Illegal (6 page)

Mama pulled the suitcase into the room and sniffed at the beds. Just as I thought she was about to complain, she collapsed onto a naked bed.

I flopped into the hard-back chair, but I felt the need to scrub. I wanted to erase the previous occupants. Grandma would have a complete heart attack if she knew we were staying in this filthy place.

Dim light spilled into the room from a dirty window. Mama looked older as she closed her eyes to rest. I felt drained myself and my head throbbed.

Something had changed me in the back of the truck. How many minutes had passed since I had left my bed in Cedula? Instead of the faint smell of mangoes, I could hear noisy trucks and smell hot garbage. I thought Texas would be a beautiful place; instead, it looked very much like Matamoras. Dirty. Smelly.

I watched a man pushing a cart full of soda cans. He had a long beard, and he was talking to himself. From across the street, he smelled like our apartment. Foul.

I let Mama sleep for a few hours while I walked around. Our street was named Quitman. On the next corner was a large plain building surrounded by a fence. I had never seen letters put together in that way. I wondered if “school” meant
escuela
.

Bright-colored playground equipment littered the yard. The windows hid under brown paper. Hope filled my chest. Papa always promised me I could go to school when we came to America. Maybe this was another sign. Why would God put a school so close to our new home if he didn't want me to go?

We were now in the future. The place where things could happen.

I tried to read every word I could see. I rolled them around my mouth like candy. Wherever I looked,
there were words. Some I could understand; others I couldn't.

A neon sign blinked and flashed one block ahead. I could hear the loud music and see cars turning into the parking lot. As we approached, I could hear announcements in Spanish about a special in the bakery.
¡Bollios,
ten
para un
dollar! He mixed English and Spanish. I understood the Spanglish.

The cars in the parking lot looked as different as birds on a fence. Some were new and shiny. Some trucks had spinning hubcap wheels and writing on their rear windows. Children ran around chattering in Spanish. They ignored a car pulling out that screeched to a halt, almost hitting them. Their mother pushed a cart full of groceries. “
¡Niños! ¡Cuidado!”

I missed the open market in Cedula where I knew the name of the man who roasted corn. The sweet smell of the smoke mingling with spices and the odor of older cars passing around the village. The smell of our fruit and Grandma's candles.

I shook off the homesick feeling and concentrated. Papa. We were here to find Papa. I couldn't tell who was Mexican and who was American. I wondered if we looked like we fit in.

As I walked into the produce section, I smelled mangoes and almost fainted. My stomach flipped over. Bile crept into my mouth.

I thought about Grandma. She would have loved to sell our grapefruit to this market. There was more food here in one section than we had in our entire market in Cedula. This was like her fruit fairy tale—magnified.

My strength returned as I walked toward the side of the store where a small office was labeled
CAMBIO
.

I went back to our apartment and woke Mama. “You have to see the neighborhood! A school and a market—with a bank inside.” She followed me numbly down Quitman Street.

An older man behind the desk came and explained the rules for exchanging money. He wasn't as nice as Hector and was as ugly as sin, with long nose hair.

“There's a fee. Do you understand how to use American money? There are new coins, and bills mean different things.”

I missed my friend and his woolen tie. I opened the wallet. “I understand.” American money looked smaller than Mexican pesos.

“My lucky Nora,” Mama said.

“Your exchange will equal nine hundred U.S. dollars.”

The money in America felt like a lot less. The stack was definitely smaller. I think we had more money in Mexico. Now I truly missed Hector.

“Is this all? Shouldn't we have more?” I challenged.

He raised his eyebrows so that even more of the hair from his nose showed. “I didn't cheat you. I wouldn't steal from poor people.”

I didn't know we were poor. I felt like the beggar outside of the bus depot.

Mama slanted forward and whispered to the clerk. “I also need to get a job.”

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I can arrange to have someone meet you outside tomorrow. She does good fake papers.”

Her words shrank. “How much?” asked Mama.

“How much for what?” I asked, even louder.

“Only fifty dollars,” he said, as if it was a bargain.

I didn't know what they were talking about.

Mama glowered. “Work papers.”

“Ladies, talk about this outside.” The clerk placed a
CERRADO
sign on the counter and went back to his desk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large pink cake being decorated in the bakery and the smell of buttercream floated toward me.

Behind the glass, a woman in white twirled the
layers in different directions. First a bright fuchsia trim, then a softer pink flower. On the fifth layer, she made soft swirls that looked like confetti and topped it with a sparkly crown.

I closed my eyes to seal in the moment. Pictures formed in my mind. The music in the market morphed into the band playing at my party. Grandma would be at the head table, near this cake, and Papa would be next to her. I would be wearing white gloves.

Find him.

The voice had returned to remind me to stop being selfish and continue looking.

I couldn't get the clerk's words out of my head.
I wouldn't steal from poor people.
He didn't know anything about us. If Papa had been there, he would have yelled at him. Who is he to judge me? My emotions felt mixed up, like I was a Coke bottle shaken too hard, ready to explode on the first unsuspecting buyer.

Grandma taught me,
When something is wrong, clean until it's better
. “It smells like something
ha muerto
,” I said, looking under the counter of our apartment. A dead rat lay in the corner, half rotten, melting.

I didn't even have the energy to scream. I stuck my hand into the plastic bag, scooped up the decaying creature, carried it to the large trash bin, and flung the tiny body away. A shiver ran down my spine, and suddenly tears sprung from my eyes. I couldn't stop shaking or crying. I would have to fight harder to make this work.

“Stop. Stop,” I gasped to myself. But it all hit me. We had left. I was standing by a Dumpster. I didn't know where my father was. I didn't know anything. I was living in a place with rats, and I had almost died.

I covered my face and rubbed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, but I just felt so lost. I reached inward for a jagged deep breath and wiped my eyes and nose across my arm. I looked upward, trying to dry the tears out of my eyes in the hot sun.

Back inside, I scrubbed my hands and arms with purple
Fabuloso
. I even poured a little on the spot where I found the dead rat.

“I'm going out to the park,” I called to Mama. She raised her head from the bed and nodded sleepily.

The shade loomed heavy in parts of the park, so that the grass had stopped growing. The crazy man pushed his cart in the opposite direction we had
seen him go this morning, like he was returning from a long day of work.

I banished the dark thoughts from my head. It was only our first day, and I couldn't let my heart trick me into sadness. I observed a few houses with bars on the windows, but others had neat, green lawns and golden-orange marigolds lining the path.

In the park, I saw a father pushing a little girl on a swing. Her head tilted back as she squealed for him to push higher. I stared at them just long enough to realize that I couldn't recall the exact shape of my father's face. I only felt an intense longing and silent heartbreak.

A car passed by playing loud music. I felt like I was vibrating. Then it faded away, and the soft hum of the freeway danced in the streets.

I walked past a large statue of a cowboy on a bucking horse. A plaque had lots of words in English on it. The white cowboy had one hand flung in the air. The brown horse had an angry look and the cowboy tensed with concentration to stay in the saddle.

I decided I would be like him. I would hang on. I would tame my fear.

Up ahead, I saw splashing inside a gated area.
The water glowed blue like a clear sky, and kids were jumping and giggling. I could feel the droplets of water floating in the air as I stood watching. I could be one of those girls. Happy, with friends and clothes—with a complete family waiting at home.

In the morning, we went back to the market and met the woman. She snapped her fingers as if we were dogs lingering next to a bush. “Hurry up.”

“
Señora
, will these papers get me a job?” asked Mama.

“Where in Mexico are you from?” I asked.

“I'm
not
Mexican,” the woman said, as if it were an insult. “I'm Colombian.” Her Spanish was very fancy. She drawled out her words with a flamboyant
th
sound.

I didn't know where that was exactly, except they had great soap operas that were funny. Was Colombia south of Mexico? All I really knew was that Texas was north of Mexico. The world was much bigger than I had thought. But these are things I would know if I had gone to school.

She spoke so fast I could barely understand her Spanish. “Okay. We will take your picture and make several documents with a Social Security number.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mama.

“You need a number to get a job and an ID,” she said.

“I'll be needing papers also, so slow down,” I said firmly.

This lady was acting as if she was doing
us
a favor. Her lipstick stained her teeth. It looked like she had blood in her mouth. “Never show these to the police or to someone you think really wants to see
real
papers. I don't give refunds. These papers are fakes, nothing more. To be honest, most people don't even care.”

“The police don't care?” I asked.

“The police—they don't care about you or your problems. Just like me.”

In Mexico, you also had to be careful of the police.
But who would protect us if something bad happened? Come to think of it, no one had come to help us as we fought to get off the truck. This is why we really had to find Papa—he was our protector.

Mama whined. “I'm just trying to find my husband.”

The woman sneered at Mama with disdain. “Look, I just make the papers. You should have thought about that before you swam the river.”

“We came on a truck,” I said.

“Aren't you a fancy girl?” she said nastily to me, then turned to Mama. “Most people in this neighborhood don't care if you are legal or not. Just ask around for work.”

“B-but…,” stammered Mama.

“And men are worthless. He's probably with a new girlfriend up here.”

“Excuse me, aren't we paying you?” I challenged. “My papa wouldn't do that.”

The woman stared at me venomously. “Do you want the papers or not?”

“We're not stupid,” I shot back. “You don't have to treat us like this.” Why did we need papers if no one cared if we were legal or not?

She began folding up the papers and putting them in her purse. “I don't need this. You're still wet from
the river. Everyone will know you just came over, and it isn't my problem that you are so ignorant.”

Mama reached out to her arm, pleading. “No, we need them. Please.”

I pulled her back. “We don't have to beg.”

She folded our money and put it into her bra.

I leaned forward as a warning that she wouldn't be leaving with our money. “I suggest you get us those papers.” Her eyes moved from my face first. I had won. I fought the truck driver, and I wasn't afraid to fight her, either.

She clenched her jaw but pulled out the papers.

“Just take our pictures and we can be finished,” I hissed at her.

“Wetbacks,”
she muttered under her breath, as if we were low class.

I let it go, because some people have to have the last word. Papa used to tell me,
Know when the fight is finished.

Outside, the crazy man parked himself on the corner. His sun-scarred face pointed into the traffic. I wondered when he stopped struggling and began sitting.

No matter what happened, I would always fight.

“Papers. Cook. Clean?” It was hard to sleep with Mama mumbling all night long.

I elbowed her, and she turned over for the millionth time. We would never get any sleep if she kept this up. I would have slept on the floor, but I was afraid the cockroaches would climb into my hair. What I needed was Grandma's stink candle. Maybe it could scare away the huge flying bugs. But I had wasted it on the truck driver.

When the sun rose, I had to shake Mama awake. “It's time.”

She rubbed her red puffy eyes. “
¿Qué?
What?”

I stared out the window and noticed the girl from the restaurant trying to get out of a blue car. She shook her head no, and then the driver slapped her. She fell to the ground. I noticed a large tattoo of a red star on his bulging arm with 713 underneath.

He got out of the car and as he was about to kick her, a scream escaped my lips. “No!”

They both looked in our direction. Fear coated the girl's face as she scrambled to her feet. The hulking boy moved in our direction, but the skinny girl held up her hands in surrender and picked up the green backpack. I saw a trickle of blood running down her nose.

Mama pulled me in the opposite direction. “It's not our business,” she said quietly.

I turned away. But I felt even more horrible.

I needed a secret manual of how to make it work in Texas. It felt like everything was upside down and backward, but someone had to lead our way to Papa.

The furniture store appeared interesting. There was so much stuff, we could barely find the owner. Sofas smelled like the old men who played cards in the evening in Cedula. Papa and I would watch them and laugh as they told jokes and smoked. Grandma used to say they smelled like dust and farts. Either
way, my heart ached as much as my feet.

The bald owner pointed at me. “We'll take you. But your sister, no.”

Mama stammered, “I'm her mother.”

“Do you speak English?” he asked me in Spanish.

“I understand a lot. We could learn together,” I suggested.

The man rubbed his head, and then his chin. “Try back next week.”

He ran a chubby finger up my arm. “Unless you would like to do something today? Do you need some cash?”

A shudder shook my body. The taste of lumpy sour milk filled my mouth. He didn't want a worker for the store, and I wasn't selling what he wanted to buy. Hopefully I would never have to resort to what he wanted.

This went on for days. We asked everyone about Papa. We opened every door to every business we could find.

No work. No Papa. No nothing.

To keep my legs moving down the sidewalk, I thought about the times Grandma would wash my hair before Mass.

“Grandma, not so hard. I'm not that dirty.” My hair
was getting long. I wanted to cut it, but Grandma thought I looked prettier with braids. Besides, I could do much better with a
quince
crown if I had long hair to weave through it.

“You must be clean for Mass tomorrow,” said Grandma.

Grandma made me promise to go to confession. She's big on confession—sin and redemption. She would have made a good nun.

I wonder how many prayers I'll have to say to make this situation better? Or was I wasting my breath?

Hunger tore me away from my thoughts. The aroma of food floated from a lime green metal building. The woman working inside wore a tank top. Her hair was in a ponytail, and swingy silver earrings danced along with the rhythm while she cut vegetables. I pulled Mama in her direction.

I had a good feeling about her. “We're looking for work.”

Her face was kind. “My husband needs someone for our stand by the pool.” She looked at us the way you look at a lost dog. I didn't really like pity, but my feet hurt so much. I prayed silently for a miracle. Please God, no more walking.

“I'm Manuela. My husband and I have been running the stands here for eight years,” she said, running a wet rag over the counter. “I haven't seen you around.”

“We just moved here,” I said quickly.

Then, with a cock of her eyebrow she asked, “Do you have papers?”

Mama dug into her purse and thrust them into the air. “Yes. We have papers.” It sounded so rehearsed.

I came to the stand and looked up at the woman. She reached out her hand to me. The nails were short. She wore a silver ring on her middle finger that had red stones in it.

Her liquid eyes grew as she looked at me. Suddenly I felt shy and nervous.

I grasped her hand lightly. “You can trust us. We can work really hard. I'm Nora; this is my mother, Aurora.” My words felt new and grown-up.

“Which school are you going to in the fall? Have you ever had a job?”

“No…I mean yes. I worked in our orchard, and then I sold the fruit at the market.”

Around Manuela's neck hung a thin gold chain and locket. She touched it with her fingers. “Let me call my husband.”

Mama held the papers to her chest. A broad grin
gripped her face. I stood tall and proud. Maybe this was our miracle.

Manuela continued to nod as a smile spread across her face. Her earrings danced and twinkled in the rays of sunshine. “Yes, I know. Tessa would have been her age…No, I'm not getting attached. They seem like a nice pair…just meet them and you'll see. She has eyes just like
Abuela
,” whispered Manuela into the phone.

I tried to look like I wasn't listening, but I wanted to know the details. Who was Tessa?

“Do you know where Quitman Park is? That's where our other stand is located. My husband and I work both stands, but we want to open a restaurant. If you work with him, he'll have time to get other things done. Can you go and see him?”

“No problem,” I said. “You won't be sorry!”

I wished I would have saved myself all of the walking and just looked in the park first for work.