I know the washes; I've seen where the rattlers and scorpions nest; I know where the tall yuccas are and the plants with thorns that tear your skin.”

She stops. “I left my grandfather's house. I've crossed over many times. It gives me something to do.”

She's quiet then, moving fast now, feet slapping, the bag swinging.

I can't lose her; I scoop up a bag. I don't even know what's in it. I follow a few steps behind, holding my side with one hand.

It's long after dark when she stops again. “Smell that?”

My nose is clogged with sand. How can I smell anything? Now that she's just standing there, I crouch down to rest and pull off my sneakers slowly. My feet are blistered, bleeding; one toenail is hanging.

“A mistake,” she says. “You probably won't be able to get them on again.”

“I know what I'm doing.” I hear the anger in my voice even though I know she's right.

She ignores my feet and my temper. “I can smell the river ahead of us. After you cross that, you'll be a wetback.”

Wetback.
Wet from the river. I've heard that American word before. Miguel at the factory calls Julian that. Not a nice word coming from Miguel's mouth.

She's pointing now, and it's there, almost like a miracle: a wide swath of river swirling around a small island in the center. The water's dark and a little muddy, almost like the creek in front of our house.

“We'll cross later on,” Angel says. “If you can't swim, if you're lying, you'll drown.”

She knows I'm lying, but still my head goes down. It's been so long since I've slept. I need five minutes. Ten.

I close my eyes.

“And if you sleep, they'll catch you, throw you in prison for who knows how long, then send you back wherever you belong.”

My eyes fly open. “I'm not sleeping.” I look away from her, embarrassed. “I can swim…a little.”

“I knew it.” She bites her lip. “We'll have to use an inner tire tube I've hidden away. I pump it up once in a while. I hope it isn't poked out with holes now. I don't have time to babysit you. I have things to do.” She hesitates. “This is the most dangerous part.” She points across the river with one hand; her nails are rimmed with black.

I stand searching. I don't see anything, but to have come all this way for nothing!

Angel yanks the edge of my shirt, pulling hard so I move into the shelter of a knob of trees. “You're just dying to be caught.”

My face is inches from hers. “I've traveled a long way alone. I can even cross this river without you.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” she says.

I take a breath. Mami said that a long time ago. And I'm reminded of something else: a froth of water, rocks, a sheer drop, the far end of the creek at home.

She rolls a stone in her mouth and acts as if we haven't been whispering furiously at each other. “We'll wait until it's dark again. Until, just for a moment,
la migra
needs coffee, or changes shifts, or travels somewhere else, and then we move.”

I reach in my pocket for the pen and the small notebook. There are hours to wait, hours to write down my memories.