The Same Sky (19 page)

I pulled into the parking lot and saw Marion Markson cheerily playing crossing guard. She hugged some students as they approached, stopped others to speak to them seriously, meeting their eyes. She wore a bright orange pantsuit and seemed to laugh easily. “Oh, Lord, Principal Markson’s waiting out front,” said Evian, smiling and shaking her head. “Tell you what, Ms. Conroe,” she added, raising her eyebrows. “They close Chávez, the one I’m most worried about is Principal Markson. That lady is
really
into this school.”

“She is the principal,” I said primly.

“Yeah, we’re lucky,” said Evian. She leaned over and hugged me quickly. “See you tonight!” she said, alighting from the car and jogging toward school. I spotted Sam in a crisp letter jacket, standing by the door. When Evian
reached him, he grinned and put his arm around her shoulder. She turned back and waved to me, then approached Principal Markson, who greeted the couple warmly and shooed them inside. As I drove out of the parking lot, I saw Officer Grupo, leaning against his squad car and sipping a Big Gulp soda. I raised my hand as I drove past and he gave me a thumbs-up.

Chávez looked different in the early morning. It seemed hopeful, a happy place, a refuge. I was glad to be a part of it.

That afternoon, Principal Markson came in for a Sweet Stacy. I handed her the sandwich, and she eyed the plate hungrily. The line behind her was long, but I said, “Principal Markson?”

“Marion, please!” she said.

“I wanted to talk to you … about Evian.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I’m not sure if this is the best place.”

“She’s staying with me,” I said. “I don’t know if …”

Marion’s phone buzzed, and she held up her hand. “Let’s talk another time,” she said. “Are you free Friday night?”

“Uh,” I said. “Yes, actually. Sure. Coffee?”

“Hold on, please,” said Marion into her phone. To me, she said, “I could use a real drink, if you want to know the truth. You know Donn’s Depot on Fifth?”

“Yeah,” I said. It was a dim cantina with a cocktail waitress who could remember your name even if you hadn’t
been in for years. For some reason, the entire place was decorated with Christmas lights year-round.

“Friday night at eight?”

“Sounds great,” I said. And it did sound great. I needed some counsel and I needed a ladies’ night out. I served the man after Marion with a smile.

After Benji and I had cleaned up and closed Conroe’s for the day, I went home and picked up Evian’s things and our dirty clothes, heading to Frank’s Coin Laundry. I’d found a copy of
Mr. Bridge
at a used-book store, and I read it while the washer ran. It was sad to read about someone so fully devoted to his work that he didn’t see his wife, though she was right next to him. I knew there was a companion novel,
Mrs. Bridge
, about how her life had played out alongside his. After transferring the clothes to the dryer, I thought about my mom and dad. Their lives had been impossibly, perfectly entwined. I had always thought this was what I wanted, but when my mom had died, my father was no longer whole.

I brought the laundry home and folded Evian’s things, her tiny underwear and T-shirts, her jeans and miniskirts. I went into Mitchell’s nursery and dismantled the crib, emptied the bureau of baby clothes, gathered the diapers and baby toys from the closet, and put it all in the storage shed in the backyard. In the crib’s place, I put an inflated camping mattress with clean sheets and pillows. I stacked Evian’s things in the bureau, gazing only for a moment at the baby bunny I had painted on its side.

31
 

Carla

I
HAD BEEN JAILED
in the same town where I had lost my brother. He and Ernesto might have climbed a train in the hours I was asleep, but I went searching for them anyway. By the time I reached the plaza in which I had been apprehended, the sun was so white that everything appeared to be covered in a film of sand. The metal tracks were empty, glinting. I hated The Beast, and yet I needed The Beast to reach my mother.

I knew I could not remain in the station. Stumbling down a narrow street, I saw a dark doorway and a sign that said “El Bambi.” I had watched the movie
Bambi
in the window of the PriceSmart electronics store. I am not stupid, but I was lost and tired, and a brothel seemed as good as any place to go.

Inside El Bambi, there was little light. The floor and
the bar were made of concrete, and a dozen white plastic tables were unoccupied. There was a smell of beer, sweat, and fried beef. A jukebox glowed, illuminating a fat woman in a gold dress. She turned toward me and narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here, little girl,” said the woman, who was maybe twenty years old. I could tell she was Honduran, with light skin and hair dyed red and pulled away from her face. The straps of her shoes cut into her feet. I knew about places like this: we had them in Tegu, and some of the girls I’d gone to school with worked inside. You danced in provocative clothing for men who bought you beer or gave you
fichas
, little plastic chips you could trade for money at the end of the night. Usually, you had sex with men for money, too, but some girls claimed they remained virgins. A girl named Patrice told me she could drink thirty beers in one night and still stand up, which was both impressive and very sad. I had tasted a beer once, and never again. It made my mouth feel as if I had ingested a cleaning product: numb and scalded simultaneously.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the
fichera
.

“Go on, go away,” she said, waving me off and turning her attention to the jukebox. She pressed some buttons and the Golden Rooster began to sing, his smooth voice making even his most violent lyrics sound divine. He had been famous in Honduras even before he was gunned down. The woman swayed her hips a bit. “I loved him,” she said wistfully.

“I also loved him,” I said.

She turned to me, breathing out. She wore makeup all
over her face and eyes and lips. “You don’t want to be here, I assure you,” she said. “You’re from Tegu?”

I nodded, flushing that my face gave me away. “I’m trying to get to my mother. In Texas. I lost my brother yesterday.”

“Zetas?”

“No, he’s not dead. He ran away from
la migra
by the train station.”

The woman wobbled, and it occurred to me that she might be on drugs or maybe Resistol. Finally she said mournfully, “I have no one on the other side.”

Despite my circumstances, I felt blessed at this moment, thinking about my mother safe in Austin, Texas. Yearning rose in my throat.

“I know what I’m doing,” the woman said. “I send money to my children, you know. They have a better life because of me.”

“Yes,” I said. I thought of my dresses, my shoes from Old Navy. For a moment I felt confused. But my mother worked at a restaurant that served chicken, I told myself. “Do you serve chicken here?” I asked, my voice low and frightened.

“Are you hungry?” said the woman. I nodded. She went around the corner and called for food. Another
fichera
emerged, carrying a plate with chopped beef and a bowl full of soup. I rushed toward her, my mouth filling with saliva, my worries about my mother momentarily forgotten.

“Okay, little girl,” the second woman said, laughing. “Sit down, sit down!” She was younger than the woman in
the gold dress and wore very short shorts and a T-shirt that was very tight and ended before her stomach began. She placed the food on a table and handed me utensils that seemed clean enough.

Before I ate, I gathered my courage and said, “I do not want to be a prostitute.” I hoped I was not rude, but wanted to be clear. The young
fichera
laughed, her earrings jangling. “Nobody wants to be a prostitute,” she said. “Go ahead, girl, eat.”

The food was hot and filling. I ate more quickly than was polite. When I emptied the soup bowl, the
ficheras
refilled it. “Thank you,” I said when I was done. “Thank you so much. God will bless you both.”

The woman in the gold said, “Now listen. You can waitress here, and there’s no need to do anything you don’t want to do. We’re happy.” She said the last with a steely glint in her eyes. She patted my hand forcefully.

“I need to find my brother,” I said.

“Ah, let her go,” said the woman who had given me food. “Horace isn’t here yet, he’ll never know.”

The older woman frowned, but did not object.

“I will take you to a shelter for migrants,” said the younger woman. “It’s run by a priest. It’s for people like you.”

“Thank you,” I managed, tears of relief making my voice watery. “Thank you very much.”

“Enough,” said the young
fichera
. “I’ll return soon,” she told the woman in gold, but that woman was already back at the jukebox, her eyes dreamy.

Outside, the sunlight was blinding. We took a right
turn, then a left. After a while, we reached a high fence lined with barbwire. “The priest who runs this shelter has been threatened many times,” said the woman. She put her hands on her hips. “I wish you luck,” she said, and added, “You know, your body is a credit card no matter what choices you make.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, but I thought of the men who had attacked me, how the pain had earned me a place on the top of the train, how I was still alive.

“Ah, little girl, you will,” said the woman. She looked at me for a moment, touched my cheek. Then she turned and walked back toward La Bambi.

The building was painted white, the bars on the windows a tomato red. A large mural of Jesus welcomed me. In front of the shelter, a group of men and boys listened to a soccer game on the radio. They looked freshly washed, their hair wet, and I closed my eyes and prayed that this place was safe. A few dogs lay at their feet.

I glanced at the clothing line strung along the side of the building. A dozen shirts and pairs of pants hung limp in the morning sun. And then I saw it, a beacon, a promise of joy: Junior’s blue shirt, held tightly by wooden clothespins.

32
 

Alice

B
Y FOUR THAT
afternoon, I began to fret about Evian. I texted her, asking if she needed to be picked up at school, and she responded:
I’m fine
. I made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, but by seven, she had not returned. I ate alone in front of the television, watching a Canadian couple search for an apartment in Beijing. One apartment had pool access, but the bathroom was very small. The next, in a gated community near the husband’s new job, had a huge kitchen and room for parties, but it was kind of isolated and had a garden neither husband nor wife wanted to maintain. The wife was not the gardening type, she said, smiling nervously. The husband nodded wryly at her admission. He was the business type, it was clear, but what type
was
the wife? What was she going to do all day in
Beijing? The couple had just had a “dream wedding” in Toronto.

I refilled my plate during the commercial break.

The last apartment was located near restaurants and coffee shops. It was small, with a weird contraption that looked like a metal drawer but was used to “make dried vegetables and fruits.” The couple appeared unimpressed. The wife noted that she didn’t really cook, and again the husband nodded by her side. “I really like the balcony!” the woman yelled as she took in the busy streets below the third apartment. The husband said it was pretty loud.

I was worried for the couple from Canada. None of these apartments would work, it was clear. The problem was not Beijing. I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Bridge. I thought about me and Jake.

The phone rang during the next commercial break. It was Jake, back in Austin, calling from Conroe’s. “Hey!” I answered, my voice false and wrong.

“How did everything go today?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m just sitting here eating spaghetti. Want to join me?”

“Lainey wants to watch prep,” said Jake. “She wants to follow the whole process.”

“Oh,” I said, imagining Lainey in a lawn chair next to Jake, how romantic the flickering light would be on her smooth visage. “That sounds really fun,” I said. “I can come, too.”