The Same Sky(46)

I began to follow Marcos like a puppy, it is true. It was amazing to think that he had an employer in America. There was even a Dodge Ram truck stashed for him in Laredo, Texas! The owner of a farm had given Marcos the truck when it became too old for his use, Marcos told me. He liked to boast, but I was happy to listen. I had never known a father, much less a handsome one with money and a job. I sat at his feet while he told stories. And I was not the only one!

Marcos and his brothers, he said, traveled every year from Southern Mexico to Texas. For eight years now he’d been riding the rails, picking up the Dodge Ram in a parking lot just over the border, then driving it to the farm. Marcos had no map but knew the roads by heart, especially the ones to avoid because of border agents. “We are such good workers, we are worth a Dodge Ram,” said Marcos proudly. His three brothers smiled and nodded, a bit more bashful but not much more bashful. After the harvest, they returned home for Christmas, bearing lavish gifts and money. The following year, they headed north again.

“This year we brought our sister, Juliana,” said Marcos. “If she marries that young friend of yours, the rancher will be very happy with me.”

I was surprised Marcos thought a boy with a number tattooed on his face would be a good match, but I guess muscles are muscles at harvesttime. Marcos scrutinized my expression. “Is he a good man?” asked Marcos.

“He helps me and my brother out of kindness,” I said.

Marcos nodded, pleased. “My sister made a bad choice in Xaltianguis,” he mused, “but maybe this friend of yours can turn her life around. Would he be a good father?”

I swallowed. “He has been like a father to me and my brother,” I chirped. I hoped God would forgive me for stretching the truth.

Marcos nodded, impressed.

“We were alone in Tegucigalpa,” I added, unable to stop talking. “Ernesto found us without food. My grandmother had died. Out of the goodness of his heart, he offered to help us find our mother.”

Marcos listened, and having him pay attention to me was like a drug.

“He … he found us food. He protected us as best he could. He is … like an uncle to me.”

The dinner bell rang, and Marcos looked away.

“He’s in love with Juliana, I can see!” I blurted. But Marcos was already walking into the large kitchen, where Father was ladling soup. I scrambled after him.

For those of us who did not have the fortune it would cost to hire a combi, the train from Ixtapec through northern Veracruz and toward Mexico City was rumored to be especially dangerous; we were in a valley of lawlessness (explained Father) where unsavory characters lay in wait to steal from us, violate us, and kidnap or kill us. Father did not treat me like a child, which I appreciated, because I no longer felt like a child.

I lay awake on my cardboard bed at night, going over the route in my mind, tracing the lines that led from Ixtapec to Nuevo Laredo and the Rio Bravo (called the Rio Grande on the map). Next to me, Junior slept, his breath shallow. I knew he was still sniffing Resistol. He left the shelter in the afternoons and returned with a vacant stare and little appetite. I told him that he was risking his life, venturing from the shelter, but he ignored me, so I stopped scolding. The power of the glue was far stronger than my words. I had decided to believe that the shifty-eyed boy who cared more for fumes than his sister was a devil who was inhabiting my brother. I had seen Father looking at him warily. I had to get Junior to our mother, I knew, so she could take care of us. I prayed for his recovery, though I could not think of anyone who had come back from the place Junior had gone.


The day before they were leaving in the combi, Marcos and his brothers told me, Ernesto, and Junior that they would allow us to ride with them. At the thought of bypassing a week on The Beast, of sleeping in a van instead of facing the sickening lurching, exhaustion, and terror of the train, I began to weep. “Do not cry, little bird,” said Marcos, putting his warm palm on the top of my head. “God is good.”

Junior remained expressionless.

In the yard where we played with the limp soccer ball, I told Junior that an inch in the combi was priceless—a chance to stay alive for another leg of the journey! Of course, the driver could be dishonest: he could drive us to a secluded spot and rob or kill us. But Marcos seemed to know what he was doing. “You can sit on my lap,” I told Junior. “You can sleep without fear. We have been blessed!”

Junior didn’t seem to hear me. He scanned the playground for something more, something else, something I didn’t have to give.

The night before our departure, I could not sleep. Marcos had said we would leave before dawn. I thanked God for saving me from having to climb on the train again. I knew the combi route was dangerous, marked with immigration checkpoints, but nothing scared me as much as The Beast, and the things that could happen to a girl on The Beast at night.

Endless minutes later, I heard Ernesto’s voice. “Wake up, Carla,” he said. “We’re leaving now.”

I sat up, rubbing my face. I put my hand out, groping for my brother’s bony shoulder.

“Come, child,” said Father. “I will bless you all together before you depart.”

There was no bony shoulder. “Where’s Junior?” I whispered. I stood and went outside. The combi idled, surrounded by Marcos and his family. Ten of us would fit like an awkward jigsaw puzzle into the van. In the coal-colored night, I searched for Junior.