Into the Beautiful North(48)
“?Tía?” she said.
Aunt Irma was yelling at the turkey: “General! Leave that chicken alone, you mindless idiot!”
“?Tía?” Nayeli repeated.
“My girl!” Irma cried. “How goes the epic journey?”
Nayeli started to cry.
“Ay, Tía,” she said. “It has taken us forever.”
“It’s only been a week!” Irma said.
“A week?”
“Six days, actually. Are you in San Diego yet? Have you seen Chava?”
“Chava?” Nayeli said.
“Chava Chavarín,” Aunt Irma snapped. “Don’t tell me you forgot to call Chava Chavarín! He was the finest bowler I ever saw.”
Nayeli sniffled. How could it have been only a week? Surely they had been on the road for weeks. Nayeli tried to remember anything Aunt Irma might have said in the past about Chavarín.
“Where do I begin?” Nayeli said.
“Tell me everything.”
“Everything? Well…”
It all poured out. The whole long story of the bus and the dump and the crossing and the migra. Irma interrupted often.
“Chavarín?”
“No Chavarín.”
“He didn’t help you? That bastard! Or”—a tone of dread and disbelief seeped into La Osa’s hectoring voice—“is he, uh, dead?”
“No, Tía. I don’t think so.”
A tiny gasp of relief.
“Is it possible—did he—did he not… remember me?”
“No, Tía. Nothing like that. There was no Chavarín. He is not here.”
“That is absolutely incorrect,” Irma insisted.
“I’m sorry.”
“He cannot be gone. He married a damned—a gringa. They live in Colonia Independencia.”
“No.”
Silence.
“He went across,” Irma decided. “Call him when you get across.”
“Is this why we’re here?” Nayeli asked. “To find Chavarín?”
“Don’t be silly. Goddamnit.”
Then:
“You were saying you are involved with a criminal named Atomic?”
Nayeli thought: A change of gears.
And:
“Did you also say Tacho is a terrorist?”
There was far too much to explain, so Nayeli forged ahead: “We are going back across,” she said. “I don’t know how, but we will try again. People here go back over and over, and so will we. I have Mateo’s phone number.”
“Mateo who?”
“The missionary.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re calling the Christian.”
“Yes. What else can I do?”
“That simp.”
“Yes, Tía.”
Irma sighed.
“All right. Fine. Good. Keep the project rolling.”
“We will go to him for help.”
“You are there to collect Mexicans,” Irma reminded her. “Don’t fall in love with that missionary!”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t screw him, either. If you give him the milk for free, why would he buy the cow?”
“?Tía!”
“Don’t bring me any damned American surfers. And don’t bring me any American babies. Bring me Mexicans.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Nayeli said. “I… I think I want to go get my father.”
Uncharacteristic silence from La Osa.
“To Kankakee,” Nayeli continued. “I want my father to come home.”
Irma sighed.
“Well,” she said. She knew there were one hundred things to tell her black-eyed girl, but to what avail? Nayeli was listening to her own heart. She was going to do what she was going to do.
“Very well,” La Osa finally said. “Good luck. Bring that good-for-nothing father back if you have to. I will kick his ass when he comes home.”
Wino said, “The gay boy—they thought he was a terrorist?” He whistled. “They’ll send him to Guantánamo.” He and Atómiko shook their heads. “That’s rough.”
“At least he gets to see Cuba,” Atómiko said.
“No, thanks.”
They looked like two ancient crows to Nayeli, all ruffled and hunch shouldered, looking at the ground and smoking. The door opened behind them, and the girls came out, rubbing their eyes and trying to wrestle their hair into shape with their fingers.
Atómiko looked at Yolo and growled in the back of his throat.
“What are you looking at?” she said.
“I’m looking at you.”
“I thought you loved Nayeli.”
“She will not have me.”
Yolo shrugged him off and turned away as Nayeli reported on her telephone call. All three girls agreed that Mateo’s house was a fine destination. Mostly because it was the only place they could imagine finding safe haven in Los Yunaites. But they did not want to cross the border again. No way.
The two men stood listening, and Atómiko nudged Wino, who cleared his throat to get their attention.