Disappeared Page 12

  There is a line in front of her. One more step on behalf of Linda and her life will change forever. How does she decide between safety and the risk that comes from doing what her heart knows to be right?

  A memory comes to Sara: Linda sticking her tongue out as the bus pulled away the day she disappeared. Other memories follow: Linda getting chased by Mr. Lozano’s tom turkey when they climbed into his yard to steal peaches. Linda playing “who makes the first sound” with Emiliano. Linda giving her instructions on how to kiss before her first date with Joel Cardenas.

  “Just turn your head away for a second when you think Joel’s about to kiss you and moisten your lips with your tongue,” Linda said. “The kiss has to be a little wet, and make sure you open your mouth a bit like this.”

  “You look like a fish. And where did you learn all this?” Sara asked.

  “I don’t tell you everything.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Okay, a girl at work loaned me her Cosmopolitan. Want to know the twenty things a woman most likes to have done to her?”

  “No!”

  Sara smiles at the memory and then feels very alone. She knows what lies ahead of her and it makes her want to find a source of strength somewhere. She needs to talk to Emiliano. If there is anyone in the world who would understand what she has to do, regardless of the risks involved, it is her little brother. She calls him but there’s no answer. She texts him to call her as soon as he can. Then she calls Ernesto, her friend and ally.

  “Hey, what was all that with Elias last night?”

  She ignores his question. “Ernesto, before I tell you what I’ve found out, you have to know that this is getting more and more dangerous for all of us, including you. You may want to bow out. It’s okay if you do.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What do you have?” He sounds almost bored.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sara, I don’t have much time here. I have two computers that crashed and Juana and Felipe are insisting I submit a budget for IT that’s fifty percent lower than last year’s. I’m thinking of sending them a piece of paper with the words Five typewriters.”

  She tells Ernesto everything that Mr. Mirabiles told her.

  “Bastards! I think the Jaqueros can figure out where these girls are being held,” he says.

  “Really? How?”

  “We’ll hack into La Vaquita’s computers and then look for any deliveries to places near the airport. La Vaquita is a big laundry outfit. Their trucks run all over the place. They probably have better IT than El Sol. I’ll call you back. What you have to do is figure out who in law enforcement can go out there and rescue the girls. It’s pathetic. I don’t know a single person in law enforcement I can trust. Do you?”

  Sara remembers an American FBI agent from El Paso she met while reporting on the joint task force. He told her to call him with any leads. “Maybe. I think so.”

  Ernesto’s tone changes, gets serious for once. “Listen. If things get real hot, I have places where I can disappear. But you need to start thinking about what you’re going to do when the caca hits the fan. This Hinojosa guy has a lot to lose if it gets out he’s involved with sex trafficking or slavery or whatever this is. He and whoever … are involved with that place will figure out who screwed them, and they will come after you and me. All right. You should go home. Call you soon. Let’s do this.”

  “Yes,” she says, mustering all her courage, “let’s do this.”

  Emiliano is standing in the middle of the soccer field as the two teams go through their pregame drills. He’s looking in the direction of the opposing team, the North El Paso High School Conquistadors, but his mind is preoccupied with the conversation he needs to have with Javier as soon as they get back to Juárez.

  “Man, can you believe American schools? I could get used to playing here.” Emiliano snaps out of his reverie and follows Paco’s eyes to the lush green grass under their feet. “No wonder the Rio Grande is a trickle of warm piss. All the water’s used for this field.”

  Emiliano taps the ground with the point of his shoe. It is a big difference from the patch of dirt where the Pumas practice.

  “And look at the shoes on those guys.” Paco points at a player retrieving a ball. “That’s one year of my father’s salary right there.” He looks at Emiliano suddenly. “Hey, are you going to tell me what you’re up to? What’s with the Mercedes?”

  “I told you. I had to take the car to the dealer’s for a friend, and it got late. I have your money in my pants. I’ll give it to you after the game.”

  “Come on, man, it’s me, remember? My parents are all like, What is going on with Emiliano? You park a fancy car in our backyard at night and then you drive it out at five this morning. You have to admit it’s a little suspicious. And, by the way, you got my loafers all muddy.”

  “That’s from your mom’s flower beds when I was putting the key under the Virgen.”

  Paco shakes his head. “She waters those flowers every day as soon as the sun starts to go down. So how was the birthday party? Did you make the big-shot impression you wanted to make with the car? This is all about Perla Rubi, isn’t it? God, you’re so unbelievably stupid.”

  “Leave it alone, man.”

  Paco takes a step closer to Emiliano, faces him. “Leave it alone? Since when? You don’t think I can tell when you’re doing something bad? Whenever you’re bad or thinking about doing something bad, your eyes go left and right, up and down like they did just now. First time I saw your eyes do that was when you threw a marble at my head and gave me this scar.” Paco lifts the hair on his forehead. Emiliano looks at the scar and then looks away. “You drive a Mercedes to impress a rich girl who, when the chips are down, is going to dump you. Come on, talk to me.”

  Emiliano should feel anger, but he doesn’t. What comes up is sadness at this breach between him and his best friend. He could close the separation, he knows. All he has to do is tell him the truth. But Paco would not like the truth.

  They both turn when they hear Brother Patricio’s whistle. Paco walks toward Brother Patricio. Emiliano waits a moment and then follows. The Pumas gather around and bow their heads.

  “Okay, before we pray, a reminder,” Brother Patricio says. “This is a friendly game where we hone our skills. It took me a long time to get a school in El Paso to agree to play with us. So keep it clean and let’s play them with the respect they deserve. Let’s pray. Lord, keep us and our opponents safe. Help us to be humble in victory and grateful in defeat. May this contest be an opportunity to increase our courage and our desire to do all we do for your greater glory. May all our actions on and off the field show that we love God with all our soul, heart, and strength, and our neighbor, including our opponents, as ourselves. We ask this in the name of your son, Jesus Christ.”

  “Amen,” respond the Pumas as they cross themselves—all of them except Emiliano.

  It is the exact same prayer that Brother Patricio repeats before every game. Emiliano doesn’t mind people praying. Mami and Sara pray. Colegio México is, after all, a Catholic school, run by Salesian Brothers like Brother Patricio. But today the words grateful in defeat annoy him. Why should anyone be grateful for losing? Losing feels bad and winning feels good. It’s a natural thing to want to feel good, and God, if there is a God, shouldn’t have any problem with that.

  Emiliano waits for Brother Patricio’s last-minute coaching instructions, which also never vary. Defense, defense, defense. Don’t let anyone get through and then wait for the right moment to counterattack. Only this time, his instructions are different. “Let’s concentrate on execution of plays and not on scoring,” Brother Patricio says. “They are the best team in the city of El Paso, so maybe we can learn a few things from them.”

  “We’re the best team in the state of Chihuahua,” Pepe says, “so maybe they can learn a few things from us.”

  Laughter and cheers. Pepe is the goalie and, besides Paco, Emiliano’s favorite teammate.

  “Yes,
” Brother Patricio says, “they will undoubtedly learn some things from us as well. This is a great opportunity to … rectify some misconceptions that Americans have about people from Juárez. So just have fun.” Then he looks directly at Emiliano. “I’m counting on you as the captain and midfielder to control the energy level. Keep it nice and smooth. Even tempered. No need for the usual high intensity today.”

  “Yes, Brother. Nice and easy today. Let them win,” Emiliano echoes sarcastically.

  Brother Patricio pauses. “I didn’t say that, necessarily. ‘Don’t concentrate on scoring’ is not the same as letting them win.”

  “Yes. I understand,” Emiliano says. He tries not to sound angry, but there is anger in his voice.

  Brother Patricio notices his tone, because he takes Emiliano aside and says, “Emiliano, don’t turn this game into a personal vendetta.”

  Emiliano looks at Brother Patricio for a few moments. What vendetta is Brother Patricio talking about? Then it comes to him: the conversations they’ve had where he expressed anger at his father for staying in the United States. Does Brother Patricio think he blames the United States for his parents’ divorce, for his father never returning? He’s wrong. The United States didn’t force his father to stay there, to abandon his family. That was all his father’s decision.

  “No vendetta here,” Emiliano answers, then walks away before Brother Patricio can say anything else.

  Where is all this anger coming from? He wishes he hadn’t read that letter last night, inviting his father’s voice to enter his head after all his work getting it out. But he also knows that the whole team will ignore Brother Patricio’s instructions. The soccer field is the one place where they can shine and be admired, the one place where they are rich—not with money, like all the other teams they play, but with skills and courage. It’s the one place where anger, properly managed, is permitted.

  Nevertheless, throughout the first half, Emiliano does his best to ignore the gnawing in his stomach urging him to go all out. He plays relaxed and without urgency, and the rest of the Pumas follow his example. His passes to Paco from midfield are off-mark and easily intercepted. Paco’s few shots on the opposing goal dribble meekly into the goalie’s hands. The Conquistadors score an easy goal. The locker room is quiet at halftime.

  Then in the second period, a shot from the top of the box rolls lazily into the corner of the Pumas’ goal. Emiliano notices that the Conquistadors are all laughing, and the crowd in the stands begins to chant: “USA! USA! USA!”

  That’s not so bad. People have the right to cheer for their team.

  But then the chant changes and the crowd shouts: “NAR-COS! NAR-COS! NAR-COS!”

  That, on the other hand, is the wrong cheer. It is the wrong cheer any day, but today it loosens a fury in Emiliano. The gnawing in the pit of his stomach turns to a simmering fire and then it starts to boil.

  Emiliano dribbles the ball through two defenders. Paco is ahead of him on the right wing. Emiliano lifts his chin, signaling that no mercy will be given, and their eyes meet in complete understanding.

  His pass drops twenty feet behind the last defenseman for the Conquistadors, and Paco outruns a kid who looks like he’s more interested in not messing up his golden locks than in playing soccer. Now Paco’s alone with only a scared-looking goalie in front of him. Paco waits for the goalie to charge him and then lobs the ball over the boy’s head into the net.

  Their single-minded intensity wakes up the Pumas, and there is no stopping them after that. The friendly game turns into a war. Yellow cards fly left and right for both teams. By the time the Pumas are up four to two with ten minutes left in the game, Emiliano has started to feel sorry for the Conquistadors, who have abandoned any kind of discipline and are running around the field like angry hornets. Why not take the foot off the pedal, maybe even let them score another goal? Then the chant comes again.

  “NAR-COS! NAR-COS! NAR-COS!”

  Emiliano stops for a moment to look at the parents and students shouting in the stands. Two-thirds of them are brown-skinned Mexicans or of Mexican descent. He nods first to Paco and then to López. Two minutes later, Paco scores with a header from one of Emiliano’s corner kicks. Thirty seconds before the end of the game, López scores with a vicious shot from almost midfield. They win the game six to two.

  When the referee blows the final whistle, both teams line up to limply shake the hands of their opponents.

  “Was that really necessary?” Brother Patricio asks Emiliano during the long, silent ride back home.

  “Yes, Brother. Today that was necessary.”

  Brother Patricio doesn’t say anything more. But Emiliano knows he has hurt him with his deeds on the field and now with his words and tone. First Paco and then Brother Patricio. Who else is he going to push away?

  When they get out of the van at Colegio México and all the players are walking away, Emiliano goes to Brother Patricio and takes the bag of practice balls from him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you want to talk? I have time.”

  “No, not right now.”

  “Next week, maybe, on the hike.”

  “Maybe. Oh, I forgot. Sara is doing an article on the Jiparis, and she asked if she can come on the hike. She plans to do a big story. She says it’s sure to bring in a lot of donations.”

  Brother Patricio opens a storage closet on the side of the building and Emiliano places the bag of balls inside. “Well,” Brother Patricio says, “we could use the extra money.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll be happy. Thank you.”

  “Emiliano, I have a theory about why you were so angry out there. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Sure.” He doesn’t really, but he’s been mean enough to Brother Patricio for one day.

  “Maybe playing in El Paso, at that rich school, reminded you of your father and his decision to leave you and your mother and sister and remain in the United States.”

  The vendetta thing again. Emiliano nods thoughtfully. He knows that besides hiking out in the desert, psychoanalyzing people is Brother Patricio’s greatest pleasure.

  “Maybe that ‘USA’ chant brought to the surface the anger you still have for your father.”

  “Maybe,” Emiliano says. But no, it was not the “USA” chant that he minded. It was the “narcos” chant that hit home, in a deep, personal way that Brother Patricio cannot even begin to imagine. “I got to run. I have to go see Javier.”

  “Be safe. And Emiliano?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s time to forgive.”

  As Emiliano walks slowly away, he does not let Brother Patricio see the grin on his face. Brother Patricio never gives up, does he? He takes out his phone and reads a text from Sara.

  Call me as soon as you can. I need to talk to you right away. Be careful.

  He calls her but her phone is busy. Something is going on with Sara. If only they could have talked openly about their problems last night. She needed to talk with him and he with her and neither one could do it. He texts her to make sure she takes a taxi home, hoping she saw the money he left for her on the kitchen table.

  Then he goes to the text that he received from Perla Rubi the night before around midnight, when he was lying in his bed thinking, thinking.

  What did you say to my father anyway? All he did last night is talk about you. He wants to know if you want to hit golf balls with him next Saturday. He wants to teach you how to play golf. Amazing! Stop by after your soccer game. I’d love to see you before our game against Sacred Heart. I miss you, Emiliano Zapata.

  Golf? Emiliano Zapata playing golf? Maybe the game is not all that different from the walks he takes in the desert. You just hit a white ball with a stick now and then as you walk. He puts the phone in his pocket and takes a deep breath.

  He stops when he turns the corner of the building. The girls’ volleyball team is warming up by doing jumping jacks. The players from Sacred Heart High School stretch on the other side of the net. Perla Ru
bi is at the end of one row of Colegio México players. As if sensing his presence, she turns to where he’s standing and waves at him as she jumps. Then she gestures to wait five minutes. After the warm-up exercises, they can talk.

  The way she just happened to turn her head to the right when everyone was looking straight ahead. The way her face lit up when she saw him. Something happened last night. He’s crossed some kind of threshold into Perla Rubi’s life in a way he had not been allowed before. Even now, watching her, he feels different. No more of the usual doubts about them being boyfriend and girlfriend or whatever. He feels sure of himself. It’s the way he feels sometimes during a soccer game: a confidence that comes out of nowhere and fills him.

  He reminds himself that he has not yet decided if he will do business with Mr. Reyes. As he reasons out the pros and cons of Mr. Reyes’s proposition, the one obstacle his logic cannot overcome is Javier. Brother Patricio rescued Javier from a life of truancy and addiction. Now Javier is going to school and helping to support his family with his piñatas. Javier is also the best Jipari that Emiliano has ever trained. The other kids call him the Turtle because he walks slow but somehow gets there faster than anyone else. And now? Now, Emiliano is going to ask him to stuff the piñatas with drugs.

  Yes, but with the extra money, maybe Javier can get his mother and sisters out of the stink hole where they live. Life is messy.

  And what about your Jipari pledge, Emiliano? “I will abstain from all intoxicants. I will be honest with myself and others. I will use the knowledge and strength the desert gives me for the benefit of others.”

  Emiliano shakes his head. This kind of internal talking is sheer craziness. It’s part of him talking to another part of him, even if the voice is his father’s. It was a big mistake to read that letter. Did he actually think he was going to find an answer to his moral dilemma there? Yes, it was his father who patiently taught him right from wrong. But look what he did when it came time for him to practice what he preaches, how he left his family and broke promises. All the letter did was remind Emiliano what a hypocrite his father is.