Chapter 13
Abuela stormed back into the living room.
“You can’t stay in this house,” she declared. “They’ll track you here soon enough. You caused this, with your school and your hair and the way you walk.” Her voice grew uglier and more strident. “Just get out. Tonight.”
Hernán’s eyes filled with tears, and Brijith began to sob. As horrible as Abuela had been to him, her house was the only home he knew.
Juan turned on his mother, eyes narrowed. “Selfish bitch,” he barked at her.
She grabbed Brijith’s shoulder. “I’ve got to worry about this one too.” She shook Brijith hard and said to her, “Stop crying, right now. It’s driving me crazy.”
Juan turned back to Hernán. “Grab a bag. You can come with me until we figure out what to do.”
Hernán ran up the stairs and threw a few handfuls of clothes wildly into his school backpack. When he came down, Abuela was in the kitchen again with Brijith, ranting. Juan gestured him out the front door, and they left without another word.
They drove to Juan’s store; he lived on the second floor of the building. Hernán had felt safe there the times he got to stay with his uncle. He’d begged in the past to come live above his store. Juan had shaken his head, but regretfully.
“I can barely keep myself fed,” he’d said. “And my place is just too small for more than a weekend.” Hernán had understood, though it nearly killed him to return to Abuela’s house.
That night, as he entered the store behind Juan, it seemed to him a terrible way to get his childhood wish.
“I’ve got to think,” Juan muttered as he paced. “I don’t see how anyone would find you here.” He caught sight of Hernán’s face. “You look like crap. I guess you haven’t been sleeping.” He gestured with his head. “Get some rest and we’ll talk in the morning.”
Hernán nodded and slunk up to the small, cramped living space over the store. It consisted of two messy rooms, and the narrow bed in the back part hadn’t been made. Juan wasn’t married and apparently saw no reason to straighten up for himself. Hernán crawled into sheets smelling slightly of mold, and lay staring at the ceiling. Surprisingly, he did sleep.
When he woke up in the morning, Juan had apparently already eaten. He’d left an old Mister Coffee machine on and dripping. After it finished, Hernán poured two mugs, added sugar and milk to his uncle’s, and went downstairs.
Juan was stocking shelves. Hernán handed him his coffee, which Juan took with a grunt and a quick nod. They faced each other over their steaming mugs, without speaking. Juan finally sighed. Turning back to his shelves, he said, “Grab a carton there and help me. We can talk while we work.”
Hernán obediently scooted a box of dry goods along the floor and began to transfer items to the racks. Minutes passed, and the words built in Hernán’s chest until he wanted to burst with them—about what he knew of the Cuernos members who’d come after him, what they said, what they seemed to want from him.
He couldn’t do it, though, without admitting he was like Rudy. Juan was the kindest and most loving of his relatives still in San Marcos, but he didn’t know if even his closest uncle would help if he knew Hernán’s secret.
After Juan finished emptying a box, he picked up his coffee again and took a long drink. Setting it down once more, he asked, “You talked to Pedro about all this shit with Cuernos?”
“No,” Hernán said, shaking his head as he worked on his shelf. “He only calls a few times a year.”
Silence reigned as Juan returned to loading dry goods, his brow furrowed. Finally, he flicked a glance at the screen door to make sure no customer approached. “I know a coyote,” he said cautiously.
“Coyote?” Hernán asked.
“A smuggler. He has the connections to get someone across the border. It’s expensive though. Have you got any money?”
“I’ve saved up a few hundred dollars. Is that enough?”
Juan shook his head. “I hear it costs six thousand dollars.”
Hernán gasped. Six thousand dollars. He dropped the bag of flour he’d picked up back into the carton and doubled over. I won’t cry. I won’t cry.
Juan dropped a hand on the middle of Hernán’s back and rubbed a little. “I’ve got about a thousand. My mother won’t help, but I’ll see if any of the family will contribute. Well, let’s try Pedro. See if my worthless brother will step up to help his son.”
He glanced at a clock loosely mounted on one wall opposite the register. “I might be able to reach him now. You keep stocking the shelves and I’ll call.”
Hernán made his way through the boxes, listening intently as Juan spoke into the phone in his office. He could only catch parts of the conversation but Juan got louder and more strident.
“… Going to get himself killed if he doesn’t get out of here… No, of course Mamá isn’t going to give him any money… Well, find it or I’m going to call Immigration myself and give them your fucking address and number, you piece of shit. He’s your son.”
Juan slammed down the receiver and stormed back into the aisles, his face red. “We’ll see,” he said, trying for calm as he ran his eyes over Hernán’s face. “Go upstairs. I’ll finish this.”
As Hernán made a simple breakfast for himself, he thought about Juan raising his voice to Hernán’s father. It might have been the first time he’d heard someone fight for him.
Juan let him stay that day and the next while they waited to hear from Hernán’s father. To pay him back, Hernán took shifts in the store and cleaned the upstairs rooms. No Cuernos turned up at the store that they noticed. Even though he had only a pallet at Juan’s, he slept better than he had in weeks.
Brijith came by after school, when she could avoid Abuela. She told Hernán their aunt had agreed Brijith could live with her; she was waiting for a chance to slip her clothes out of Abuela’s house.
Juan also quietly asked their relatives for money to help Hernán, and scraped together several hundred dollars more. Finally, on the third day, Pedro called. Elías, their other brother and the father of Hernán’s cousin Rudy, was going to help with the rest of the funds. Relief almost brought Hernán to his knees.
Elías sent money to Juan’s bank in San Marcos to bring the total to three thousand dollars. “We pay half up front,” Juan told Hernán, “and then the family pays the rest right before the coyotes turn you over in the States.”
Juan and Hernán met with a smuggler a few days later. The coyote had wrinkled skin and small eyes. No names were exchanged, but they made a deal. A few anxious days later, Hernán was ready to go. As instructed, he wore clothes—smuggled to him by Brijith—to look like he was going to a club. The unnamed coyote had told Juan and Hernán in his cigarette-rasped voice to dress that way. “If you’re caught, it looks like you’re out to have fun. Got it?”
At five in the morning, Juan and Brijith waited with Hernán in the predawn chill for the coyote to pick him up. A few other relatives arrived with a thermos of coffee and pastries. His aunt said a loud prayer for Hernán, and many of the cousins joined in.
Brijith hugged him close and whispered in his ear, “If you make it, please try to send for me. I want out too.”
A very dusty and ancient car turned a corner and headed their way. Juan picked up Hernán’s backpack for him. It contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, three pairs of pants and three shirts; nothing more. Resting a hand on Hernán’s shoulder, he whispered a blessing.
“Uncle…,” he began, but his throat constricted and he couldn’t finish.
Juan nodded at him. “Be careful, Nán,” he said.
Brijith burst into tears then, and ran to be comforted by her cousins. If Hernán hadn’t felt so scared, he would have laughed at her theatrics.
The two-door car pulled to a stop. Its windows were tinted. No one climbed out so Hernán opened the passenger side door. The unnamed coyote was at the wheel, and hiked a thumb at the back so Hernán pulled the seat forward and climbed in.
A little boy and girl sat there already, their matching, wide eyes meeting his. They were probably around eight or nine years old, but dressed as if going to their first communion. Each held a small plastic backpack decorated with Disney characters.
Hernán squeezed in next to them. Coyote leaned across the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. “These are your cousins,” he rasped at Hernán. “If anyone asks.”
The girl looked intently at Hernán, curiosity and even excitement showing in her face. The boy stared at his knees and sniffled. Hernán wanted to comfort him but he didn’t dare open his mouth in front of Coyote. The car pulled away and Hernán turned his head to watch his uncle, sister and other relatives disappear behind him in the dust.
A part of him was relieved, and maybe a bit eager. He had no idea what the journey would entail, but he was heading away from Cuernos. Away from Abuela. That had to mean hope.
Coyote drove a little slow, Hernán noticed, probably to avoid attention. After twenty minutes he came to another stop. A woman opened the passenger door and this time Coyote indicated she should take the front seat. She was pretty, probably in her early thirties. Hernán saw the leer on Coyote’s face as she climbed in, and his stomach tightened nervously.
They drove on, Coyote steering with just his left hand. After a mile or so, he started to slide his right hand along the back of the seat. The woman shifted as close to the door as she could get, and Coyote gave a nasty, low laugh.
In another half-hour, Coyote pulled over on a deserted strip of road. “Gotta piss,” he muttered, climbing out. He left the door open; Hernán heard the pull of his zipper and then the splash of urine.
He whispered to the little boy and girl, “Do you need to go pee?” The girl nodded. The boy just kept staring at his knees. When Hernán touched the woman’s shoulder to get her attention, she jumped, but then opened the passenger door so they could climb out.
Hernán led the children further away from the road, and the woman followed. Possibly she just wanted to stay close, and away from Coyote. She took the little girl’s hand and led her out of sight, while Hernán helped the little boy.
He crouched to deal with the boy’s stuck zipper. “I’m Hernán,” he said in a low voice. What’s your name?”
After a pause, the boy whispered, “Albert.”
“Is that girl your sister?”
Albert nodded and volunteered, “Andrea.”
When they returned to the car, Coyote had a cigarette on his lip as he stood by his open door. He ran his eyes up and down the woman’s body and then tilted back his head to blow away a plume of smoke. She kept her gaze on the road. Once Albert and Andrea were in the back, Hernán pushed the woman to join them and took the front seat.
Coyote scowled and spat out the window. When the car stopped again, he ordered, “Out. Wait for the bus.”
They found themselves in front of a church Hernán thought was north of San Marcos. Five other people of various ages, each dressed in nice clothes and carrying a single pack, stood in a loose cluster near the steps.
Hernán shouldered his pack. He took Andrea’s hand, her head craning around to take in everything, while the woman guided Albert. Coyote peeled away in a cloud of dust.
While they waited, Hernán whispered their names to the young woman. She nodded. “I’m Isela,” she finally said.
Nobody else spoke to them. Nobody had to. It was clear what they all were there for, and no one knew what would happen next.
The silence was heavy, pressing them down as hours passed. Scary.
Hernán’s earlier elation at getting away from Cuernos gradually faded to dread. He couldn’t imagine opening his mouth to make conversation. What would he say? Everyone with him knew the danger they were in. Probably even his “cousins” understood. He wanted to know why the children were alone, where they were going, and yet…he couldn’t ask.
Better if everyone kept their privacy. That way, if picked up, they didn’t have enough information to implicate others.
The men and women exchanged nervous glances. Had they been duped? Did they pay so much money only to be abandoned at the very beginning of their journey? Albert started to cry again, softly. When Hernán picked him up, he clung to his shoulders.
Andrea took that as permission to wrap her arms around Hernán’s leg. Isela crouched to pat her back and shared a shy smile with Hernán, gone in a second.
The bells of the church tolled four in the afternoon before a woman emerged. She looked indigenous, in her bright orange dress embroidered with flowers, and a multihued shawl wrapped over her head. Its ends trailed down her shoulder. The group looked at her expectantly, until the rumble of an approaching bus drew their attention.
It pulled to a stop in front of the church. When the door opened, the woman clad in orange ushered them together and up the stairs. Hernán asked her in Spanish if she knew where they were going. When she didn’t answer, he asked again in Nahuatl. She looked surprised, but answered, “Toward Guatemala.”
Everyone settled on the bus quickly. Albert wouldn’t let go of Hernán and so he took a padded bench with the boy. Isela sat with Andrea one row forward. The driver turned to look over his cargo.
When his eyes settled on Isela too long, Hernán clenched his fists. He was still recovering from his wound. Albert and Andrea had attached themselves to Hernán. If it came to a fight to protect Isela, how would he choose who needed him more?
“Okay, chickens,” the driver said. Juan had told Hernán the smugglers called their cargo pollos or chickens. “We’ll be on the road about three hours. I’m not stopping so if you have to go to the bathroom, do it now.” He fixed Hernán with a stare and jerk of his head that took in Albert, Andrea and Isela. “Any trouble, those brats are your children. She’s your sister. Got it?” Hernán nodded.
The bus pulled away to make its journey along a rough highway. The shocks were bad. It squeaked and bounced as the miles melted away, but as long as it was moving, Hernán’s unease about the driver lessened. The rocking gradually lulled him down into a fitful half-sleep.
He stirred when the bus shuddered to a stop, to find it had grown dark outside. The door hissed as the driver operated the mechanism to open it. He gestured and cursed until all the passengers had climbed off.
Three handlers or coyotes waited for them. One aimed a flashlight at the ground and guided them to a concrete warehouse of some kind. Inside was cold and stark, but food and water were available. Isela darted forward and claimed as much as she could while Hernán found them a place against a wall.
The coyote with the flashlight waved it to get everyone’s attention. “You’re here for the day. When it’s dark again, we leave.”
One of the pollos asked querulously about bathrooms, showers. The smuggler laughed at her. “Piss outside but stay hidden. Patrols sometimes come through here. No showers.”
They all slept badly, stiff and cold on the concrete floor, and woke in heavy silence as they waited for orders, or at least some information. None of the handlers told them anything more. Andrea wandered around the room, trying to talk to other travelers with mixed success. Albert wouldn’t leave Hernán’s side.
Both children grew listless as the day dragged on, and drank or ate only when Hernán or Isela made them. The small amounts left for them by the handlers went quickly anyway. Hernán knew he should be hungry, but the oppressive dankness of their quarters drained any appetite.
In the afternoon, as Albert and Andrea slept, one of the coyotes sauntered in their direction. He was scrawny, and his jeans and shirt didn’t look like they’d been washed in a long time. He held a bottle of water, its sides dripping with condensation. He stopped near Isela and wiggled the bottle.
“You want some cold water to drink, bonita?” he asked in a reedy voice. He stuck one hand in his jeans pocket and made a show of adjusting himself. “I got better food too.”
She shook her head and looked away. Hernán tensed. What would he do if the smuggler grabbed her? After just two days he was already exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. The smuggler looked much tougher than him. If he got hurt or killed trying to help Isela, what would happen to Albert and Andrea? Nobody else had shown the slightest interest in protecting the children.
The guy crouched on his heels and reached out to push Isela’s hair off her face. “I got a big one, girl. You’ll like me.”
She shrugged off his hand and burrowed further down. A flash of annoyance crossed the coyote’s face and he raised his hand again. Hernán freed himself from Albert’s sleeping head on his lap and the smuggler shot him a glare. “Stay outta this, faggot,” he rasped.
Hernán stood anyway, trying to lock his legs to conceal their trembling. The smuggler narrowed his gaze and rose slowly, menacingly, to his feet.
“What the fuck are you doing?” barked another coyote who suddenly loomed behind the first and cuffed his head. “Rules are simple. You stay away from the chickens. We got to keep a clean shop or the chickens stop coming.”
He cuffed the smuggler again. “Get the fuck out of here and go check the schedule.” The boss glanced at Isela and Hernán as the aggressive smuggler slunk away, but he didn’t say anything. He just turned and left.
Isela’s head bowed but Hernán saw tears slip down her nose. Andrea patted her cheek and tried to comfort her. Isela pulled the girl into her lap and they rocked together.
Finally the handlers got everyone to their feet and led them out of the warehouse. A rusty car pulled up and the driver yelled through the open window at the nearest pollos to get inside. Four squeezed into the car and it pulled away.
Isela sidled closer to Hernán as he rose from the bench, and the children each clutched at one of his hands. He understood. They had begun their journey together; he didn’t want them to get separated either.
When a van pulled up that looked big enough, he rushed forward, almost pulling the children. Isela followed. They were rude and aggressive but they pushed through other pollos and secured the back seat. Albert sat on his lap while Andrea wiggled down beside Isela. A pollo with very dark eyes glared at them as he climbed in, hauling up a woman who was possibly his wife, but Hernán gave him back a level stare. The man dropped his gaze first.
With six travelers piled in, the van driver pulled away. He was a stick-thin teenager with stringy black hair. In the rear-view mirror, Hernán watched the driver’s eyes flicker between the side mirrors and out the front. He tapped his hand incessantly on the steering wheel as if urging it for more speed.
Ten minutes later, flashing lights appeared behind the van.