Border Crossings: A Catherine James Thriller (2 page)

Taylor slumped into the couch with her backpack and exhaled deeply.  Kendra heard her from the kitchen and poked her head out.  Just as she figured, Taylor looked whipped.

“Test not go so well?”

She blew her platinum blond bangs out of her emerald-esque eyes.  “He asked about shit we never talked about in class.  I have my notebook right here,” she explained, as she unzipped her backpack and pulled out a large yellow binder, waving it as though it were the final rule of law on the matter.  “Half the stuff he was asking about was stuff he specifically skipped.  That’s just such crap.”

“Are you going to say anything?”  Kendra knew Taylor was the type to say something.

“Oh, I asked him after the test.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said it was all out of the outline and just because he hadn't talked about it in class didn’t mean it wouldn’t be on the test.”

Kendra went back into the kitchen and unscrewed the zinfandel.  They’d given up buying the stuff with a cork in it.  By this point in their lives of financially distressed educational co-habitation, they didn’t give a damn whether the wine was corked, screwed, or came out of a plastic baggy in a cardboard box for that matter.  She brought Taylor a tall glass and said with as much empathy as she could muster, “Yeah, they’re dicks like that sometimes.”

Taylor took the wine and leaned back in defeat, “I bombed it.”

“Oh, you always think you bombed it and you always end up with an A or B, so stop stressing.”

“No, I really think I bombed it.  I literally don’t remember seeing half that stuff.  I mean, I read it . . . some of it, at least . . . but Jesus!  Who remembers the vague stuff from some obscure chapter that he never even mentioned in class.  I went looking for one question afterward and it came from a footnote  . . . a freaking footnote . . . on some chapter from like the third week.  Who’s going to remember that?”

“Nobody,” said Kendra.  “That’s the point.  They always try to throw that stuff in there that nobody ever saw so it’s not too easy.  They can’t have everyone acing their tests or they’ll get canned for being soft.  So don’t worry about it.  I guarantee you most of the class definitely didn’t read the assignments and if he didn’t talk about it they probably never saw it, unlike you who at least maybe saw it before, but don’t remember it all now.”  She lifted her own glass.  “Here.  Here’s to your last midterm and the start of our kick ass spring break.  No more worrying about tests, no more cramming until two in the morning, and no more stressing about stuff that’s already behind us.  It’s time to kick back, relax, and enjoy!”

She wasn’t feeling quite so Zen, but Taylor toasted nonetheless.

An hour and two glasses of wine later brought a knock on the door, much to Kendra’s relief as she was failing miserably at getting Taylor to stop worrying about midterms and start worrying about having fun.

Jamie burst into their apartment like a shining beacon of college debauchery.  She had sandy-blond hair, double D’s she regularly referred to as “her girls”, and wore a pair of mini shorts which barely made it over an ample, yet shapely, rear end.  “Spring break, bitches!  Who’s ready for Mexico!?”  She swept through their apartment like a whirlwind, quickly finding the
vino
and pouring herself a tall glass in which she tossed a few ice cubes and a spritz of soda from a two liter in the fridge.  Then she gracefully slid between Taylor and Kendra on the couch, shifting her rear side to side to make room between them.  “Cancuuuun,” she said slowly, “Doesn’t it just sound sexy?  But that’s tomorrow, ladies.  So the real question tonight is . . . who’s up for Sixth Street!?  I’m ready to get shit-faced.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, her smile a challenge to all in its presence to dare mope while in the light of its glory.  Taylor forgot about her test and smiled.  Spring break officially
had begun.

With one foot in front of the other she sped her way to an hour of freedom.  The beat of
Motorcycle
’s “As the Rush Comes
”
carried her like a drug, bass thumping in her eardrums like the rhythm man’s drum on ships of old.

It filled her, moved her, letting her push always for more.  The heat and her exhaustion were saying stop and rest, but the music said go, go, go!  And, the music almost always won.  It was eighty-five and climbing and she had a good sweat going, just like she liked it.  She put her thumb down and tracked the mp3 player to another motivator, Armin Van Buuren.  She passed him on the left, a middle-aged man of average fitness, thoroughly sweat-drenched in the humidity.  He was momentarily distracted from his jog by the black haired woman’s figure as she passed.  She had a distracting type of figure.  Shapely legs, not overly long, but well proportioned and toned with thick thighs like the seasoned runner she was, stemming from a thin waist and a rear end that could make any pair of jeans look good.  Like any courageous, red-blooded, recently divorced and trying to get in shape for the ladies kind of man, he pepped up his step.

His mark was lost in the sounds of the music and the feel of the trail beneath her running shoes and did not notice him until he was almost even with her.  She glanced over to see him running powerfully next to her, his chest high, an attempt at a half-smile through his deep breaths when he saw her blue eyes glimpse at him by her side.  They continued on another quarter mile or so before she realized he was making a supreme effort to keep pace with her.  She glanced one more time just long enough to catch a fading tan line on his ring finger. 
Ahhh,
she thought,
I got ya, tiger.

There was only a month left before the Dallas Big D marathon and if there was one thing she wasn’t going to have, it was a pickup artist distracting her from her training.  It was hard enough to get time in during lunch for a run these days.  She flicked the mp3 to a secret weapon of hers reserved usually for end kicks, and cranked it.

The small smile crept in first, accompanied by adrenaline and power as though she were in tune with the player.  Her body responded with the volume, jetting her off to a stunned and somewhat dismayed would be suitor who realized quickly he was out of his league in more ways than one.  Seeing now the show would be for naught, he slowed to a crawl and dropped his hands upon his knees, the sweat pouring from him as he inhaled deeply.  He couldn’t help but wonder what song the mystery woman just selected.  But alas, he’d never know.  Catherine James was gone, baby, gone, nodding her head to the music as the beat played on.

Yesenia sat on a bus with no air conditioning and filled to capacity.  The heat pressed in around her, but she didn’t mind.  There was a pleasant smell of food,
churros
and
tamales
others had brought for the trip.  Ortiz had arranged the trip for her, for a price, of course, and like everyone else on the bus she was headed north.  The windows were down and Yesenia watched the Mexican desert pass her by, wondering what new adventures she’d have.  It would be tough, she knew, but the optimistic spirit of her fellow passengers energized her and filled her with confidence.

“Do you know Fernando Ortiz?”  She asked an older woman next to her in an attempt to strike up a conversation.

“Who?  Fernando Ortiz?  No,
hija
, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, okay.  I didn’t think you would.  He’s back in Mexico City.  He’s the man who planned my trip for me and found me a job over the border.”

“Oh,” said the woman, “How nice.  My son lives in Texas.  I finally got my papers to go and visit him and his family.  They just had a baby.”

“Oh,” said Yesenia.  “That sounds nice, too.”

“Did you say Fernando Ortiz?” asked a voice behind her.  Yesenia turned in her seat to face a girl about her age, maybe a little younger, with coffee colored eyes and a happy, rounded face.

“Yes.  Are you going to work for his friend, too?” Yesenia asked.

“Yup,” said the girl.  “I’m Silvia,” she told her, “Silvia Arce.”

“Yesenia Flores,” she responded, and they both touched hands.

“It’s good you two girls already have jobs lined up,” said the woman next to Yesenia.  “They’re so hard to come by.  Where are you going to be working?”

“I don’t know yet.  It’s just temporary work at first,” said Yesenia.

“Just enough to get by until we find other jobs,” agreed Silvia.

“Well, be careful,” said the woman.  “Pretty girls like you should watch out for each other if you’re going to be working together.  You’re awfully young to be on your own.”

“Tell that to my stepfather,” said Silvia.  “To hear him tell it, I’m an old woman who should have been gone ages ago.”

“She’s right, though,” said Yesenia.  “We should talk and get to know each other a little.
  It’d be nice to already know someone before we get there.”

Both agreed.  Yesenia and Silvia talked so much on the rest of the way that eventually the woman sitting next to her got slightly annoyed and asked Silvia if she’d like to switch seats.  So the girls sat by each other and shared their stories all the way to the border.  Silvia had just turned 18 and had left home because her mother had remarried to a man who didn’t want Silvia around.  She had lost contact with her real father years ago.  Her mother had told her she was an adult now and needed to find her own way in life, maybe go north.  She had tried telling Si
lvia it had nothing to do with her new husband, but Silvia knew better.  So, heeding her mother’s last bit of advice on what direction she should take, she found herself here.

Yesenia’s story was similar.  Her father had been a brick maker in a small village called Santa Rosanna where she’d grown up as a child
, but he had died the year before from a heat stroke.  Her mother had passed two years before that from breast cancer.  She’d been living with her sister’s family in Mexico City for the last year, but it was two married couples, three children, and Yesenia all sharing a three-bedroom apartment.  Now 19, Yesenia had decided it was time to leave the city.  She wanted more out of life.  She’d found a flier that advertised work up north and made a call.  The man didn’t have anything for her, but he knew someone who might, who turned out to be
señor
Ortiz, a well-dressed, grandfatherly type of gentleman she met shortly thereafter.  Against her sister’s concerns and warnings, Yesenia had agreed to pay him two thousand dollars out of the wages she’d earn once across the border and now the adventure had begun.

The girls talked for hours and eventually Yesenia found herself nodding off.  Sometime later the older woman who was now behind them was tapping her on the shoulder.  “We’re nearly there,” she whispered, “if you want to get your things ready.”

They reached Reynosa just after 10:00 P.M.  There, Yesenia and Silvia were both met by a woman who said she worked for Ortiz, and that they should come with her.  They said their goodbyes to the woman on the bus and went with the new one.  She drove them to a house in a beat up truck and told them not to get too comfortable, because they could leave at any moment.  She had a cell phone with her and told them they were waiting for a phone call.  As soon as she got it, they were going to leave.  “I hope you slept on the bus,” she told them, “because you’re going to have to walk for a little while, then cross the river.”

The two girls had barely sat down when the woman’s phone rang.  The person on the other end did most of the talking.  All the woman said was, “
Si, si, entiendo, bueno,
” and then hung up.  “Let’s go,” she said.

They got back in the truck and drove for about 10 minutes before stopping on the side of the road.  There, others were also apparently preparing to take the walk to the river.  “You’ll go with them,” said the woman in a whisper to the girls.  “There’s a truck on the other side and you two get on with everyone else.  Ortiz has already arranged this, but don’t talk about where you’re going to anyone and don’t mention his name.  You don’t want any trouble if someone else gets caught and starts dropping names.”  Yesenia and Silvia recognized a few people from the bus they had arrived on, but there were many other new faces.  All told, there were between sixty and seventy people, Yesenia guessed.  Finally, a man told them all to follow him, and they started walking.

They reached the Rio Bravo River, or Rio Grande as it was called on the U.S. side, in the middle of the night.  It was a desolate area with no buildings, nothing but the dirt, brush, and the river, with the exception of a tiny red dot that periodically appeared before them in the distance.  There by the river was an old Toyota T100 pickup, a 4x4 with its bed piled high with cargo under a tarp.  As the crowd of people approached they were met by two men who wore jeans and boots.  One had a cowboy hat and held a rifle; the other had a large knife attached to his belt.  He also had a small laser pointer, which he put in his pocket.

“Line up here,” said the one with the knife on his belt.  All complied.  The man with the rifle said nothing, but he glared at the lot.  “Across this river is the States,” said the man with the knife again.  “There is a truck waiting in McAllen that will transport you north to Houston.”  He walked to the back of the pickup truck, which had a large cargo covered in black tarp.  “There are some very important things to remember.  No talking.  No unnecessary noise of any kind.  No smoking.  The border patrol can see a cigarette from miles away.  And once you cross the river, if you see headlights or people with flashlights start coming towards you, you run!  If you get caught, you don’t say a damn word about the rest of us.  You keep your mouth shut or there’ll be trouble waiting for you when they send you back.”  He pulled the tarp back and revealed some rubber inner tubes and a load of bundles, all wrapped tightly in black plastic like square blocks, each about the size of a suitcase.  “Those of you who can’t swim will use the inner tubes.”  He pulled one of the big square bundles from the back of the truck and said, “The rest of you will cross the river with one of these,” said the man.

One of the women protested, “But what of our things?  We can’t leave our own things behind, but we can’t carry our things and those as well.”

“These float,” said the man.  “You can put your stuff on top of them.  If there aren’t enough inner tubes, those who can’t swim or aren’t very good can ride on these but don’t break the wrapping and don’t lose it.  If you’re handed one then this is your ticket on the truck.  No bundle, no ticket.  Do you all understand?”

Everyone nodded and the man began handing them out.  There were sixty-eight people and only fifty bundles, so not everyone had to take one with them.  There were only five inner tubes, though, and over a dozen people said they either couldn’t swim or weren’t very good, so they were given bundles to float on first.  It was decided that the children would use four of the inner tubes, two children to each one, followed by an old woman who was given the fifth.  After that, the others who couldn’t swim well were given a bundle, followed by the older people, the women, and what was left of the men.

“What’s in these?” Yesenia asked Silvia.

“Shhh,” said one of the men who had taken the bus with them.  “Don’t ask.  Just don’t talk about it until you’re on the other side.”

Those with bags of extra clothes bundled them up and held tightly to them as everyone waded into the water.  It was very cold, but didn’t seem to be moving too fast, nor was it very deep.  “This isn’t so bad,” said Yesenia.

“Careful,” said the same man.  “It drops in a moment and there are hidden currents.  It’s dangerous to cross here, but there’s less border patrol.”

No sooner had he spoke than the water rose from Yesenia’s waist to her shoulders as the bottom began to drop away.  She and Silvia both had bundles, and she was thankful to see it did in fact float as she’d been told.  A few more steps later the bottom was gone and she was having to dog paddle to stay afloat.  She’d tied her bag of clothes and meager possessions around her back and as the water soaked them they became surprisingly heavy.  As a child she had learned to swim in the Nigales River, though, and so she was still able to move forward without much concern.

Other people in the group were not having it so easy.  One woman, with two small children with her, was struggling to keep their possessions from being caught up in the current, which Yesenia now discovered was in fact present beneath the seemingly calm surface.  The mother had a bundle she was using for assistance as her two children clutched an inner tube which a friendly man had offered to pull for her.

As Yesenia and Silvia moved forward, little circles whipped around them and she occasionally felt a sudden, jerking sensation when she was caught up in one.  Silvia was struggling next to her and Yesenia had to reach out on one occasion to keep her from being pulled suddenly downstream.

Finally, they reached the other side.  A few others had made it before them and all were met by the scariest looking man Yesenia had ever seen.  An unlit cigar hung from his mouth, which he chewed on, and he had both a knife on his belt identical to the other man’s and a pistol sticking out of the front of his pants.  As she got closer she saw that the man’s eyes weren’t quite right.  One eye looked straight, but the other wandered off to the side in an abnormal manner.  Next to him stood two more men, one with a shotgun and the other seemingly unarmed but twirling a black tube in one hand.  She didn’t know it, but it was a night vision scope the second man held.

All of a sudden a blood-curdling scream broke the silence over the gurgling river.  “Help!  Help!”

The cockeyed man told the other with the shotgun, “Go see what that’s about and shut ‘em up.”

He ran down towards the river and shouted back, “A kid’s caught in the current.”  One of the woman’s two children sharing an inner tube had fallen off when a swirl whipped the inner tube around.  The man who had offered to help her had just managed to grab the tube again, but the little boy wasn’t able to hold on and was now moving quickly down the river.  His mother pushed off her bundle and tried to swim after him, but she wasn’t a strong swimmer.  “He’s going downstream!” yelled the smuggler with the shotgun.

“Well, get after him,” shouted the other.

Yesenia heard the pounding of boots as the other man ran down the riverbank.  The woman was still screaming and the man pulled his pistol and started towards the river, “She’s going to bring the patrol down on us, stupid woman.”  Yesenia was terrified the man was going to shoot her, but instead he walked down to the edge of the bank and yelled at her, “Hey!  Shut up!  Are you trying to get us caught?”

“My son!” she yelled to him in tears.  “He can’t swim!”

That’s when the man noticed the woman had let go of her bundle and it, too, was now being pulled in the current.  “Shit!” he yelled.  “Look!”  He shouted to the man that had already taken off downstream.  “Get the bale!”

“What about the kid?”

“Fuck him, get the bale!” yelled the one with the wandering eye.  He glared at the boy’s mother.

Seeing that the smugglers were no longer trying to save the little boy, one of the other immigrants who had already crossed quickly took off his shirt, dropped his belongings, and took off down the bank.  “Stop!” yelled the man with the cigar, but it was too late.  The young man was gone in a flash.

Out in the river others were coming to the woman’s aid.  When they finally got her and her other child ashore, she started running down the bank.  “No!” yelled the man with the cigar, but the woman ran anyway, a moaning wail trailing behind her as she sobbed, “Save him!  Save him!  He’ll drown!”

“Shit!” cursed the man with the cigar again.  He returned to the rest of the immigrants, telling them to put the bundles in front of them and stay where they were.  “If anyone else runs off, I’m leaving all of you here,” he warned.  Everyone stood still as statues, quietly dripping and huddled together as they waited for the others to return, everyone wondering what would happen next.