The Same Sky(49)

“We played Del Valle,” said Jake. His voice was far away. “It was a close game, and in the last quarter I f*cked up.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said.

“It was a series of f*ck-ups, but we didn’t play like we could have. I caught a pass and tried to run it, trying to be the big shot. I should have passed the ball, but I ran, and this big guy brought me right down. I blew it.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

“I still feel like an ass about it,” said Jake. “And my girlfriend at the time, Francine LePour, she got really drunk at the after-party and I had to hold her hair back while she puked.”

He looked up at me, and I was surprised to see how upset he’d become. “It’s all over now,” I said. “Everything’s fine now, honey.”

Jake sat up. “I’m not asking you to fix it,” he said sharply. “I’m just saying it sucked. Can you listen to me, for once?”

Tears sprang to my eyes. “I don’t understand what’s wrong,” I said.

“I just feel like—” Jake began. My phone buzzed, and he stopped talking. He met my eyes. The phone rang again. I picked it up and saw that it was Jane’s husband, who had never called me before. “It’s Dennis,” I said.

Jake shook his head, made a disappointed sound in his throat. He stood and went into our room. Pete followed, climbing into his crate at the foot of the bed. Jake shut the bedroom door with more force than was necessary.

“Dennis?” I said, answering my phone. “What’s going on?”

“Hi,” said my brother-in-law. “Listen, I … it’s bad news. I’m calling with bad news. I wanted to let you know … well, we lost the baby.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, Dennis, no.”

“It happens sometimes,” said Dennis. “But Jane’s taking it hard. I just thought you ought to know.”

“When did this happen?” I asked. “What can I do?”

“Night before last.” Dennis sighed heavily. “Jane started bleeding and just … it wasn’t meant to be. The doctor said there was probably something wrong with the baby. It’s early—this just happens sometimes.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“It’s been crazy, Alice,” said Dennis. “Jane just got home a few hours ago.”

“I’m coming,” I said. “I’ll get a flight out tonight.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Dennis.

“I’ll call when I land,” I said.

“I don’t mean to be …” Dennis stopped, sighed again. “Listen,” he said, “Jane said to tell you she’ll call you when she wakes up. You don’t need to come here. To be frank, we could use some time as a family.”

“I am family,” I said, booting up the laptop.

“You know what I mean,” said Dennis.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” I said, hanging up the phone.

After a short Internet search, I booked a flight to Denver. I’d arrive by morning, and could deal with getting to Ouray from there. It was a six-hour drive; I could rent a car or grab a flight to Montrose. I thought about waking Jake, to tell him what had happened, and what I felt I should do. But I was afraid of him telling me I should wait, call Jane in the morning. I didn’t want to hear about how I had to stand by, feel my feelings, process. Moving simply felt better than being still.

I tossed a few things in a bag, went into the kitchen, and jotted a note on the pad we used for grocery lists. Then I called Austin Taxi and headed out.





39




Carla


MARCOS LED US from the Nuevo Laredo train station along a wavering path to a bank of reeds, beyond which was a campground. From the campground, I could see America. The enormous river was all that separated me from my mother and my second brother, Carlos. The only ones in the world who had to love me were just across the water. Unhappily, the Rio Bravo was guarded by men in gleaming SUVs, men equipped with cameras, spotlights, even helicopters. Keeping me—and all those like me—out of America was an important operation, I could see. I felt despised, a cockroach.

We arrived at nightfall. The campground smelled of shit. It was full of drug addicts, goats, thieves, and migrants hoping to enter the United States. Marcos insisted it was safer here than in the city, which was full of la migra and every other sort of problem and depravity.

Marcos would leave in the morning—he had the money to pay a coyote to get him over the river and past the immigration authorities. He would bring along his family, and perhaps Ernesto. But this place, with the soiled mattresses and trash, was where I would remain. At the edge of the trail, I leaned over and tried to throw up. There was nothing inside me, but still I heaved.

We sat around a campfire. In the middle of an awful place, the flames were hot and beautiful. I stared at them. I held my hands out. Marcos explained the ways to get into America. You could try to swim the river, but you would drown. He had seen bloated bodies float past in the water; he had seen people stopped halfway across by American police, then put in jail, then sent back to the country they had started in. Even as we sat by the fire, people were trying to make it through the rushing water. INS agents with bullhorns stood on the far shore, telling the swimmers to turn back in both English and Spanish. It was like having a campout in the middle of one of the action movies we used to watch through the window of the PriceSmart electronics store. I imagined that the loud, disembodied voices were Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger (who had also been an immigrant, I knew). The idea made me smile. It is helpful to pretend a horrifying scenario is not your real life.