The Same Sky(26)

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.