Illegal (13 page)

I felt the booming of the bass, the high triplet of a whistle. I didn't pay attention.

“Hey, Tessa. Where are your shoes?” A teardrop was tattooed into the corner of his eye and a star on the crook of his hand.

“¿Qué?”
I turned my head to see a suave-looking man hanging out the window of a black Monte Carlo.

“I haven't seen you in a long time. Get in; I'll give you a ride.”

Tejano
music sang from the car. I had to pick up
my feet in a fast dance to keep them from burning on the concrete. I shook my head no and continued to the corner.

“Come on, Tessa, we could have a little party.” He pulled the car around, blocking me from crossing the street. “Like last time.”

There was another teenager in the car. I could see his shiny hair as he opened the car door. “We didn't know you was back in town. Let's
rumba
like last time.” He pulled at my arm.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You're confused; I'm not her.”

The driver leaned over to show me an ID card from his visor. “Sure it is. Here's your picture. It was my prize, but I never thought you would be brave enough to show your face around here.”

I leaned in. It was a Texas driver's license with what looked like my picture, but the name said Contessa Ana Villareal. I reached for it when I felt them pull me into the car.

“Come on,
chica
. It was so much fun last time, but we never got to finish.” The oily-headed boy slid in next to me and closed the door. The driver moved his hand up my leg.

My brain defrosted and a voice filled my head.

Get out of the car.

I hit his hand away, but he dug his fingers into my thigh. “What, you don't like it no more? You loved it last time.”

Last time?

I heard the voice again.

Get out. Escape. Survive.

I pulled the gearshift as hard as I could, and we all jerked backward violently. I punched at the horn. My feet kicked at the other boy, but it seemed I could only reach the dashboard.

The voice grew louder.

Run.

The driver lashed at my face. I kicked again and the car lurched up and over to the side. I was now on the floorboard. The left side of the car was jacked into the air.

Hydraulics—the car was jumping in different directions. An automotive tango was making us into passenger popcorn.

Fuerte.
Be strong.

I was tangled into the passenger's legs, but I couldn't reach the door handle. His ankles held me down into the alcohol-soaked floorboard.

Fight.
I suddenly realized this was not a voice of
a patron saint. Today it was my father's voice.
Fight!

I sunk my teeth into his Achilles' heel and kicked with all my might. The car lurched again. The horn blared. Curse words bounced in the car in a blur.

I reached the handle, and fell out of the car.

The giant anthill boiled in front of me. I reached down and scooped.

Small red dots engulfed my hands as I threw the dirt into the Monte Carlo. I scooped again and again. Throwing. Cursing.

“You won't do to me what you did to her!” I screamed.

More ants. More swearing. Until the car sped away.

I heard howls in the distance. I could see them slapping at themselves as the car turned the corner.

I smacked the ants off my hands, arms, and feet. Angry welts rose on my arms and legs.

At my feet lay Tessa's ID card.

I picked it up and ran the rest of the way home.

A bonfire of pain shot from my arms and legs from the ant bites.

I stopped on the stoop to scratch. A pink candle glowed on the doorstep. It smelled terrible.

I worried about the fight with the boys. Would I be in trouble again without anyone asking me what had happened, or would Tessa's ID redeem me? I wiped my face and discovered my nose was bleeding. Jorge's truck sat on the curb.

I looked down at my shirt. Footprints. Blood. Dirt.
How could I explain any of this?

The door to the apartment opened and the scent of a familiar soap hit me square in the face. “
¡Dios santos!
What has America done to you?” screamed Grandma.

I couldn't believe my eyes. “Am I dreaming?” I asked, rubbing my eyes and reaching out to touch her.

Grandma grabbed my arm. “What happened? Aurora, get some rags and olive oil.”

I stuttered, “I-I was at the cemetery visiting Papa. There were these boys…”

“Did they attack you?” Jorge stood defensively. “Do you know who they are?”

Everyone's questions flew at me at the same time. I scratched at my legs, wanting to claw them off. The fire ant bites seemed to sting all the way through my skin down to my bones.

“They thought I was Tessa,” I said.

The room grew instantly quiet.

I flipped the ID card onto the table. “They had this.”

The rush of the moment caught up with me. Like the panic couldn't run as fast as I could and had finally huffed into the room. I didn't want to think
about what the boys wanted from me and I didn't want to think about what they took from Tessa.

Manuela grabbed at the plastic card. Her palm covered her open mouth.

“Grandma, how did you get here?” I asked.

Manuela began to cry. “We have to call the police. Nora has to tell them what happened.”

“No!” Mama and I shouted.

“Police?” asked Grandma. “Won't they send us back? We can't go back. I just got here.”

Jorge held up his hands. “We'll sort this out later. Everybody calm down.”

“B-but—” stammered Manuela, “I need to know.”

I clapped my hands over my ears. It sounded like cats fighting outside the window late at night. Garbling, high-pitched nonsense.

Jorge put his hand on Manuela's shoulder. “This isn't the answer. It's just a piece of plastic. This doesn't bring Tessa back. Perhaps it's time you let her go.”

“B-but—” she stuttered again.

Jorge pulled her toward the door. “We need to go. The appointment for the permit is in ten minutes.” Manuela dabbed her eyes and loudly blew her nose.

“No police,” I said. “Please!”

Jorge motioned his finger for me to come closer. “I'm not calling the police. I'm the one who smuggled your grandmother in, so now is not the time to get the authorities involved,” he whispered.

Outside the door, Mr. Mann stood with a worried look on his face, doughnut bag in hand.

Mama filled the bathtub with hot water and a bit of bleach. I sat in it until my skin wrinkled and the itching stopped. Grandma sat on the toilet seat while I bathed.

“Have they told you?” I asked.

Her eyes misted. “I know,
mija.
Jorge told me. It's why I came.”

It was easy to let the wall down around my heart if I had somewhere soft to land. “But why? Why did he have to die?” I sobbed. With Grandma, I could be
who I really was. Naked or not, my emotions were out for all to see. I unleashed my heartache like a hurricane on Grandma.

She held out the dry towel and pulled me into an embrace. “How could I not come? There is nothing for me to wait for in Cedula,” said Grandma.

“We were coming home to you and the orchard,” I said. “I was going to fix this for us.”

Grandma's strong shoulders slumped. “There is no more orchard. Or at least, none that we own, and you are not responsible for fixing anything.”

I pulled on clean clothes but my shoulders ached. “I could have tried harder.”

Grandma pinched her nose in thought. “No. It was taxes, fertilizer, and the lack of money. None of it was from your lack of trying.”

Grandma seemed older, her wrinkles deeper. I felt like it had been years since I had seen her rather than months.

“But Grandma, it's been in our family for years.”

Grandma's chin cocked stubbornly in the air. “And now it will belong to a new family.”

So much heartache. First Papa. Now the farm.

Grandma wiped the tears from my cheeks. “
Mija
, I choose you. I choose to be here and make a new life
with you.” It seemed her positive spirit had survived the trip.

“You're going to stay?” I asked.

“Yes, of course I'm staying. You are my family. You have fixed me.”

“But how?” I asked.

Grandma smiled cunningly. “A friend loaned me the money to get to Nuevo Laredo to meet with Jorge and Manuela. He knows I will return the favor.”

“Who?” I asked, holding my breath, waiting for the answer.

“Hector,” she said.

“My friend Hector?”

“No,
mija
. He is
our
friend Hector.”

Later that day, I awoke to the bickering in the kitchen between Grandma and Mama. It seemed like some things didn't change.

“Tell me everything. Exactly,” said Grandma.

“I only know when they buried him. Who knows how they do things here in America?” said Mama testily. The dark circles hollowed under her eyes.

“But we must seek justice and give honor to Arturo,” she insisted.

“You don't think I want that?”

I could tell Mama felt insulted. What did Grandma think we were doing here in America—eating cake? None of this was easy.

Mama stared into her coffee. “But they threw him in the street like dirty dishwater. He died alone.”

“At least a funeral service at a church,” demanded Grandma. “We can do that much.”

Funerals cost money—more than we had. If there was a God, He didn't like us. Why would I bother giving our hard-earned money to Him?

“But Isabel, we are illegal immigrants, we can't call attention to ourselves,” said Mama. “You need to learn that we can't go stomping around here demanding things.”

“God will care for us,” said Grandma.

A burning in my stomach rose like boiling milk as I sat up in the bed. “We don't even count as people here.”

Grandma reached out to me. “
Mija
, you can't deny God and His plan. You of all people should know. God told you to come here.”

Panic and pain had finally caught their breath. They were ready to chase me with all of their might. I bellowed out my thoughts, even though I knew it would hurt Grandma's feelings. “There is no God and
He has no will. When will either of you face reality?” I hit the door as hard as I could as I ran toward the park. “Because nothing matters anymore.”

Maybe I could outrun these feelings crashing all around me.

My feet pounded the pavement.
I hate you,
I thought spitefully as I headed toward the park. I could feel the heat from the day soaking through the soles of my feet.

In the park all I wanted to do was climb a tree, but the limbs weren't low enough for me. I needed to be up in the air, away from all of this. I jumped and reached for any limb, but even in my desperation, nothing would come close. I grasped for anything. Even the trees were against me.

The pool was closed. I tried to squeeze between the bars, but my body wouldn't budge. I wanted to dive into the cold water and to hold my breath and never come up. I wanted my father, who would never be coming home. I wanted away from this place called America.

I cried for myself until the tears turned into salty rivers at my feet. Nothing here would make things better. The suffering was all for nothing. There would be no party, no school, no Papa, no nothing.

I thought I heard the trees whispering in the Gulf breeze.

Go home. Go home.

But where was home? Could it really be here? Mama and Grandma—did that make a home?

I didn't want to hear voices anymore.

And where was God? None of the lessons the nuns taught said anything about this. Wasn't He supposed to protect us? Wasn't He supposed to listen to my prayers? I wondered if God or faith even existed on Quitman Street.

The night was busy transforming itself. Fireflies danced from one tree to another. Mosquitoes bit my legs, and frogs from the bayou sang songs only they understood.

Mr. Mann appeared from behind a tree. “Go home, Nora. Go home.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “But where is home?”

He looked at me with his dark eyes and tattered face. “Over there.” He pointed. He dropped one of my bowls in my lap. “Dreams in there.” He shuffled away.

Perhaps he wasn't crazy.

What seemed like hours later, I heard my name in the dark. It was Mama.

“Nora! Nora! Please, I can't lose you, too. Nora!”

I would not give away my dreams. I ran toward her in the night, because I wanted to be found. I wanted someone to rescue me.

I ran past the trees and the swimming pool and into her arms. The moon was full. The shadows touched us as we stood in the middle of the park, hugging each other.

Mama pulled me into her strong arms “We can start over. We may not matter to America, but we are important to each other,” Mama whispered into my neck.

I didn't answer. I felt like a flat tire—out of ideas on how to make this work. Tomorrow I would think of something new.

I woke in the morning to the smell of hot coffee and eggs. There was a feast on the table and I saw
magdalenas
on the table. “I'm sorry for how I acted last night. I'm glad you're here. I've missed you.”

Grandma sat next to me, pouring the coffee and sugar like it was falling out of the sky. “I've missed you too. I think you have been carrying the world on your shoulders. Maybe with me here, it will be easier.”

Things couldn't get any harder. “Where's Mama?”

“She went to work, but Manuela left money for shoes. Some girl named Flora came by last night. She said she'd come by later.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What did she want?”

Grandma fluttered in the kitchen. “Not much; she just said she was your friend and wanted to check on you. I didn't want to say anything about the fight. You can tell her yourself if you want.”

I took another bite of eggs. I wondered if Flora was at home, wherever that was.

“Now, what are those purple shoes?” Grandma was busy with a basket at the counter. She chattered like she didn't need a response.

“I should take my candles to the market because I've seen the bugs here. These candles killed several cockroaches on the porch last night. Jorge says they even keep the mosquitoes away from the stand.”

I couldn't help but laugh at her antics. “Grandma, those candles stink to high heaven.”

A smile cracked through the sadness on my face. It felt like the first fruit you pull from a grapefruit tree in the fall. Hard to wait for and tough to pull—but you're so happy when it finally comes down and you taste the first bite. Sweet, then immediately sour, then sweet again.

“Yes, and that is why they are useful. I plan to earn my keep here in America.”

The heavy load I had been bearing seemed to ease up a bit. “So we really are staying? No more Mexico?”

Grandma looked a bit sad, but she straightened her shoulders with hope. “Perhaps my candles will make us millionaires. Then we can just buy citizenship and visit Mexico whenever we want.”

I had a feeling it wouldn't be like that, and perhaps it was time to develop new hopes. For the first time, the apartment didn't really smell like garbage, perhaps a bit cleaner. I was ready for shoes and clothing that fit. “Grandma, if it were that easy, everyone would be doing it.”

We walked the neighborhood. I felt protected with her by my side. On the way past the thrift shop, we passed the metal church.

Grandma pulled on my hand. “Show me the building.” She had sold five candles and two of my bowls—which she now called dream bowls. It's like she had a secret sense of who would buy in the neighborhood.

I didn't want to go inside. “No, let's wait until later.” I didn't want to have the God conversation again so soon.

Grandma pulled open the door. “Is this the church your Mama tells me about? Perhaps we should go in just for a second?”

The church was having a small service. Usually it was empty during the week, but today clumps of people sat in the pews. A woman was singing. Her voice floated all around the metal building like a gentle wind. We slipped into the back row. Grandma crossed herself before we sat down. My hands were frozen at my sides.

In the front was a coffin—a funeral. Incense permeated the air. I had never really been to a funeral, but once, in Cedula, I peeked into a church when one was going on.

The coffin was shiny and black with silver hinges. It looked like a piece of jewelry. The flowers surrounding it fought with the incense to leave a trace of perfume. When the song was finished, the priest stood over the coffin and sang. “El señor,
tiene misericordia.
”

I anxiously shifted in my seat, awaiting the lightning that would strike me down. How do you tell your overly religious grandmother that you have committed the worst sin of cursing God?

“Shhhh…God will understand you here,”
Grandma whispered. “He always has something to say, whether we are listening or not.”

A black priest sang from behind the altar. He sang first in English, and then in Spanish. He raised his arms, and the congregation repeated his song. “Lord, release my wants. Release my fears, and let me come to You,” he cantered.

Despite my anger, I found myself mouthing the words, in both languages.