Crossing the Wire Page 2

  Señora Rivera, also dressed up, went ahead slowly with one of her friends.

  Señor Rivera limped toward me. Pangs of guilt and shame ran through me for the terrible secret I was keeping. Had Rico been able to sleep? I’d woken exhausted, as if all night I’d been wrestling a wild beast. I ran to meet the old man, to save him the trouble. His limp was from the tractor accident in Colorado that ended his migrations. He had worked in El Norte for almost thirty years, though not since Rico was a small child.

  “I only have a minute,” Señor Rivera said. “At the house, I’ve sharpened a shovel. You’re welcome to borrow it. Trade for a day, and I’ll sharpen yours.”

  I thanked him. Rico’s father was proud to be a campesino, a true man of the countryside. He had a great love for the village and wanted to believe that there was still a future for farming in Los Árboles. He had started the village co-op a few years before when the price of corn started the slide that wasn’t over yet. The co-op was so the growers could sell their crops all together and get a better price than they would if they sold small amounts by themselves.

  “This evening I will bring back the news from the meeting of the co-ops,” Señor Rivera said, “about the outlook for the prices this year.”

  I wiped sweat from my eyes and said, “I will be saying my prayers.”

  Midday came, and I left the field for our comida. Three of my sisters were already at the table. Mamá called from her outdoor oven. Our little brother, Chuy, ran to open the door for her, his eyes big as our empty plates, ever hopeful for a miracle of loaves and fishes.

  The platter of tortillas and the bowl of rice and beans were going to make a meager meal. As my mother set the food down, I grappled with my feelings. I was the man of the family. I should have been able to provide better than this.

  Graciela joined us from behind one of the blankets hanging over the openings of the two small bedrooms. “Who took my lipstick?” she cried. The youngest of the girls, Graciela was nine and very protective of her birthday present.

  Little Chuy bugged out his eyes and puckered his lips like a fish. They were bright red.

  Graciela got a look on her face, and was about to reach for Chuy. Mamá saw this coming, bowed her head, and began to say the grace, which she added onto at the end. She said that the last night of frost was coming soon. This year we would plant an especially big garden. By the middle of April, we would have fresh greens.

  “Pepe de Chu-ey!” Graciela cried as soon as Mamá was finished. “Where did you put it?”

  “On my lips,” the chango said, with his monkey grin.

  “Give it back!” She lunged for his pockets but he darted away.

  “Enough,” Mamá said. “Sit down, both of you.”

  “Chuy,” Graciela hissed. “I’ll get you later.”

  Mamá served me first, with Teresa, Mari Cruz, Isabel, Graciela, and little Chuy looking on. Chuy was short for Jesús. His baptismal name was José de Jesús. Sometimes we called him by both nicknames—Pepe de Chuy.

  My sisters and brother watched Mamá pack my tortilla half full of beans and rice, then place a bowl of rice with milk in front of me. It was left over from my early meal, before the others were even awake. “Something extra for all that hard digging the rest of the day,” she said to me, but it was more for the others, especially Chuy, who was born with three stomachs.

  I gave my bowl of rice with milk to my brother, who hadn’t yet learned to hide his hunger. Mamá disapproved, Graciela groaned. I couldn’t help it. Seeing my little brother hungry always felt like a knife turning in my heart. He was only five years old.

  I went back to work. An hour later my mother, sisters, and Chuy came down to the field. They broke up the clods behind me and raked the earth smooth as they had been doing weekday afternoons. When the time came for hoeing the weeds, and finally for harvesting, I would need their help with that, also.

  By late afternoon I was alone again and keeping my eye on the path. This time I was working in the plot farthest from it. If Rico was going to pass by with the men who were leaving, I didn’t want to be close enough to see his face or have him see mine. I busied myself slinging rocks off the field and worrying about the price I would get when the time came to sell this year’s corn. The price had to go up this summer, it just had to. We needed the cash money, and more than we made last year—real money to buy all the things we couldn’t keep going without. If the news Señor Rivera brought home this evening was bad, I didn’t know what we were going to do. It was me who should be going north, not Rico.

  At the time of last summer’s disappointment, I tried to get Rico’s father to explain why the prices kept going down every year. “Here is the reason,” Señor Rivera said with his voice beginning to tremble. “All over Mexico, people are buying less and less of our own corn for cornmeal. American corn is cheaper. Mexican corn is heading for the edge of the cliff.”

  None of this made sense to me, but I never got more of an explanation. The subject made Rico’s father very upset.

  From the corner of my eye I saw a group of men walking toward the road to catch the afternoon bus to Silao. These were the men leaving for El Norte. Were there four, or were there five? The way they were bunched up, I couldn’t tell. Was Rico with them or not?

  No family members kept them company on their way to the bus. That was the custom. There was too much sadness about the leaving. Good-byes were said at home, behind closed doors.

  I took a long look. I tried to make out something that would identify my friend. The sun caught some short yellow hair showing under a yellow baseball cap. It was Rico.

  4

  The Bells of Los Árboles

  I WATCHED THE BUS DISAPPEAR, and with it my best friend. There was nothing to do but put my foot to my shovel.

  It was tough digging. The soil had to be freed from the roots of the weeds, and the winter frosts had brought rocks to the surface. I kept at it until the sun was low in the sky, until I saw the late bus from Silao returning.

  The village bells were tolling, possibly to mark the return of the bus. Old Carmita, who lived close by the church, rang them for any and all occasions, real and imagined. She had rung them at the funeral of my father as he was lowered into the ground behind the church. After that, the bells always made me uneasy. As people stepped off the bus and started up the path, I felt light-headed, weak all over. How was I going to tell Rico’s parents that he had run away?

  I felt almost paralyzed as the villagers drew closer, among them the proud man with the black hat and silver hair. It was Señor Rivera who had spoken up for me when the teacher in the village school wasn’t going to let me enroll without a birth certificate. Señor Rivera had been like a second father to me. The idea of telling Rico’s mother was even more terrifying. All those years she had welcomed me into her beautiful home, a dark-faced Indian kid from Chiapas who lived on dirt floors and without electricity. Fed me, encouraged me, told me how smart I was.

  What was I going to say to them?

  As the people got closer and began to pass by, I went back to work, hoping Rico’s parents would also pass by. Instead, I heard my name called. I walked toward Rico’s father with no idea how I was going to find the words to tell him about his son.

  This time Rico’s mother wasn’t walking ahead. She was staying at her husband’s side. This was going to make it worse, far worse.

  As I drew close, it was easy to see that Señor Rivera was very upset. He and his wife appeared to be holding each other up. “I’m sorry, Victor,” Rico’s father began. “The news is a catastrophe. A big meeting of the countries has been held. The Americans wouldn’t even budge.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They say that ‘free trade’ is supposed to help us. We get manufacturing jobs like my son-in-law’s at the General Motors plant in Silao. That’s fine with the American companies. It’s expensive for them to pay car workers in the States. But when it comes to agriculture, this free trade is killing us. This year is going to be no different, after all. The Americans refuse to stop selling their cheap corn in Mexico.”

  I went weak in the knees. “How could American corn be cheaper than ours? The Americans have to send theirs here, and just to grow it up there must cost a lot of money. All those tractors, all that fuel—”

  “Chemical fertilizers, pesticides…” Señor Rivera agreed.

  “How much do I spend? How can they grow corn cheaper than I can?”

  “They can’t grow it cheaper,” Rico’s father replied angrily. “The only way those big farmers up there can make a profit is because the government gives them a lot of money in addition to what they get when they sell their corn. Subsidies, they call it.”

  “But why would their government do that?”

  “So their farmers can make a profit! To keep them in business!”

  “Don’t they know it will put us out of business?”

  “They know.” The veins were standing out on Señor Rivera’s forehead. His face was very red. “More and more people from Mexico will try to cross the border now, to find work. This, while the Americans are trying harder than ever to turn us back, ever since the terrorist attacks.”

  Rico’s mother had been waiting for the conversation to be over. She looked very tired. “My wife has been to the clinic,” Señor Rivera said. “We should be getting home.”

  “So, what should I do, Señor Rivera? What should I do?”

  “You might as well not plant any corn, Victor—no more than your family can eat. It’s not going to get better this year. In fact, it’s going to get much worse. If you are able to sell your corn at all, you will get almost nothing for it. They might not even come to buy it this year. I’m sorry.”

  The old couple turned away, an
d I let them go. I would tell them about Rico later. Anytime would be better than now.

  For the moment, I put thoughts of my friend aside. I was scared to death. If you are able to sell your corn at all, you will get almost nothing for it. What would happen to my family? What was I going to do?

  I turned my back on the field and stumbled home, my head wrapped in storm clouds. I was cornered now, and my mind was racing for a way out. Somehow, somewhere, I had to find work that would pay cash money.

  It was impossible to live in the village and work in Silao. Should I leave the village, try to live in Silao? No chance I could get work at the auto plants, with no training, no experience. Could I try to find work fixing tires, something like that? Even if I could, it wouldn’t pay enough, not to support my whole family.

  It was clear as can be, what I somehow had to do. Only in El Norte could I earn enough money soon enough. But how could I get across without coyote money? Without paying the smugglers, was it even possible? I hurried home, trembling at the idea that I might have to try it anyway. How I envied Rico his fifteen hundred dollars.

  My sisters and brother were away hauling water and scavenging firewood to cook the next few meals. “What’s the matter?” my mother asked as soon as she saw my face. “What happened?”

  At first I told her about Rico, what he had done. I said I would tell his parents in the morning.

  My mother shook her head. “You must tell them tonight.”

  I took a deep breath. “There’s something worse,” I said, and went on to break the news about our corn.

  My mother listened all the way through with her hand to her chin. Afterward she didn’t speak. This was a crushing blow.

  “What can we do, Mamá?”

  “We won’t be able to get through another winter. We will have to leave.”

  “Where will we go—Silao?”

  She hesitated. “We might be able to survive in Guanajuato.”

  I knew what this meant. My mother had mentioned this possibility to me once before. Guanajuato was very popular with tourists, especially the Americans. They loved the hilly city’s cobbled streets, brightly colored houses, and old Spanish buildings. It was possible for people with no homes and no work to survive there by begging along the streets that led to the beautiful churches. I had seen this with my own eyes.

  To picture my mother huddled on the sidewalk all day long, her hand held out and her eyes on the ground, made me turn myself inside out with exasperation. What would become of my sisters? Of my little brother?

  I thought of my father. I was glad such a picture had never entered his mind. “Not Guanajuato,” I said.

  “Where else is there to turn?”

  “El Norte.”

  “But we can’t all—”

  “Just me, Mamá.”

  Her face fell. “Don’t even suggest it.”

  “It’s time for me to go work in El Norte, like Papá did. Send money home like he did. It’s time for me to do what men from the village have to do.”

  “I would never ask this of you. You’ve heard the talk. It’s worse than ever on the border. Anyway, we have no money for you to pay the coyotes. Your father always had to pay the coyotes.”

  “There must be people who make it across on their own.”

  “Too risky, too dangerous. You never hear of them.”

  “I’ll find them, and tag along. And I’ll find work, somehow.”

  My mother placed her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t you understand, my son? Even if you were able to cross the desert and find work, you would always be among strangers, and living in the fear of being deported. And what about us? We also would be living in fear, not knowing how you are doing, hearing nothing at all, not even that you are alive. Your father’s letters never even got to the village.”

  “If only the store had a telephone.”

  “Don’t begin with ‘if only.’ If only this, if only that, if only your father hadn’t died. That kind of thinking will make you sick.”

  “I would wire money to the Western Union in the bank in Silao, like Papá did, and you would go once a month on the bus to see if it arrived. Then you would know I was okay.”

  “That would be all we had of you, some money.”

  “A lot of money. Enough to buy food for yourself and Chuy and the girls. To buy clothes and all the other things that they need, buy gifts for their birthdays and Christmas. If I do well in the States, there will be enough money for Teresa and Mari Cruz to go to school in Silao. You know how much they want to keep going to school. There’s nothing for them in the village.”

  My mother touched my face with both her hands, gentle despite their roughness. Then she let go. “I’ve thought about El Norte myself. I’ve heard stories of mothers who have made the crossing. They work in the restaurants up there, or in the hotels, and send money home to children who are lost to them. I could never bring myself to try it.”

  “Thank God,” I said. “Mamá, it’s up to me. It’s my time. You understand, don’t you?”

  “You wouldn’t leave without my blessing, would you, like Rico?”

  “I couldn’t, but please listen…. What else can we do?”

  She closed her eyes, gathered herself. I felt the pain that came with being a mother. At last she looked at me again, and she spoke, this time with a note of acceptance in her voice. “Tomorrow, you should go up to El Cristo Rey to pray and think. I’ll talk to the Virgin of Guadalupe. She listens to the poor and the desperate.”

  5

  A Bitter Sweetness

  I STAYED AWAY FROM THE FOLDS of the mountain, where brush choked the ravines. The slopes I was climbing were steep and mostly bare. The hike to El Cristo Rey usually took three hours. Today, knowing I might be leaving, I stopped along the way to appreciate the greening valley and the surrounding mountains.

  Rico’s father once told me that our side of the mountain used to be covered with pine forests. The Spanish cut them down to use in the mines and to build the cities. The land has been drying up ever since.

  I wondered if these things could be true. Rico’s father carried grudges, against the Americans and even the Spanish of hundreds of years before, who must have been his ancestors, in part if not mostly. I asked my mother once if any of our ancestors were Spaniards. She didn’t think so. She said we were Tojolabal, descendants of the Maya.

  I was grateful that Rico’s parents weren’t going to hold a grudge against me for last evening, for telling them what Rico had done. It had been terrible, trying to find the words to tell them, terrible what the words had done to them. Rico’s mother gave one sharp cry, and then she was speechless. I saw the color go from her face and hope from her eyes.

  They believed me when I explained that Rico had told me only the night before. They didn’t even blame me for not warning them. “Working with his brother, that will come to grief sooner or later,” Rico’s father said at the door.

  “But why?” I asked.

  “Because Reynaldo lacks honesty. I told him as much once to his face, which is why he has done this. To spite me.”

  The door groaned on its hinges shutting behind me. From now on, the house of the Riveras was going to be a sad and lonely place.

  The tolling of the village bells, carrying far up the slopes, brought me back to my feet. I climbed higher until Los Árboles was like a toy village and the road from Guanajuato to Silao shrank to a ribbon. I sat down again and took it in once more, the world I had known. Even with the forest missing, it was beautiful.

  It was home. All I remembered of the forests of Chiapas was their emerald green color, and the jaguar. The great spotted cat had come to the edge of the forest and looked at me one day as I was playing on the grass behind our house with its roof of thatch. I was too young to even be afraid.

  When I was older, and told my father of this memory, he didn’t say I had imagined it. Papá told me that our ancestors had built some of their greatest temples to the tigre. The powers of other animals didn’t even come close.