Into the Beautiful North(18)

They were in awe of Aunt Irma, which was the way she liked it.

“Why do you think I run this town?” she asked. There was no need to answer.



Nayeli stuffed her backpack with her change of jeans, her panties, her clean socks, and her blouses. Deodorant. Tampons. She was packing lightly. She wore her best fútbol tennies with white gym socks. Garcí a-García had presented her with a paperback copy of Don Quixote, but she couldn’t make sense of it and would end up leaving it on the bus. Then she pulled out Matt’s card and paper-clipped Irma’s Tijuana phone number to it and tucked it into her back pocket.

Her weeping mother came into her room.

“Are you taking your father’s postcard?” she asked.

“May I?”

“You should.”

They stood together looking at the picture of the paranoiac turkey in the cornfield.

“I wish you could go there,” María said. “To KANKAKEE. I wish you could bring him back.”

Nayeli took her hand.

“If I can,” she suddenly heard herself promising, “I will.”

“Oh, Nayeli!” Her mother threw her arms around her and sobbed.



Aunt Irma made travel packs for each warrior. In big ziplock bags, she put toothpaste, toothbrushes, small bars of hand soap, small bottles of shampoo, rolls of mint Life Savers, packets of matches, some Band-Aids, small packets of tissues. She gave each of them chocolates, M&Ms with peanuts, in case they got hungry. In Nayeli’s bag was a small jar of Vicks VapoRub. “I know you get stuffy,” she said.

They were astonished when Tacho arrived at the bivouac. He had chopped his hair into spikes and oiled it up. Even worse, he had dyed it platinum blond. Vampi ran her hands over the spikes. Tacho had a can of pepper spray tucked into his left sock, and his shirt said: queen. He smirked. Nobody in Camarones would ever get that joke.

In spite of the alarming haircut, Garcí a-García, not trusting mere girls to accomplish the mission, pressed $500 on Tacho. Tacho added the money to his savings, 600 more US dollars, zipped inside his money belt.

There was more to come. The town had taken up a collection, and they handed their savings over to the girls. The bank converted the pesos and coins into American greenbacks, giving Nayeli $1,256. Yoloxochitl had $150 from her family and $65 in pin-tending money. La Vampi had $35. Tacho handed Nayeli $50 of his own. “It’s your tips, m’ija.” She split it with Vampi.

Mothers and strangers gathered in front of the Fallen Hand. Irma’s Cadillac settled on its springs as the travelers loaded the trunk. Vampi and Yolo hefted small shoulder bags onto their backs. Yolo had clothes and books stuffed in her school backpack. Tacho’s duffel was large and heavy, stuffed with discotheque clothes. La Vampi hid a switchblade that El Quemapueblos had once given her in her back pocket. Nayeli carried a tiny gift purse Tacho had given her. Bundles of tortillas were pressed on the travelers. A greasy paper bag of sweet rolls.

Sensei Grey stepped forward and bowed deeply.

He suddenly threw a punch at Nayeli. She blocked it and spun and laid her foot against his jaw. The master smiled and bowed again.

Tears.

Wails of sorrow.

The four warriors waved bravely to the crowd. The girls kissed their mothers and grandmothers. Father Fran?ois blessed them again. They got into the Cadillac. They slammed the doors. Aunt Irma honked the horn three times, drove around the plazuela a few times waving out the window, and they were gone.

Pepino climbed onto the roof of the Fallen Hand, yelling, “Nayeli! Nayeli! Come back to Pepino, Nayeliii!”



Aunt Irma accompanied them into the Tres Estrellas bus terminal. Poor folks in straw hats shuffled around with paper bags tied with twine. Mothers fed their children beans from plastic containers they were carrying because they couldn’t afford the food on the road. Electronic voices echoed off the cement floors.

Irma bought their tickets.

“Four, one-way, to Tijuana.”

The ticket taker had seen this before.

He smirked.

“It’s not what you think,” she snapped at him.

He shrugged.

“I have no opinion,” he said.

She distributed the tickets like playing cards to her warriors. She bought them all cold sodas and bottles of water for the road. Vampi cadged a rock-and-roll magazine out of her. Yolo had a paperback book called Caballo de Troya VI. The cover announced, “Jesus Christ was a UFO pilot!”

The huge bus loomed outside the window. Their driver was a dark-faced fat man named Chuy. His uniform was crisp, and he wore his bus pilot’s cap at a jaunty angle. Chuy oversaw the loading of their bags into the bins under the bus, then he positioned himself at the door to take tickets.

He eyed the girls. And Tacho.

Tacho said, “?Qué?”

“Nada,” Chuy replied. “Aquí nomás.”

He took Tacho’s ticket.

He looked at Irma, hovering about, fussing with the girls’ hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he promised her. “No worries.”

He gestured for their tickets.

Tacho hopped aboard and never looked back.

“Remember,” Irma said. “Call Chavarín immediately. Don’t move one step without him.”

“All right,” Nayeli said, and went to board.