Chapter 15
Stories Hernán had heard about the worship of Our Lady of the Holy Death ran through his mind. The priest in his grandmother’s church complained of the practice, calling it a form of devil worship. But people there in his church also lit candles and made offerings as if Santa Muerte were just another saint. He had no way of knowing which stories of her worship were true.
The door opened and a woman beckoned them inside. She was small and plump, with iron-gray hair pulled back tightly. Her skin was thickly wrinkled but her eyes glinted. Hernán kept a firm hand on Albert and Andrea’s shoulders. He looked around but they were far from any other shelter. The woman beckoned again, impatiently this time.
There was no choice. He whispered, “Stay close to me,” and guided the children inside.
The interior boasted a large shrine on the wall opposite the door. More statues of Santa Muerte lined the shelf; all were skeletons in various degrees of craft.
The largest stood at least a foot tall and wore cloths of many colors. Real and plastic flowers protruded from the folds of cloth draping it, and a shiny plastic crown perched on her head. She held a scythe and a globe. Next to the statue burned a tall candle with rings of gold, silver, copper, blue, purple, red, and green.
The woman who had summoned them inside tracked his gaze to the shrine. She cackled. “Scared of the Lady of the Shadows? How about you, little ones?” She crouched down. Albert pulled back to hide against Hernán’s leg but Andrea faced her bravely. She shook her head defiantly. “Good, good. The Lady brings gifts and protection. If you ask Her for help, She will give it.”
Standing again, she brought them to a table on which sat a stack of bowls, and then ladled soup into three of them. It smelled delicious and Hernán’s stomach rumbled. He felt immediate guilt for thinking about food when Isela had been separated and he had no way to know if they would ever see her again.
He didn’t even know her full name, or where she hoped to go if she made the crossing.
The statue on the shrine drew his eyes. He couldn’t help thinking, Take care of her, please.
As if he’d read Hernán’s mind, Albert asked plaintively, “Where did Isela go?”
“I don’t know. Probably to a house like this one.” More confidently than he felt, he added, “We’ll see her again tomorrow, I think.”
It seemed to be enough reassurance because the children tucked into their soup. After a moment he did as well.
“This is very good,” Andrea said seriously to the lady. Albert nodded as well.
“I’m happy you like it,” she said with a broad smile that stretched her wrinkles alarmingly. “Have more if you want.”
Hernán dished them each some more soup. He’d learned to take as much food as possible when offered, because they couldn’t be sure when the next meal would come.
Their clothes were stained from travel. Since the woman seemed kind despite the signs of a religion foreign to him, he took a chance.
“Is there a place we could wash up, or maybe clean our clothes?”
“The Lady gives protection to outcasts and brings safe passage. Ask Her,” she chortled, angling her head toward the tallest statue.
Hernán swallowed hard and tried to think of appropriate words. He crossed the small room, knelt before the shrine, and lit a small candle there. Bowing his head and folding his hands as if in church, he said, “Santa Muerte, please help us. We are weary travelers who need your intervention.” He looked over his shoulder at the woman to see if it was enough.
She nodded as if satisfied. “Come with me,” she said, rising. Hernán and the children followed her to a small bathroom that had a shower. “No washing machine or dryer here. You can rinse out things and set them to dry but they might be wet when the car comes for you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” he said fervently. A shower sounded like heaven. “Do you know where we go next?”
She shook her head and left, but returned in a moment with some thin towels. Hernán hesitated with the children but decided it wasn’t the time to be modest. He hustled them out of their clothes and put them both in the shower, helping them to wash their hair and making sure they used soap. He dried them both off roughly and said, “Stay in here but face the door. Understand?”
They nodded and sat down, still wrapped in the thin toweling. He stripped quickly and took his turn in the shower.
The pressure was low, the water lukewarm, but it felt wonderful to clean himself. After he dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist, he crouched and did what he could to rinse their underwear and socks. He decided against washing their shirts. After draping wet items along the shower rod to dry as best they could, he accompanied the children back into the main room.
The woman gestured a casual arm toward the wall where a small stack of blankets and pillows rested. “Get some sleep now. The car comes early.” She went off to bed, leaving them alone.
Hernán made a nest for each of them, wishing it was out of sight of the shrine. The flickering candle seemed likely to make it hard for him to rest. Hernán kept his eyes on the skeleton statue. Shadows cast by the candle flame flickered along the white bone, swaths of cloth and golden crown.
It didn’t seem to bother Albert and Andrea nearly as much as it did him. Perhaps the children’s calm spread to him because he found himself comforted. His eyes remained on the statue until they drifted shut.
He nearly jumped when the woman shook his shoulder. “Time to get up,” she said. “I have some tortillas and beans for you.”
Their underclothes had dried enough in the night that it wasn’t uncomfortable getting dressed again. Refreshed by the best night’s sleep he’d had since setting out from San Marcos, Hernán sat at the rough-hewn table with the children and joined their scant breakfast.
If they weren’t reunited with Isela immediately, he resolved to make a fuss with the coyotes.
A car pulled up the dirt road soon after that, and the woman gathered them together. With a glance at her, he made a bow to the statue of Santa Muerte. She nodded approvingly.
“The Lady watch over you,” she intoned seriously.
There was no sign of Isela or anyone to ask about her when the latest anonymous driver left them in the middle of a dusty town. At least no one attempted to separate Hernán from the children, so perhaps the Lady did help them, a little.
A nice woman at the way-station wandered over carrying a tray. With hand signs she offered to sell them water and snacks. Hernán spoke to her in Nahuatl and she smiled at him, delighted. She praised his beautiful children; Hernán didn’t correct her. Before she left, she reached into a pocket of her skirts and produced some small sweets for Albert and Andrea. Hernán thanked her fervently, hoping the treat might keep their thoughts away from Isela.
They waited with five or six other pollos. A few of them looked familiar by then, though others were strangers. A Corolla pulled to the curb and its trunk popped open. A fat man with a sweat-stained shirt and a big mustache bustled out of the way-station and swept Albert up in his arms. Hernán started to protest but the man already waved him over with Andrea.
“In, in,” he ordered as he deposited Albert into the trunk of the car. Dread crawled up Hernán’s spine. He could see air holes, a few bottles of water, a blanket. Three adults had already climbed into the trunk of a second car. At least with Albert and Andrea, they wouldn’t be quite so crowded.
Santa Muerte, if you are there, please protect these children.
Hernán settled Andrea and climbed in beside her. When they’d lain down as best they could, the fat man closed the trunk on them. A scent of mold, urine and wet blankets immediately cloyed at him. A little light came through the air holes. If he moved his head, he could see glimpses of the road behind them.
Andrea started to sniffle, and then Albert. “Where is Isela?” she asked in a small voice.
“She’s safe, in another car,” Hernán said with surety he didn’t feel.
The vehicle rattled over a bad road, jolting them where they lay pressed together. Tight space and poor air soon gave him a throbbing headache. He roused Albert and Andrea every so often to make sure they drank a little water.
When Albert complained he needed to pee, Hernán told him to use one of the empty water bottles. The car stopped after a few hours; the driver let them out by a deserted stretch of road before he went into the brush with a roll of toilet paper. The three of them managed as well as they could before the driver returned to reload them into the truck once more.
After what Hernán realized later was about a nine-hour trip in total, he came out of a stupor when the trunk opened again. A tall, thin man with a lazy eye and a friendly smile hiked Andrea out of the back and set her on her feet. He waited to make sure she could stand on her own, and then turned for Albert.
Hernán’s legs were asleep when he tried to move, but the man placed a hand on his shoulder to lever him up. He nearly fell but the handler kept him steady.
Hernán looked around. They were in a parking lot, closed in on three sides by tall warehouses. Over those, he saw buildings rise to the sky. The noise of traffic penetrated to the parking lot.
“Where are we now?” he croaked.
The thin man passed him a bottle of cold water and then handed one each to Albert and Andrea. He ruffled Albert’s hair before turning back to Hernán. “This is Mexico City. I’m supposed to drop you at a bus station where you’ll spend the night.”
He looked at the hollow eyes on the children, and their travel-stained clothes. His gaze ran over Hernán just as his empty belly rumbled.
The man shook his head. “Fuck that. You and your kids stay with me and my wife tonight. Tomorrow I’ll take you to join the others. Come on.”
With a hand on the backs of Albert and Andrea, he guided them all into a small car. He drove to a little apartment where a woman cooed and fussed over Albert and Andrea.
A wall covered with pictures of men, women, and children drew Hernán’s attention. The images of loved ones, of happy celebrations, brought him a surge of homesickness. Silently, he asked his deceased relatives for guidance.
The host couple had a washing machine and a shower; the woman took all their clothes while they cleaned up. Hernán felt he was in a strange sort of dream, to be grateful for such things. Again they followed the same pattern of the children waiting on the floor together while Hernán washed himself.
Two showers in two days—he nearly teared up with gratitude but didn’t know who to thank.
Maybe Santa Muerte.
A dinner of beans, rice and chicken seemed like a feast. The woman asked questions about their journey. Hernán had already warned the children again to tell anyone who asked that he was their father, so he relayed their story as if they were a single family. He didn’t mention Isela, though he wondered what had happened to her. He hoped she’d found kind people like the couple housing them for the night.
The next day, the woman made them a good breakfast and helped repack their cleaned belongings into their battered and stained packs. She uttered a prayer out loud to more traditional Catholic figures, and the thin man bowed his head.
Hernán followed suit. It couldn’t hurt to have more saints watching out for them.
His brief touch of optimism flared brighter when they were dropped at a bus station, because Isela stood among a group of women. When Andrea spotted her and called out, Isela started like a bird. She ran toward them and went to her knees; Albert and Andrea nearly choked her with hugs. She didn’t seem to want to look at Hernán, though.
He thought she must be mad at him. “I’m sorry we got separated,” he said immediately. “It happened so fast.”
She nodded but kept her head down. Her blouse was torn at the shoulder.
The brief hope he had felt turned to queasiness. “Are you all right?” he asked cautiously.
Isela shot a quick glance at him and looked away again. She gave a small shake of her head. Oh no.
He wanted to ask more, or scream, or hug her. He had no idea what to do. When Isela stood, one child holding on to each of her knees, he offered his hand. She took it and squeezed.
“Right,” a coyote called as he gestured for everyone to crowd closer. “In twenty minutes you’re getting on buses. You’ll be on for about sixteen hours. Use the bathroom and remember it will be a long time before you have another chance.”
Peddlers wandered around the station with trays of food and bottles of water. “Stay with Albert and Andrea,” Hernán said to Isela. “Take them to the bathroom and I’ll get food.” Isela produced some money and slipped it into Hernán’s hand. He managed to buy them fruit, water, tortillas and a packet of wet wipes.
When buses began to pull up, instead of allowing the pollos into the coaches, the handlers directed them to luggage compartments underneath. One space was just large enough for the four of them. Hernán and Isela crowded in quickly with the children before they could be separated again. The coyotes laughed amongst themselves as they lowered the metal door to their compartment, closing them in with a clang.
The trip seemed endless and terrible. At first Andrea chatted away at Isela, telling her of Santa Muerte and the nice people in Mexico City. Isela offered nothing of her own journey, and Hernán was afraid he knew why.
All talk died away as the constant rumble of the road under the bus and the heat of the storage compartment became overwhelming. They had no room to move; both Albert and Andrea wet themselves, adding to the funk of their confinement. Hernán finally did too, grateful the dark interior hid his burning face.
Their food and water were long gone by the time the bus finally came to a halt after fourteen hours. The luggage compartment doors opened and the driver waved everyone out.
“We’re through the checkpoint,” he said. “You can ride up top now. There’s a toilet.”
Hernán unfolded himself stiffly and helped Albert climb out, and then Andrea. Isela handed over their packs as the other pollos emerged as well. The driver gave everyone a few minutes to change to dry clothes and clean themselves as best they could.
The last two hours of the bus ride seemed to pass in comparative luxury, after the journey in the luggage compartment. When the bus stopped again, Hernán peered curiously out the window. They seemed to be in a village. Signs read in both Spanish and English, so he guessed they might be near the U.S. border.
Everyone got off the bus and waited for the next instructions. Eventually a second bus pulled in to the same area, which he realized was a motel parking lot. The drivers and handlers talked animatedly amongst themselves; one of the coyotes spoke into a cell phone as he gestured wildly.
Hernán heard enough to understand that there had been a third bus, but it was caught by a patrol.
A van pulled up to the motel eventually, and fifteen or sixteen pollos were pushed and jostled until they climbed in.
They rode for another half-hour until discharged in the drive before a very large but rundown house. Its walls were dingy white, and the red clay tiles of its roof showed large gaps in places. Three coyotes stood in a line at the bottom of the steps leading to the house’s porch.
The smuggler who had driven the van cajoled the pollos into a loose group facing the row of large, forbidding men. Other people peeked at them from the porch or out of windows. Stillness gradually settled over the group, and yet the men in line said nothing.
The front door opened, letting out a shaft of light. A shadow moved and resolved into the silhouette of a man. Hernán could make out none of his features for the glare, but something about the shape terrified him.
The man walked forward slowly, his boots thudding on the wooden porch with each step. He came down a few stairs and stopped three risers above the line of coyotes. Hernán could see him finally, and regretted it.
He was not tall, but very thick and muscular. A black wife-beater shirt exposed pale white arms covered in a fever-dream of tattoos—skulls, birds, flowers, crosses. The thick belt running through his jeans had a skull for a buckle. His red hair was closely cropped all over, giving his skull an appearance of being coated in blood. A reddish mustache curved down on either side of his cruel-looking mouth.
“Listen up,” the man said in a loud, rough voice. His accent didn’t sound Mexican. American, Hernán guessed. “I’m Lonnie Heath. This is my house. You made it this far. Not too long to go now.”
He pointed with one hand across the desert. “That’s Texas, a few kilometers away. Before we take you there, the other half of your fee is due. Tomorrow, you call whoever is paying and make arrangements to get the rest of the money to us. When that happens, you finish your trip and we drop you in Houston.”
He swept his gaze over the assembled pollos, stopping when he saw Hernán. His eyes narrowed, and the tip of his tongue ran along his lower lip. Hernán felt his balls shrivel in fear. He knew that look.
Lonnie spoke again, but kept his focus on Hernán. “You get water and lodging while you’re here, but every day we have to feed you gets added to your bill. Understand? The longer your family takes to get us money, the more it’s going to cost them. You’ve got three ways out of here.” He held up the fingers of his left hand to make his point. “One, your family pays in full and we take you the rest of the way. Two, you turn yourself in to the Immigration authorities and take what comes. Three, you head into the desert and take your chances alone. Carlos,” he barked.
“Yes, Lonnie,” one of the muscled coyotes answered.
“How many bodies did we find in the desert this past year?”
“Fifteen, last count.”
Lonnie shook his head. “Fifteen.” He scanned the pollos again, gave a snort, and turned to walk back up the stairs and into the house.
The three large coyotes went into action, barking instructions and herding them all inside. Hernán and his little family stuck close together until they were in a dormitory of sorts on the second floor. It took time, but finally they found three beds together. That would have to do.
Isela stayed with their belongings while Hernán took the children to the bathroom, and then she went herself. There were showers at least, and toilets. Things that he took for granted all his life were luxuries by then.
An elderly woman one bed over introduced herself as Violeta as she fussed over Albert and Andrea. “Such beautiful children,” she praised. “My granddaughter is in California. I’ll be with her soon. You want to see a picture?”
Isela nodded and made appropriate noises at the photo of a little girl in a yellow dress. “How long have you been here?” she asked Violeta.
“Four weeks. But my son is getting the money. He’ll have it soon.”
Hernán asked, “What do we do with our things? I mean, is it safe to leave them here?”
Violeta shrugged. “Usually, but things go missing. I don’t think any of the pollos steal, but the people that run this place…” She shuddered.
“This Lonnie is in charge?” Hernán probed.
“Yes. Well, he has bosses but they don’t come that often.” Violeta lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I heard he used to be with the American border patrol. He was fired or arrested or something for things he did to people they caught crossing. Then the bosses hired him to work here.”
Hernán shivered.
“What do we do about food?” Isela put in, changing the subject.
“Two meals a day, breakfast and dinner. It’s run like a cafeteria. You can take on other jobs to earn more food, like cleaning the bathrooms or washing dishes.”
Hernán sat beside Albert and Andrea on the single bed he’d been able to find for them. He’d avoided asking many questions so far, but the time had come. “Is there someone to call to get money for you?”
Andrea looked at Albert, bit her lip, and then emptied her pack. Inside, under a torn flap of plastic, a phone number had been written in permanent ink with a name: Miranda López. Hernán nodded. “Good. I’ll help you call.” He looked at Isela. “How about you?”
“My sister,” she said shyly. “She has a good job in San Antonio.”
They sat at dinner with Violeta. The mood was somber anyway, but suddenly the room became entirely silent. Hernán looked around and saw Lonnie walking the perimeter of the dining hall, his hands clasped behind his back. Two of the big coyotes accompanied him. Lonnie’s eyes surveyed his kingdom with a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.
His green, glittering eyes lifted and speared Hernán with his gaze. Hernán’s stomach churned and he fought the urge to flee. The reptilian look from Lonnie scared him like nothing else on the trip.
The next morning, after breakfast, handlers came around to take people, one family at a time, into a room with a phone. Hernán took Albert and Andrea in and dialed the number from Andrea’s pack. After several clicks, the phone connected.
“Hello,” he heard a woman say in English.
“Is this Miranda López?” he asked in Spanish.
“Yes,” she answered, also switching to Spanish. “Who is this?”
“My name is Hernán Portillo. I’m with Albert and Andrea.”
She gave a sharp gasp. “Are they all right? Where are you?”
“They’re scared but they’re okay. I’ve been with them from El Salvador. We’re close to the U.S. border so now you have to get the other half of the fee before the handlers let them move on.”
“You’re sure they’re well?”
“Yes. They’re great kids.”
She sobbed. “My babies. I was so scared but there was no one to bring them to us in Corpus Christi. Javier tried and tried. No one would come. But I need them here.”
Hernán wanted to rage at Miranda. How could she let two little children make that terrible journey alone? What if it hadn’t been Hernán and Isela who got in the car with them?
He kept still though. None of that mattered anymore. He let Albert and Andrea have the phone, and they chattered at their mother, happier than he’d seen them since the trip began. The hardships of the journey already seemed to fade in their minds. Trusting them to strangers and possible saints seemed cavalier to Hernán, but it had worked.
After a minute, though, the coyote snarled, “Enough,” and held out his big paw for the receiver. Albert handed it over, his eyes wide.
The coyote spoke to Miranda in a compassionate tone that nonetheless raised the hair on Hernán’s neck. “These children are small. The way we cross requires long, long walking. I’m not sure they can make it.”
The tone became wheedling. “For an extra fee, we have a different way. We give them American passports for children of about the same age and looks. We put them in a car and drive them over the border. It’s another two thousand dollars each, but much safer for them.
“Of course, we can’t risk them getting nervous at the checkpoint so we have to give them something so they sleep through it.”
Hernán gasped and pulled Albert and Andrea closer to him. Surely their own mother wouldn’t…
The coyote smiled triumphantly at Hernán, dark eyes glittering, as he said, “Good choice.” He gave her the instructions and amount for the money order. “Once we confirm receipt, your children will be on their way.”
Shaken, Hernán took his turn next and called the number he had memorized for his father. It rang.
And rang.
He disconnected and tried again. Still no answer. His heart began to race.
“I must have the number wrong,” he said to the coyote and heard pleading in his own voice.
“Try again tomorrow. Other people are waiting.”