The Same Sky (14 page)

“Your friends are here?” I asked him.

“My friends are everywhere,” he said proudly. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

This was the appeal of the gangs—if you obeyed them, they were your family. It is easy to think that people like Ernesto joined gangs to get drugs or food, but in my experience, it was for love.

After about an hour, the train approached, belching smoke. Its brakes shrieked so loud it felt as if someone was plunging a pencil into my ears. “Go!” shouted Ernesto. Joining the flood of people, Junior and I rushed toward the train. It did not stop, just slowed as it passed through Arriaga, and we ran alongside, trying to get the courage to jump. Ernesto had told us that we should reach for a ladder toward the front of a car, so that if we missed and our feet fell on the rails, we would have an instant to lift them before the wheels ate them up or dragged us underneath.

As I neared the train, it shot hot sparks at me, burning my skin. The lowest ladder rail was above my waist. Ernesto leapt, and I understood this was my chance.

Adrenaline ignited my arms; I grabbed the ladder with all my strength, pulling up, reaching for the higher rung,
my feet flailing desperately. But then I found the bar, and I was aboard.

Below me, Junior ran alongside the train. “Come on!” I yelled, clinging to the ladder. He grasped for and then caught the bottom rung of a boxcar behind me.

“Help me!” he said. He was sobbing, and the air rushing underneath the train began to pull his legs under.

“Don’t let go!” yelled a man.

“Heave yourself up, boy!” screamed another.

“Help me!” cried my brother. “Please, God, help me!” A group of strangers scrambled toward Junior. They reached down, risking their own lives, and wrenched him slowly aboard. He collapsed, and I climbed the boxcar I had boarded. Our journey on The Beast had begun.

22
 

Alice

“Y
OU JUST LET
yourself into the trailer?” said Jake.

“It was unlocked,” I said.

He turned to me, his features dark with anger. I’d thought the story was morbidly funny, but Jake seemed angry. “Well, Evian asked me to check on her mom,” I said. “She needed me. I just … I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“You thought it was the right thing to do?” asked Jake. “To drive over to a strange neighborhood and wander into someone else’s house?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “And it’s not really a
strange
neighborhood as much as a
menacing
one.”

Jake shook his head. He was having none of my feeble jokes. “So was the mom there?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “No one was there. It was really dirty, Jake. It was sad.”

“Poor girl,” said Jake. It was early evening as we walked with Pete along Lady Bird Lake. Pete was thrilled about every single item we encountered, sniffing babies in strollers, weedy plants, and piles of shit without discrimination. I reached for Jake’s hand, but his arms were folded over his chest.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

Jake stopped abruptly, causing hikers and bikers to swerve around him. He turned to me. “Alice,” he said, “I’m worried about you.”

“Oh, really?” I said. An old defiance rose in me, the same emotion I’d felt when my high school counselor had tried to pry into my feelings about my mom’s death and when my dad had brought home a nanny to take care of Jane. “I’m fine,” I said, as I’d said when I canceled sessions with the counselor, and when I’d convinced my father to let the nanny go. “I am,” I told Jake. “Truly.”

“Look, we’re both struggling,” said Jake. I breathed evenly, waiting for him to stop talking. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I’m having a hard time, too. But I’m afraid that you’re … misplacing your love. You know? You want someone to take care of, but this might not be the right person.”

“Oh?” I said. “Then who
is
the right person?”

My husband stood before me, opened his arms. If I had looked at his face, maybe I would have understood. Instead, I stared at the lake. It shimmered in the evening
light, moving slowly, seemingly untroubled by the dozens of pleasure boats it buoyed.

Later that night, my phone rang while we were watching
House Hunters International
.

I glanced at the Caller ID. “It’s Evian,” I said.

Jake shrugged, annoyed. I didn’t answer the phone. The couple on the television looked at a modern Croatian house on the outskirts of town and a historic one near a bustling plaza. Neither house had enough closet space. Jake said, “Go on, listen to the message.”

I picked up my phone. There was no message. The couple on the television looked at a third house, situated on a hilltop with a fabulous view and totally enough closet space but kind of far away from restaurants.

I held my phone like a grenade. I bit my lip. After the commercial break, the couple chose the hilltop home. They were well on their way to a bright future in their new home, Zagreb! Three months later, the couple had furnished the living room and filled the closets. They chopped vegetables side by side and toasted their fabulous view. The credits rolled.

“I don’t know why I love that show, but I love that show,” I said.

“I prefer
Pawn Stars
,” said Jake.

“I know,” I said.

Jake stood and stretched. “I’m going to hit the hay,” he said. “The
Bon Appétit
reporter arrives tomorrow.” I smiled. A profile in
Bon Appétit
was thrilling.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said.

“You’re in the story, too,” said Jake.

“Really?” I said.

“I am pretty happy,” said Jake. “I mean, holy shit,
Bon Appétit
!”

“I know,” I said. Jake kissed my forehead and headed into the bedroom. I tried to read an old
New Yorker
but couldn’t seem to focus. I cared about jalapeño peppers, but not enough to read a ten-page treatise. I read that issue’s short story, “Robbers and Lightning,” which was translated from Korean and left me confused. I went out back, but there were no lights on at Beau and Camilla’s. I felt sorry about Evian, not sure if I should call her back or not. Finally I sent a text:
Evian, I saw you called. Hope all is well?

A few seconds later, she wrote:
I’m OK. Thanks for caring haha
.

I wondered what “haha” meant in this situation. I was still new to text messaging, baffled by winky emoticons and weird phonetic spellings of sounds. Did “haha” mean she was feeling happy, or was she commenting ironically on the fact that I wasn’t actually caring enough? Was she saying,
Thanks for caring
, then adding a giggle, or was she saying,
Thanks for “caring,”
and adding a derisive snort?

Jake was right: I wanted to love someone, but Evian wasn’t the one I should love. I was sorry for her, but couldn’t figure out how I fit into this messy mosaic. I went outside, lay on the lawn, and watched an enormous number of bugs swarming around a streetlamp. A siren wailed. I went back inside and finished reading the article about jalapeños.

23
 

Carla

E
RNESTO FOUND US
huddled on the boxcar and explained that we should move to a safer location. Boxcars are tall, he said, so we could see
la migra
coming, but they offered little to hold on to. As the train lurched from side to side, gaining speed, the cars sometimes smashed into each other, jarring my head back on my neck. I could see why we needed another perch. People cowered under cars, on ledges only a foot wide, between the axles, on top of round compressors. “Inside the boxcar seems smart,” said Ernesto, “but if they close the door, you die of heat. I’ve seen it.”

Weak and very tired, we followed Ernesto to the top of a hopper, clutching the thin bar along the edge as tightly as we were able with our numb fingers.

The train was moving quickly now. I shouted with fear
and excitement, crammed next to men who smelled of sweat, looking out over a sea of treetops. We were on our way! Then, as quickly as the wave of exhilaration had come, it dissipated, leaving me limp. Still, I clasped the rail with one hand and the waistband of my brother’s pants with the other. I knew what would happen if I weakened my hold.

As the train rumbled through the night, some played cards and some talked. Some smoked, and some watched the wide sky. If you slept, you put yourself at risk. Ernesto showed us how to attach our belts to the edge so we would not fall. Through the hour, we rode, tree branches whistling overhead. We watched for police (they approached at many stations, raiding the trains), and we watched for gangs, who climbed aboard to rob us. The wind reached underneath my hair to touch my scalp. Junior fell asleep; I kept my hand on him.

I was half asleep when I heard the shouting. I sat up in the dark to see a group of robbers in hooded sweatshirts, showing guns. They yelled, “Give us money! Give us everything!” I heard an awful cry and saw a man fall, pushed off the top of the train. He hit the ground with his hands at his temples. The train kept moving.

I had no money; I bent down, hoping not to be seen. I felt Ernesto’s body on one side of me, immobile. When I cut my eyes to his face, his gaze locked with mine. I could see he was scared. I clasped my brother’s pants tightly.

The robbers came closer. I heard the sound of metal hitting bone as they slammed a gun into a man’s head. I heard sobbing. And then a robber’s legs were in front of
me, filthy denim an inch from my nose. A hand grabbed my chin and lifted my face heavenward. I stared into the face of an evil man. His eyes were deep gray, ice: an animal’s eyes. “Beautiful,” he said. I tried to breathe slowly, quietly. Tears ran down my cheeks.

“Lie down,” the man said. I shook my head, pulled it from his grasp. He tore some of my hair from my scalp; his grip was that tight.

“Please,” I managed.

He pushed me flat and climbed on top of me. I sobbed, and he hit me with his fist, then with his gun. I tasted blood. I could not stop shuddering.

I was surrounded by people. A hundred men, some women, my brother, Ernesto. No one did anything as the man pulled my pants down. No one intervened—not even God—as the man freed himself and entered me, tearing a wound. I bit deep into the meat of my tongue. He raped me. When he was finished, he stood up and spit in my face, calling me a whore. He fired his gun into the sky, and when the train slowed, he jumped off and ran away.

No one said anything as the train rushed forward. Not even my brother touched me.

In this way, I understood I was alone.

24
 

Alice

V
ISITING LOCKHART
—
BBQ CAPITAL
of Texas, Jake’s hometown, and site of our over-the-top wedding—was awkward under normal conditions, though I’d finally adjusted to the weird dynamics of holiday gatherings. But barreling into town with a
Bon Appétit
writer riding shotgun in my Bronco (Jake drove; Pete and I were crammed in the back) made my stomach ache. The taco I’d eaten for breakfast felt like a hot balloon in my gut.