Disappeared Page 19

  He makes an effort to slow down his thoughts, to point them all in one direction. What will he do when he comes back? He must find a way to live in Juárez. The decision to work with Alfredo Reyes has been made, and there’s no need to question it yet again. Maybe he can live with Armando. No, that’s probably not a good idea. Nothing has changed. He needs to keep his association with Armando and Reyes at a minimum, and he and Javier will keep the whole criminal enterprise under control. Criminal enterprise. Is that what it is? It’s a business. He’ll make it work somehow. Do what is best for everyone, Perla Rubi says. That’s what he will do. Just because he doesn’t know the details doesn’t mean he can’t make it happen. One step at a time. When you’re walking in the desert, the step in front of you is the only one that demands your attention.

  He’ll take Sara across and then come back. That’s the plan. With any luck he won’t have to see his father. What would he say to him if he saw him? Maybe he’ll remind him of the promises he made before he left for the United States—the food truck, their working together, his return.

  “You promised,” Emiliano says to himself.

  “Emiliano, go to sleep,” Sara tells him from the bunk below.

  Sleep finally subdues Emiliano’s churning mind just as daylight filters through the blinds. When he wakes up, the apartment is hot and his mother and Sara are at the small table by the stove, drinking coffee and quietly conversing. Emiliano strains to hear what they are saying.

  “Do you need to call Luisa to tell her you’re not coming to work?” Sara asks her mother.

  “I’m sure she’s found out what happened. I know Felita Lozano, and I’m pretty sure she’s called everyone by now. The person I want to talk to is Mrs. Rivera. The house was destroyed, from what you tell me. She’s been good to us. Waiting for us when we couldn’t pay the rent. I have to tell her I will pay her back for the damages. She’ll have to move out all our furniture, and that will be an expense as well.”

  Emiliano gets up, crosses the room, and kisses his mother on the top of her head. It’s his way of apologizing for yelling at her yesterday. “I need to call Brother Patricio,” he says.

  “I’ll call Estela and ask her if he can come over. I need to find out about Linda. You might want to take a shower in the meantime.” Sara pinches her nose.

  “Sara took a shower this morning,” Mamá says before Emiliano can respond. “She says there’s hot water and little bottles of shampoo like in a hotel. We’re all lucky to be alive, even if we’re smelly.”

  “It’s Sunday. Brother Patricio is busy with Mass. Maybe I can see him this afternoon.”

  “We can meet him at Café Rojos. Remember, Estela told us about it.”

  “Sara, say the rosary with me while Emiliano calls Brother Patricio. If we can’t go to Mass today, at least we can pray here,” Mamá says.

  Emiliano waits until he hears Sara and his mother praying. Then he stands in front of the kitchen window, with his back to his sister and mother, and calls Brother Patricio.

  “Emiliano! I’m so glad you called.” Emiliano appreciates the warmth in the brother’s voice. “Paco told me about the attack on your house last night. Are you all right? Is your sister all right? Your mother?”

  “We’re all fine. We’re hiding in a safe place. Brother, this is important. No one must know what I’m about to tell you. You’re the only person other than my mother, my sister, and me who will know this. My mother is going to León to live with her sister, but she wants Sara and me to go to Chicago.”

  “Chicago? That’s where—”

  “Yup, you got it. There’s no changing her mind. She’s set on us going.”

  “But how—”

  “We need to find a way across the Rio Grande and through the desert to a place where he can meet up with us. I was thinking of that park next to the Rio Grande. The one we thought of visiting with the Jiparis, before we found out how difficult it was to get visas.”

  “Big Bend National Park.”

  “Sara and I could follow one of those abandoned trails like regular visitors. Then … he could meet us somewhere in the park.”

  “It’s okay to call him Papá. He is your father.”

  “Not right now, Brother, please.”

  “Okay. I’m sure there are Border Patrol checkpoints on the roads leading in and out of the park. Your father would need to meet you somewhere beyond those checkpoints. You’re looking at some hard walking. Many immigrants have perished making that kind of long-distance crossing.”

  “Yeah, but it will be different for us. We’ll be prepared. It was August when we took that plane ride. It’s not so hot now. But we need to move fast. Every day the temperature goes up. We should leave tomorrow.” Emiliano thinks for a minute. “I need maps and as much information as you can get me about the location of those Border Patrol checkpoints. We need to find a good place for … my father to meet us. Sara and I need clothes and desert supplies. I’ll make a list, but you’ll know better than I do. I’m going to go to a café that rents computers and do as much research as I can, but we can’t do this without you. Can you meet me later today?” He pauses. “What? Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at what you and your family must be going through. It’s just that after all the years of my urging you to reconcile with your father, God’s found a way for it to happen. You have to admit it is ironic, to say the least.”

  “There’s nothing ironic about this, whatever that means. And there won’t be any reconciling. You going to help us or not?”

  Brother Patricio sighs. “Of course I will help you. But there must be some other way out of this predicament. You know the politics in the United States right now. People are talking about walls and electric fences with enough voltage to fry a human being. The Border Patrol has sensors on the ground that can detect movement. An illegal crossing is not the best option. Surely, your sister would qualify for asylum. She’s being persecuted by the government of her country, for goodness sake. If that’s not what asylum is for, then I don’t know what is. One of my brothers in El Paso helps people with immigration …”

  “No. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “I will ask about the asylum process without mentioning any names.”

  “Can you meet at us Café Rojos this afternoon? It’s near the Estadio Olímpico.”

  “I need to help out with the eleven o’clock Mass and I’ll need a couple of hours to get the maps and make some discreet inquiries about Border Patrol checkpoints. Is two o’clock okay?”

  “Yes.” Emiliano pauses. “Brother, does Perla Rubi know …”

  “About last night’s violence? She knows. The whole school knows. Paco called everyone on the team, and I’m sure word got to her. Emiliano, we’re starting a collection for you. We know your family lost everything.”

  “My mother is worried about the damages to the house. She feels bad for the landlady. We have some money but not enough to rebuild a house.”

  “You’re welcome to the money in the Jiparis’ rainy-day fund.”

  “Thank you. It would be a loan. I’ll pay it back.”

  “There are Salesian brothers in Chicago. I’ll get you some names and phone numbers.” Brother Patricio says, his voice faltering, “I will miss you.”

  Should Emiliano tell him about his plans to return? A gut feeling says no.

  “Emiliano, are you still there?”

  “Oh, oh, Brother, there’s one more thing. Can you let Javier know? Tell him to take any new piñatas to Lalo. He has a shop near the bridge on Avenida Juárez called La Azucena. Lalo will buy them from him. But tell him not to accept the first price that Lalo offers.”

  “Yes. I know he’ll want to know how you are. You’re like his big brother.”

  “Yeah.” Some big brother. “See you soon, then.”

  He stands by the window with the phone in his hand. The street below him is busy with families on the way to church. He should probably call Armando so he
can tell Mr. Reyes that the answer is yes, he wants to do business with him, but he’ll be away for a week or so. Armando’s number was in his cell phone, but he doesn’t have that anymore. He’ll call Doña Pepa at Taurus. She must know how to get in touch with Armando.

  He sits on the bottom bunk where Sara slept and puts on his shoes. When he looks up, his mother and sister are looking at him expectantly. How much of his conversation with Brother Patricio did they hear?

  “Everything okay?” Sara asks.

  “I’m going to meet Brother Patricio later today at Café Rojos.”

  “I’ll go with you. I need to e-mail Ernesto, and I can help with the research for our trip too. My middle name is research. Mami, will you be okay alone?”

  “Yes, go with your brother. Can you leave me the phone? I need to call Roberto again. How long will it take you to get to a place where he can pick you up? Maybe it would be better if you talked to him so you can explain.”

  “No!” Emiliano snaps. Then, softening his tone: “I don’t have enough information. I’ll know more after I talk to Brother Patricio. It will take us a day to get to the place on the Rio Grande where we will cross, then two or three days to reach a point where he can meet us. Tell him that tonight you’ll let him know the date and place.”

  Following Estela Gómez’s instructions, they go out through the front door of the upholstery shop. A gray-haired man kneeling on the ground, his mouth full of tacks, looks up and waves at them as they pass by. Emiliano and Sara step out on the street. Sara takes a deep breath and smiles. “It’s good to be alive, isn’t it?” Then a bus drives by, spewing black exhaust, and she begins to cough.

  “This way,” Emiliano says. “Focus. You can’t be daydreaming when we’re in the desert. You’ll step on a snake.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about Linda. I wish I knew when they were going to raid that place.”

  “That police woman, Estela. She looked determined and tough. She’ll call you. But …”

  “I know. But I refuse to believe it will be bad news. It doesn’t help to think that way.”

  Emiliano nods. Of all the people he could have with him in the desert, he could do worse than Sara.

  He takes long, fast strides and Sara runs after him. On the corner, the smell of grease from a taco cart reminds him that he’s hungry. He looks up and sees the pale blue sky. It will be a hot day today. Not a good sign. It will be even hotter in the desert.

  “Slow down,” Sara says, out of breath. “You’re so nervous. You need to calm down. Conserve energy, like you always tell me.”

  Sara’s right. He needs to act with calm and purpose. Three days ago nothing rattled him, unless you consider obsessing about making enough money to buy Joel’s motorcycle a kind of rattling. Now there’s an unpleasant disturbance in his brain, in his very soul, making him uncomfortable with an itch that is not physical.

  “We need to build up your lung power,” Emiliano says. “Look at you. We’ve walked half a block and you’re huffing and puffing.” He speeds up a bit more.

  “I’m going to kill you before this is over,” Sara says.

  When they walk by a bakery, his stomach growls. He needs to put something in there, after he talks to Perla Rubi. He looks around to make sure no one is following them, then speeds up again.

  Sara looks back as well. “So what should I research at the Internet café?”

  “You need to research the asylum process. If you have time, research the detection methods used by the Border Patrol.”

  “Asylum?”

  They hurry across a street when there’s a gap in traffic. When they reach the opposite sidewalk, Emiliano continues speaking without stopping or looking at Sara. “If we get caught, you need to request asylum. It was something Brother Patricio said this morning when I called him. He said you have a good case because you’re being persecuted by the Mexican State Police. Find out what you need to do and say, what documents you need, where will they take you, all of that. Find out all you can.”

  “You think we’ll get caught?”

  “If I think the route we’re taking is a good one, you can be sure others have thought so too. If others have thought about it, the Border Patrol knows about it as well. Going through this park isn’t popular with immigrants because it’s hard to get there from other places in Mexico, but enough have tried.”

  “Wait, what about you? If we get caught, you need to ask for asylum too.”

  “Not me. If we get caught, they’ll put me on a bus and send me back home. I’ll try not to look too happy.”

  Café Rojos is only a little bigger than Mr. Esmeralda’s office. It has a red Formica bar, behind which there is an espresso machine, an electric grill, a microwave oven, and a toaster. Four tin tables press one against the other. A few high- school-age kids sit with their laptops and iced coffees. Emiliano stays back while Sara talks to the owner, a young man named Daniel who’s about Sara’s age, and, it turns out, Estela Gómez’s cousin. Emiliano searches for a phone he can use to call Doña Pepa but there’s none. Then Sara waves to him and he follows her and Daniel into a small room in the back. Two computer terminals sit on a bench, occupied by boys playing video games. Daniel says something to them and they immediately log off, pick up their backpacks from the floor, and leave the room.

  “They have to go to soccer practice anyway,” Daniel says.

  “Is there a public phone around here?” Emiliano asks.

  “There’s one in front of the stadium.” Daniel digs into his pocket and takes out a phone card. “You’ll need this. There’s about ten minutes left on it.” Then he says to Sara, “Let me log you on.”

  “Be careful,” Sara tells Emiliano as he walks away.

  The Benito Juárez Olympic Stadium reminds Emiliano of the time the Pumas beat the Aguilas for the city championship and the right to represent Ciudad Juárez in the state championship games. The stadium seats twenty thousand people, and it was almost full on that scorching June night. He remembers walking out of the dressing room tunnel, holding the hand of a little boy as if he were playing in a World Cup game. The little boy’s name was Beto, and his hand was small and fragile, and holding it almost made Emiliano cry.

  He spends one valuable card minute getting Taurus’s phone number from directory assistance. He’ll have to keep the conversation short if he wants to call Perla Rubi.

  The phone at Taurus rings three, four, five times. Emiliano is sure that Doña Pepa works on Sunday.

  “Hello.”

  It’s Armando. A little bit of luck is always welcome. Now he will have more minutes for Perla Rubi.

  “Hello? Who’s this? Hello.”

  “It’s me. Emiliano.”

  “Emiliano!” Armando shouts into the phone. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I heard about your house.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Juárez is a like a big spiderweb. Nothing happens in one end that the other end doesn’t know.”

  But exactly how did Armando find out? Who told him? He wants to ask more, but stops himself. “Look, I’ll be away for a couple of weeks. I wanted you and Mr. Reyes to know. But I’ll be back. Your scooter’s safe.”

  “I’m not worried about the scooter. Where you going?”

  Emiliano hesitates. “Away from here.”

  “I understand. Emiliano, if there’s anything my father or me or Mr. Reyes can do to help with your situation …”

  “Thank you.” What exactly does Armando know about his situation?

  “You’ll be away two weeks, you say?”

  “Maybe less.” A female voice says there are five minutes left on the card. “I have to go now. I need to make one more call on this card.”

  “Okay, Emiliano. Hey, one more thing. Whatever is happening with your sister doesn’t affect you. Do you understand?”

  There’s a hollowness in the pit of Emiliano’s stomach. “My sister?” he says. “What do you know about m
y sister?”

  “Everything. I know everything. What she did and why people are coming after her right now. All I’m saying is you yourself don’t need to worry. You’re protected. That’s one of the benefits of our friendship, of your association with Mr. Reyes and with me and my father. When you come back, you’ll be okay. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes … I think so. I’ll call you in two weeks, then. I have to go now.”

  Emiliano stands back, staring at the phone. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or afraid. Relieved that Armando is so helpful and understanding. Relieved that “Sara’s situation” does not affect him—he’s protected. Afraid that Armando knows about the shooting of his house, that he knows about Sara’s work, that he knows people are pursuing her. How does Armando know so much so soon? That spiderweb he talks about—didn’t Mr. Esmeralda mention a spiderweb as well?

  He calls Perla Rubi. On the sixth ring, he hears her voice. “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh, my God, Emiliano. Are you all right?”

  Her concern reassures him, reminds him of one thing he can trust. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’m in a phone booth so I don’t have much time. We’re in a safe place. Hiding. They’re still after Sara. I wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Emiliano, I talked to my father. He wants you to call him. He can help you. Do you have a pen? I can give you his number.”

  “I don’t have a pen. But—”

  “Call him at his office. Licenciado Jorge Esmeralda. He’s in the phone book.”