The Same Sky(17)

“Wonderful news,” said my father. He repeated, “Wonderful news.” And then Benjamin knocked over his Kool-Aid and began to cry.

“Look at this smoke ring,” said Dennis, holding up his meat and pointing. “We’re in the hands of a master here.”

“Honey,” said Jane, “can you get Ben some more Kool-Aid?”

“No,” said Dennis. “No, I cannot.”

Jane stood up, used her napkin to sop up Benjamin’s spilled drink, and then burst into tears.

“Did I tell you guys,” I said, “that I’m going to help out at the high school?”

“What?” said Jake.

“Yeah,” I said. “The principal of Chávez Memorial High has asked me to meet with some of the kids. I’m going to mentor a girl named Evian when school starts in the fall. In fact, Evian shot her brother. By mistake.”

Even Gilmer went silent. Jane sank back down in her seat, seemingly relieved to be out of the spotlight. “Did you say shot her brother?” said my father.

“That’s what I said.”

“Wow,” said Jake, sounding hurt. “I didn’t know you were going to say yes.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said my father.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” said my father. It was the first time he’d ever said anything like this to me. I stuffed a forkful of beans into my mouth. Happiness rose inside me like bread.





13




Carla


I TRIED TO REMEMBER everything I knew about preparing for a trip to America. I made Junior memorize our mother’s phone number, starting with the magical Austin, Texas, area code, 512. I piled on layers of clothing and strode around our yard, to see if I could take the heat. I practiced tying bottles of water to my waist. I took every centavo I had and filled the coffee can, then jammed it deep into my backpack.

“I’m not leaving,” said Junior, sitting cross-legged in the yard.

“Oh yes you are,” I said.

Junior stood. “See you later,” he said, hitching up his pants.

“Where are you going?”

“None of anybody’s business and especially none of yours,” said Junior. I scowled, and he ran off.

“Be back tonight,” I called. I had decided we would leave first thing in the morning. I hoped—dear God, I hoped—that Humberto would join us. I knew it was stupid to try to go to America without a coyote, but even with the money my mother had sent that week, we had only thirty U.S. dollars. This was a lot, but it was not enough. When we reached the American border, I hoped it would get all three of us (if Humberto came along) across the Rio Bravo on a raft.

As I’ve said, I believe in God. I could worry about what I could worry about, and I had to trust God to take care of the rest. As my story continues, please remember this. Some of the things that happened to me would ruin a person who did not have faith. If despair runs as deep and fast as the Rio Bravo, my belief that I am not alone forms a lifeboat underneath me, keeping me from drowning. This is hard for an American to understand. Having enough—having too much—enables you to forget that you are not in charge. God is in charge. But letting go of your fear also means you must accept whatever life God gives to you. I believed, as I prepared for my journey, that God had great plans for me. I saw my reunion with my mother, our picnic lunch, as clearly as I saw the pale sky. I thought this faith gave me strength. Then again, I also believed God would save my brother.



So I rummaged through the kitchen, finding the last bits of flour and salt, tying a pillow to my backpack so I could be comfortable until someone took the pillow or I had to leave it behind. To reach The Beast, we had to spend two days hiking through jungle, so I washed our socks and shoes and laid them to dry in the sun.

Humberto stopped by that evening, on his way home from the dump. “You’re not really leaving,” he said, “are you?”

“I am,” I said. “Are you coming along?”

“You’re crazy,” said Humberto. “What about me?”

“You’re invited,” I said, returning to my preparations. Humberto made a huffing sound and kept walking.

“Don’t go without saying goodbye,” he said over his shoulder.

“Okay, I won’t,” I said.

My brother had not come home by dark. I lay down on the pallet and closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was next to me, warm and smelling of sweat and glue. I breathed in slowly, trying to calm myself. Having an addict along on my trip to America was a bad thing. But maybe in Austin, Texas, Junior would be different. A younger, sweeter boy. I cried for just a short time.

When Junior woke at dawn, I said, “Just tell me why, Junior. Why are you sniffing Resistol?”

He looked straight at me, unashamed. “When I have glue, I’m not hungry,” he said. He reached inside the pocket of his pants. Before he could unscrew his glass bottle, I slapped it from his hands.

“No more,” I said. “No more.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” said Junior, his tone attempting bravado.

“Please,” I said.

“Give it to me,” said Junior. “Give it to me or I’ll go get more.”