Illegal Read online

  “Don’t do anything stupid. This is a no-brainer. It’s what’s best for you and your sister. This is an opportunity that will not be offered twice.”

  I felt the veins in my own neck swell. Why bring Sara into the conversation? Was that a not too subtle threat? How hard would it be to smash the empty pitcher on the old man’s bald head? It was one thing to want to get rid of me; I didn’t want to be here any more than Abe Gropper wanted me here. But why threaten Sara? She wanted to be in the United States, and so far from what I had seen, the country would be lucky to have her. Was there anything in the Jipari code about nonviolence? No. But there were the fútbol matches where I felt like whacking a rude or arrogant opponent, yet I managed to play with control. I did it for my teammates because to play angry was to play stupid. When you are angry, your vision narrows, you stop seeing the whole playing field. I took a deep breath. I opened the glass door and then stepped inside. I stood there breathing hard. Brother Patricio would have been proud of me. I had kept my cool. And that was good. I could not afford to play stupid.

  I needed to see the whole playing field.

  That night, when everyone was asleep, I used a broom to dig out the metallic bag with Hinojosa’s cell phone and blew the dust away. I placed the bag against my chest and held it there for a few minutes. It was time to decide.

  I didn’t think that Abe Gropper knew what was in the phone. But Abe Gropper was not only a dishonest jerk, like Mrs. C said, he was also connected to criminals, whether he knew they were criminals or not. The ray of light in all of this was that it did not look as if my father knew what Abe Gropper was doing.

  But, Papá, do you know what kind of family you married into?

  I had to admit that a part of me agreed with Abe Gropper. Returning Hinojosa’s cell phone and getting paid ten thousand dollars and a ticket back to Mexico was a no-brainer. Sara was in danger. I could tell by the tone of voice in her phone call. What would happen to her if I didn’t turn the phone over to Abe Gropper? What would happen to me? Returning the phone seemed like the easiest, safest way out. But was it the right thing to do? How does one decide? My inner compass was telling me to do what was needed to save Sara. But it was also telling me to do all I could to stop Big Shot, to hurt him, and while I was at it, to stick it to the big jerk Abe Gropper and all the other arrogant bastards who thought that Sara and I were not worthy to be in their country. This Big Shot was involved in human trafficking. He was bringing women from Mexico and selling them as slaves. Wasn’t that why he wanted the cell phone so badly, to protect his sorry, criminal, evil ass? And Sara and I were unwanted garbage.

  Does the inner compass work if the magnetic force is anger?

  Maybe. Sometimes. It helps.

  What was Sara trying to tell me when she reminded me of the Tarahumara trip with Brother Patricio? If I could only decipher that, I would know what I had to do.

  At some point during one of the long, grueling hikes up in the Tarahumara mountains, I realized that there was no way out other than to keep going and after a while I stopped wishing I was someplace else and that’s when the trip taught me its lesson.

  You are learning endurance, Brother Patricio told me.

  Endurance for what? I asked.

  For hope, Brother Patricio answered. Hardship creates endurance and endurance creates character and character creates hope. And hope is the conviction that what you’re doing is worth doing regardless of the outcome.

  When I got home, Sara had asked me if Brother Patricio had said anything about not stealing anymore. And I remember telling her what Brother Patricio said about hope.

  Was that what Sara wanted to tell me during that last phone call? It had to be. Hope. That phone was my hope, her hope, and the hope of many.

  I had come to Chicago so I could give the phone to Yoya’s people and so they could use the information in the phone to save the women who had been enslaved by Big Shot. Wasn’t that the thing that required my endurance and my hope? Wasn’t that what I was being asked to do? What would my life be like if I ran away from what was being asked?

  Then, in a flash as quick and bright as lightning, the last words that Sara spoke came to me.

  Do it for Linda.

  Linda had been imprisoned and abused for months by Hinojosa and people like him. The women risked their lives by stealing Hinojosa’s cell phone and sending it to Sara. Do it for Linda meant fight for them. Do not let their sacrifice and the lives of other young women be for nothing.

  I had to fight. For what? For the Lindas and the Saras and the Trevors of the world. For those who are hurt and for those who are good. Because life’s not worth living as a coward. Because whatever little courage I had should be used for the benefit of others.

  That was Sara’s message.

  I was still a Jipari after all.

  I waited another hour until I felt as much peace as I was ever going to find with my decision and then I called my mother, using the international SIM card I bought with the phone. I knew a phone call in the middle of the night would worry her, but I needed to hear her voice. I had to shake off whatever doubts I still had so I could do what needed to be done. My mother’s voice would help with that. I also needed to explain to her that I would no longer be staying with my father. It would be better if she found out from me. I had gone over and over what I would say and decided not to tell her about Abe Gropper’s offer, or about Hinojosa’s cell phone or where I was going. I told myself that telling her the truth would put her at risk. But the real reason was that I could not stand to pile more suffering on her.

  I turned on the fluorescent lights and read the instructions on the calling card. On the eighth ring, my mother answered. It seemed about a hundred years since the last time I spoke Spanish.

  “Mami, soy yo.”

  “Emiliano? What happened?”

  “Nothing, Mami, nothing. Everything is okay. I needed to talk to you. Did something break? I heard something fall?”

  “I bumped into the cage with the dumb parrot.”

  “I thought Tía Tencha kept him in the bathroom.”

  “I made her take him out. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. But why are you calling so late?”

  “Mami, listen. I don’t want you to worry but …”

  “What? What’s happened? Is it Sara?”

  “No. I’m going to … I’m not going to be staying at Papá’s house anymore. I’m … I’m going back to Texas. I’m going to be working at the ranch of Mr. Larsson. He’s the man I stayed with when I was sick, after I crossed into the United States. Remember, I told you about him?”

  “But why? Are you not getting along with your father? With his wife?”

  “It’s more a question of … work. I really liked it there and … ah … Mr. Larsson needed me, Mami.”

  I stopped and waited for my mother’s response. Was she buying it? I had never been able to lie to my mother.

  “Son.” My mother’s voice was full of the kindness I so needed to hear. “What was that oath you took as a Jipari? The part about being honest.”

  She had seen through me and deep down I was glad she had.

  “Be honest with yourself and others.”

  “Did you think you could not be honest with your mother?”

  “No, but …”

  “You have to make sure not to stutter if you’re going to lie.”

  “I can’t tell you the truth, Mami. I just can’t right now. But I don’t want you to worry. I have money and a phone and a phone card to call you. I’ll make sure you know I’m okay.”

  “Are you going to a safe place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father doesn’t know where?”

  “No. It’s better if he doesn’t.”

  “It’s all right, son. You do what you need to do to be safe and to keep Sara safe. I had a feeling something was wrong. The danger followed Sara … and now you.”

  “You … probably need to be careful too.”

  “Te
ncha and me are going to Tomasita’s house for a while. You know Tomasita, her daughter. She’s married to a doctor?”

  “Yes, that’s a good place to be.”

  “Do you have pencil and paper? I’ll put Tencha on the phone to give you the number.”

  “Yes. One second.”

  “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Emiliano, son. I trust you. You don’t have to lie to me. I know it’s hard for you with your father. But it is good you were with him. It is better that you know him and … I know he cares for you. The man I married is a good man. Stupid, yes. But not a bad man.”

  “Yes, Mami.”

  “I love you very much, son. Here’s Tencha with Tomasita’s number.”

  I walked to the tool bench where there was a pen and a pad of paper and wrote down the number. After I disconnected, I tore off the top sheet, folded it into a square, and placed it in my wallet, in the same compartment where I had placed Mrs. Costelo’s note. I sat on the bed with the pad and pen and wrote.

  Hey Trevor,

  I’m going to go away for a while. I’m going back home to be with my mami. I wanted you to know how much I liked building things with you and going to the park and practicing soccer. You were the best part of my visit to Aurora. The Swiss Army knife was given to me a few years ago by a good friend. The compass on the handle actually points north. It’s helped me to find my way in the desert lots of times. I want you to have it. Maybe, if you are ever lost, it will help you find your way. Thank you for letting me build the Life Star with you. I know you didn’t really need my help, so it was nice of you. If I can find a way to come see you, I will.

  Be good. Liano.

  I placed the note and the knife inside the portion of the Life Star that Trevor had constructed. There was a hooded gray sweatshirt that belonged to my father on top of the dryer. It smelled like him and the smell filled me with a sadness that I had never felt before. I stuck Hinojosa’s cell phone in the right pocket of the sweatshirt. From now on, that damn phone was going to stay close to me at all times. If for nothing else, to remind me of the courage I needed. I packed the clothes I had brought with me into my backpack, sat on the edge of the bed, and took a deep breath. I looked in my wallet and read the name of the retired Chicago policeman that Mrs. C had given me.

  “Are you sure, Emiliano?” I asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  I went upstairs and looked out the living room window. It was raining, but in front of our house there was a gray car with someone smoking inside. Big Shot’s man making sure I made it to Abe Gropper’s in the morning.

  I went back to kitchen, opened the door, and stepped out into the cold night. I went out the backyard and over the fence into the neighbor’s yard, away from the front street where the car was parked.

  I walked toward the park that Trevor and I visited.

  The North Star shone in that direction.

  I woke up with a start when I heard the child’s voice.

  “Mommy, there’s a person sleeping in here!”

  I crawled to the opposite end of the plastic tunnel and made my way down the jungle gym. I waved at the astonished mommy and made my way out of the park. The sun was out now. I calculated that it must be around nine. Sleep and exhaustion had overcome me despite the frantic sound of the rain beating on the plastic tunnel. The gray, hooded sweatshirt I was wearing no longer smelled like my father’s cologne. It now smelled musty. I felt the two cell phones in its pockets: my burner phone on the left and the bag with Hinojosa’s on the right.

  I walked in the opposite direction of the park and away from my father’s house. When I reached Galena Boulevard, I stopped to orient myself. There were kids my age walking toward the high school that I knew was near the park where I had slept. They were late for school, but they didn’t seem to care. A boy looked at me, as if trying to recognize me. I had a backpack not as fancy as theirs but similar enough that I could probably pass as a student if my clothes were not wrinkled and damp and if I were wearing Nancy’s black sneakers. Besides that, my skin was brown and theirs was white. Something the students also noticed.

  “East Aurora High is that way,” the boy said, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder.

  The laughter from the others in the group told me the directions were not meant to be helpful.

  Nevertheless, I walked to where the thumb had pointed. I kept my head down. What would Abe Gropper do when I didn’t show up this morning? Whoever wanted the cell phone would come out looking for me. Abe must have told the criminals he could get the cell phone and now they would be desperate. Perhaps Abe was in trouble now. His scheme to get the cell phone had not worked. I ducked quickly into the doorway of a restaurant when I saw a van that looked like one of Able Abe’s. When I saw the van slow down, I opened the door to the restaurant and went in. From the window, I could see that the van was a carpet cleaning company.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned quickly. The man talking to me was putting pink, fluffy flowers into a vase. Besides María, the man was the only Mexican I had seen in Aurora. There were sombreros and sarapes on the walls. The tables had purple tablecloths. A menu on one of the tables read: TACOS JALISCO. The man looked at me with suspicion.

  “You speak Spanish?” I asked.

  “Not too much. You here for the dishwasher job?”

  “No.” The smell of refried beans and chorizo pulled me momentarily to my house in Juárez, to Sara and Mami laughing as they sliced onions and peppers.

  “You want something to eat? We open at eleven, but I can get you something.”

  I almost said yes. I was hungry, and a hot corn tortilla would feed more than just my body. But I had to move out of Aurora as quickly as possible. The sight of the white van had reminded me of the danger I was in and of what I needed to do. I was on a mission—for Sara.

  “No. Thank you. Can you tell me how to get to Chicago?”

  “Chicago? Why you want to go there?”

  “To see the sights.”

  The man looked me up and down and then laughed.

  “To Chicago? Best way is the train. You can catch a bus across the street to the station.”

  “And if I walk?”

  “To Chicago?”

  “To the train station.”

  “Oh, man. That’s far. It’ll take you an hour. Take the bus.”

  An hour’s walk was nothing. It was safer than waiting on the street for a bus. “I prefer to walk.”

  The man shook his head. “Just go down Galena and cross the river. About a block after the bridge, take a left. You’ll see the station.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hold on. I’ll get you a burrito to go. Don’t worry, they’re made already. I just have to put them in a bag.”

  The man came back with a paper bag and I began to take my wallet out. “It’s on the house,” he said. “When you get to Chicago, go to this neighborhood called Pilsen. People will know where it is. There’s lots of Mexican shops and restaurants there. There’s a place call El Catrín. It’s a shoe repair shop. Chuy, the owner, has gotten some of the guys in the back a Social Security number, an ID. You’ll need those if you want to get a job. The ID, you’ll need for everything.”

  “Do I look illegal?”

  “You speak good English. But you also look like you don’t know your way around. If you don’t want to get picked up, you got to look like you know where you’re going.”

  I chuckled. The man sounded like Brother Patricio just then. “Thank you for the burritos.”

  I sat on a milk crate in an alleyway and ate the two burritos. I chewed slowly, savoring each bite of flour tortilla, beans, egg, chorizo, jalapeños. When I finished, I walked on the street parallel to Galena Boulevard. There was less traffic there and it was a one-way street in the opposite direction I was walking. I was less likely to be seen if I walked on a side street and I could see who was coming toward me.

  Forty-five minutes later I was on a bridge behind a round-domed bu
ilding constructed on an island in the middle of a river. A sign read HOLLYWOOD CASINO - BUS PARKING. The river moved slowly, imperceptibly. The color of the river was the same brown-green of the Rio Grande. I turned left on the first street after the bridge and walked until I reached a stone building with railroad tracks behind it. A few cars were parked in front. I stepped under the station’s awning and entered. I was making my way to a stand with schedules and maps, when I saw my father sitting on a bench, looking at me.

  I stood there, paralyzed by opposing forces. One force would have me turn around and run back out. The other force seemed to come from the past, from the time when the man sitting there had taught me how to dribble a soccer ball around Coca-Cola bottles. Bob sat there, eyes forming a question: Which force are you going to choose?

  I removed my backpack and sat next to my father. The station was clean, cheerful-looking. There were ticket-dispensing machines and planters with red geraniums. A barefoot man with a green garbage bag at his feet sat on a bench in front of us. The man was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

  “Trevor didn’t want to go to school today,” my father said. “He didn’t understand why you left.” My father’s voice was calm and deliberate. He didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry.

  I lowered my head and stared at my smelly boots.

  “This didn’t work out the way I hoped,” my father said.

  “Why are you here?”

  He reached in his back pocket and pulled out an envelope. The same envelope that Abe had offered the day before. “I figured you’d make your way to the train station this morning. There’s not that many ways to get out of Aurora.”

  “You knew?” I asked, my eyes fixed on the envelope.

  “No. Abe didn’t tell Nancy until this morning. When you didn’t show up at Abe’s house today he called her and she told me. I went straight to Abe’s. I told him I thought I could find you.”

  “And do what?”

  “Talk to you. Convince you to do what’s best for you.”