The Same Sky(42)

“I’m sorry,” I said to the fichera.

“Go on, go away,” she said, waving me off and turning her attention to the jukebox. She pressed some buttons and the Golden Rooster began to sing, his smooth voice making even his most violent lyrics sound divine. He had been famous in Honduras even before he was gunned down. The woman swayed her hips a bit. “I loved him,” she said wistfully.

“I also loved him,” I said.

She turned to me, breathing out. She wore makeup all over her face and eyes and lips. “You don’t want to be here, I assure you,” she said. “You’re from Tegu?”

I nodded, flushing that my face gave me away. “I’m trying to get to my mother. In Texas. I lost my brother yesterday.”

“Zetas?”

“No, he’s not dead. He ran away from la migra by the train station.”

The woman wobbled, and it occurred to me that she might be on drugs or maybe Resistol. Finally she said mournfully, “I have no one on the other side.”

Despite my circumstances, I felt blessed at this moment, thinking about my mother safe in Austin, Texas. Yearning rose in my throat.

“I know what I’m doing,” the woman said. “I send money to my children, you know. They have a better life because of me.”

“Yes,” I said. I thought of my dresses, my shoes from Old Navy. For a moment I felt confused. But my mother worked at a restaurant that served chicken, I told myself. “Do you serve chicken here?” I asked, my voice low and frightened.

“Are you hungry?” said the woman. I nodded. She went around the corner and called for food. Another fichera emerged, carrying a plate with chopped beef and a bowl full of soup. I rushed toward her, my mouth filling with saliva, my worries about my mother momentarily forgotten.

“Okay, little girl,” the second woman said, laughing. “Sit down, sit down!” She was younger than the woman in the gold dress and wore very short shorts and a T-shirt that was very tight and ended before her stomach began. She placed the food on a table and handed me utensils that seemed clean enough.

Before I ate, I gathered my courage and said, “I do not want to be a prostitute.” I hoped I was not rude, but wanted to be clear. The young fichera laughed, her earrings jangling. “Nobody wants to be a prostitute,” she said. “Go ahead, girl, eat.”

The food was hot and filling. I ate more quickly than was polite. When I emptied the soup bowl, the ficheras refilled it. “Thank you,” I said when I was done. “Thank you so much. God will bless you both.”

The woman in the gold said, “Now listen. You can waitress here, and there’s no need to do anything you don’t want to do. We’re happy.” She said the last with a steely glint in her eyes. She patted my hand forcefully.

“I need to find my brother,” I said.

“Ah, let her go,” said the woman who had given me food. “Horace isn’t here yet, he’ll never know.”

The older woman frowned, but did not object.

“I will take you to a shelter for migrants,” said the younger woman. “It’s run by a priest. It’s for people like you.”

“Thank you,” I managed, tears of relief making my voice watery. “Thank you very much.”

“Enough,” said the young fichera. “I’ll return soon,” she told the woman in gold, but that woman was already back at the jukebox, her eyes dreamy.

Outside, the sunlight was blinding. We took a right turn, then a left. After a while, we reached a high fence lined with barbwire. “The priest who runs this shelter has been threatened many times,” said the woman. She put her hands on her hips. “I wish you luck,” she said, and added, “You know, your body is a credit card no matter what choices you make.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, but I thought of the men who had attacked me, how the pain had earned me a place on the top of the train, how I was still alive.

“Ah, little girl, you will,” said the woman. She looked at me for a moment, touched my cheek. Then she turned and walked back toward La Bambi.


The building was painted white, the bars on the windows a tomato red. A large mural of Jesus welcomed me. In front of the shelter, a group of men and boys listened to a soccer game on the radio. They looked freshly washed, their hair wet, and I closed my eyes and prayed that this place was safe. A few dogs lay at their feet.

I glanced at the clothing line strung along the side of the building. A dozen shirts and pairs of pants hung limp in the morning sun. And then I saw it, a beacon, a promise of joy: Junior’s blue shirt, held tightly by wooden clothespins.





32




Alice


BY FOUR THAT afternoon, I began to fret about Evian. I texted her, asking if she needed to be picked up at school, and she responded: I’m fine. I made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, but by seven, she had not returned. I ate alone in front of the television, watching a Canadian couple search for an apartment in Beijing. One apartment had pool access, but the bathroom was very small. The next, in a gated community near the husband’s new job, had a huge kitchen and room for parties, but it was kind of isolated and had a garden neither husband nor wife wanted to maintain. The wife was not the gardening type, she said, smiling nervously. The husband nodded wryly at her admission. He was the business type, it was clear, but what type was the wife? What was she going to do all day in Beijing? The couple had just had a “dream wedding” in Toronto.