Crossing the Wire (4 page)

I
GRABBED MY BAG AS
I stumbled to the front of the bus. People turned their eyes away. Outside, a waiting policeman ordered me to stand at the rear of a pickup that had been pulled over, in the headlights of a police car behind it.

Two more customs police, one with an automatic rifle, were supervising a man unloading the heavy fruit and vegetable boxes stacked high in the cattle cage enclosing the bed of the truck. Skinny, uncombed, and more than a little nervous, this man was apparently the driver. The policeman with the assault rifle ordered me to help. “I'm not with him,” I said. “I was on that bus.”

“Do as I tell you,” the policeman snarled. Pointing with his rifle, he ordered me to stack the boxes on the shoulder of the road. As the last ones came off the truck, I saw they'd been stacked on a deck of black plywood level with the tailgate, which was bolted shut.

Suddenly, from underneath the plywood, came a banging of metal on metal. Then more banging, along with cries and moans. There were people under there! Amid the confusion, the driver took off running. One policemen yelled at him, another fired bursts of bullets over his head. I got down on the ground, cringing like a dog. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this. It felt like I was in the middle of a war. The driver stopped in his tracks and held his hands high. They handcuffed him and threw him into one of the police cars.

I got up, still hoping to find a way back to the bus. The police removed the plywood and uncovered a terrible sight in the bed of the pickup: people writhing like snakes—men, women, and children. They had been packed in there like onions, side by side and head to foot.

“Yes, we are from Guatemala,” I heard a man admit. One by one, they were helped out, thirteen of them. When they tried to stand up, most crumpled in pain to the ground as if they had no backbones. Their skin was dark, like mine, their faces round, their hair straight and black. I saw a catastrophe unfolding. I was going to be deported with them to Guatemala.

The police saw me trying to sidle away. They ordered me to get down with the others and I did. “I'm Mexican,” I pleaded to the nearest man in uniform, towering above me. “I just got off that bus. I'm from near Silao. I'm Mexican, I promise. Ask me anything about Silao. Please, just let me go back home.”

“Shut up!” the policeman barked. “Do what you are told!”

My bus, which had been idling, was now in gear. With a jerk of my head I saw the door closing, the bus pulling out.

Some of the Guatemalans, lying on their backs on the shoulder of the road, didn't even have the strength to sit up. “Who are you?” asked a small voice at my elbow, a boy Chuy's age. I didn't answer. My eyes were back on the police. For the time being, they weren't watching carefully.

All I knew was, I had to get away. I flipped over. Dragging my bag, I crawled under the front of the police car. One glance back, and I saw the boy staring at me. I had to pray he wouldn't say anything.

On my stomach, I bellied my way as far as the back wheels. No legs to be seen—I kept going. For a second, I crouched behind the police cruiser, then crept away, low and quiet as a cat. After a few minutes I heard shouts. By that time I was hundreds of yards away, racing down railroad tracks dimly lit by the stars and the shrinking moon.

I stuck to the tracks and ran like a hunted deer. The tracks led me farther and farther from the police lights on the highway. I didn't think I was being followed, but I kept looking back to make sure. I stumbled a few extra miles before I pulled up, gasping for air. My lungs were on fire. My side hurt like I had a sword in it.

I could barely believe what had happened back there. What if I'd been deported to Guatemala? What then?

What now? I didn't even have the money for a bus ticket home. Not that I would be safe on a bus. Crazy, that I needed documents
in my own country. My mother hadn't thought of that. The only documents we had spoken of were the fake ones I would need to buy in the States—fake Social Security, fake green card. I could only guess that my father had never mentioned having to show documents in Mexico.

A bolt of fear ran through me on the railroad tracks. It left me shivering despite my jacket and the heat of running. I was in bad trouble. From out of nowhere, one of my father's proverbs came to mind: “It's a bad start on the week for the man who is hanged on a Monday.”

I laughed a crazy, desperate laugh. This helped, hearing my father's voice, seeing the twinkle in his eyes. I had to get hold of myself. What direction had I been running on the tracks—north or south?

I remembered that I knew how to find the North Star. When my father was back from his first year on the other side, I had asked him where El Norte was. “Under that star,” he replied, and showed me how to find it.

I found it now, and discovered that I had been running north. At least I'd been going in the direction of the border.

I thought about turning around, trying to make my way home. But what then? What was the family going to do then?

There was no turning back, nothing to do but keep walking. “Better to die on your feet than lie on your knees,” I heard Papá saying.

As I walked on, the lights of a town in the distance were slow to
get any closer. The moon set, and I walked by the starlight. I kept going, eyelids heavy as metal. After a while I noticed wearily that I was casting a long shadow. I didn't stop to wonder why, with dawn still hours away. Like a rabbit that doesn't hear the approach of the swooping eagle, I had no idea what was bearing down on me.

When at last I spun around, I was blinded by an oncoming eye bright as the sun. A terrible blast sounded, once, twice, three times, and I ran stumbling off the tracks. I fell back onto my elbows, and shuddered at a freight train hurtling through the darkness. My fright turned to amazement as I made out the silhouettes of riders clinging to the iron monster.

Before long I was walking the tracks again, wondering about those riders and recalling their backpacks. They were on their way to the border. What a dangerous way to go!

Either those people couldn't afford the bus, or they couldn't risk it. It was easy enough to guess that they were illegal in Mexico, and this was how they were sneaking through. It hit me hard, what this meant. This is the way I was going to have to travel now, like an outlaw in my own country.

Dawn came and went as I put one foot in front of the other. Finally I reached the town. It was too small even to have a sign announcing its name. Another freight train rumbled through without stopping. This one also had riders with backpacks.

With only my mother's last tamales for fuel, I walked all day. I got many chances to watch riders as they flew by on the northbound freights. Finally the tracks led to a bigger town, where the
trains would stop, or so I hoped. I left the tracks and approached the depot from the street. Acaponeta, the sign said.

A train pulled in, and it stopped for a few minutes, but it was a passenger train and useless to me. When dark came, I hid in the train yards, around the corner of a warehouse. A guard was on duty but he wasn't paying any attention. Two freight trains roared on through. Soon, I was going to have to keep going on foot.

It must have been around midnight when a freight rolled clanking and hissing into the yards. As it slowed, I got ready to dash under the yard lights. The train had riders, lots of them—men, women, teenagers. Mostly they were bunched at the backs of the rounded fuel cars, where a narrow platform with a handrail made a perfect place for standing and hanging on. Some people clung to the rungs of the ladders that ran up the outside of the boxcars. All but a few of these had tied themselves to the rungs with the arms of a shirt passed behind their waist. Quickly, I got my long-sleeve shirt out of my bag and tied it around mine just in case.

Instead of grinding to a halt, the train started to pick up speed. It wasn't stopping after all. The last few cars were still in reach. I slung my bag over my shoulder and took off running.

The light was poor. I had my eye on the ladder toward the back of an approaching boxcar. I was running full out alongside, fast as my legs could go. If I tripped, or if I slipped, I would fall under the wheels. The moment of truth arrived. I timed my leap and grabbed hold of a rung with both hands. I swung my feet up and reached for a higher rung, pulling, kicking, and scratching until my feet
found the bottom rung. I was standing on the ladder.

My chest was heaving, as much with fright as anything. I hadn't realized how difficult it was going to be. I'd never done anything so dangerous, not nearly.

Before long the train was up to full speed. It rocked and swayed, enough to throw me off if I loosened my grip even for a second. The miles went by, and so did the time. I hadn't slept since leaving home. I began to imagine I was lying in my bed. Stop that, I told myself. Relax, and you will die. I was so exhausted I had forgotten about the shirt tied around my waist, and what it was for. Remembering, I managed to tie myself to the ladder.

Whether the shirt would hold me, I didn't want to find out. I fought the weariness by imagining I was already in El Norte, working in the fields, sending the first money home to my mother. I had many conversations in my mind. Some of them were with my family, but mostly they were with Rico. When I told him I had jumped onto a moving train, he laughed at me. He didn't believe it. He said I was making it up. “Turtle, you would never do a thing like that, not in a million years.”

By now Rico and the four men from the village had met their coyote. They had already given over the big money and were crossing the wire. At this very minute, Rico was walking across the desert. Before long, he would be in the swimming pool at his brother's house in Tucson.

I don't know how much time had gone by. It was the middle of the night when I was startled awake. The train was slowing. I had
fallen asleep standing up. And now someone was yelling at me, someone from on top of the boxcar. I looked up and saw the silhouette of a head and elbows. “Hey, you,” the man yelled. “Heads up!”

“What's going on?” I called back.

“Police, and lots of them.”

I looked around. The train was pulling into the yards. What city this was, I had no idea. “I don't see any police!” I said.

“They're hiding, what do you think?”

“How do you know?”

“That's the word from the front. Get ready to jump, fool. I'm coming down right behind you.”

Suddenly, the whistle blasted twice. Growling and hissing, the iron beast was braking some more. I looked ahead along the track and saw police and soldiers lurking in the shadows. The man was right. I was going to have to jump off.

When, that was the question. The ground was flying by. The train was still going too fast.

“Get ready!” yelled the man from above. He was starting down the ladder.

Forget him. I wasn't going to jump until I saw other people jumping.

I leaned away from the boxcar to get a better look ahead and discovered I was tied on. Suddenly I was boiling in panic. I managed to undo the knot. The shirt dropped and disappeared under the wheels of the train.

“Move it!” yelled the man from above. His feet were on the rung just above my hands.

“Shut up!” I hollered back. It was all a blur—train wheels spinning, voices shouting, the ground speeding below, the shadowy shapes of riders up ahead beginning to jump from the train, police running out to grab them.

“Jump! Jump now!” the man above screamed, and I did. I tried to run in the air, knowing I had to tumble away from the wheels as I landed, but the train yard was too dark and everything was moving too fast. The ground seemed to fly up. It hit me hard, and I blacked out.

T
HE SIREN OF THE AMBULANCE
was the next thing I heard. High on the side of my head, it felt like my scalp had been opened up with a shovel. In the hospital, they shaved around the wound, cleaned it, and stitched it up. I had never been in a hospital before, never had stitches before. I was frightened as a baby rabbit at the bottom of a bucket. I was too afraid to answer the doctor's questions.

The doctor said it would take me awhile to get my memory back, but he was wrong about that. I hadn't lost my memory, and I knew why a policeman was keeping an eye on me from the door. The doctor said they were going to hold me at the hospital until it was safe for me to travel. I sneaked out three hours later, when the policeman stepped away to get something to eat or visit the bathroom. Fortunately, I still had my shoulder bag, even my crumpled straw hat.

I spent the day where it felt safest, in Mazatlán's most crowded
streets. Over and over, I wondered if I should just give up and try to go back home. But that wouldn't solve anything. Somehow, I had to get to El Norte. Late in the day I headed for the train yards. There was no way around it: I had to get back on a train. This time I had to be smarter, and hope for better luck.

In and around the yards, there were many places to hide, and many people hiding. At dusk, a train showed signs of pulling out at any second. Everyone ran, like a flock of birds bursting from the trees and flying to the same fence wire. By the grace of God, the security guards stood by and watched the stampede without even letting on that they noticed.

I was about to join the many people running for the empty flatcars, but I was wary of joining them. Wouldn't they be the first to get kicked off? Just then a boy at my elbow veered off toward some flatcars stacked with automobile carriers. I sprinted to catch up, then panted, “Mind if I come with you?”

“Why not?” he called as we ran. He had a wide, friendly smile and wild hair that stood straight up. He was my size, my age, with the same dark brown skin. I watched as he climbed onto a coupling and jumped down onto the ground on the other side. I did the same. The train lurched into motion. “Hurry!” he yelled over his shoulder. “I know a trick!”

I ran to catch up, afraid I'd lost my chance to catch this train. Loping along in the shadow of one of the towering, enclosed automobile carriers, the boy sized it up as if picking out a horse. The vehicles, three across and three high, showed through narrow gaps
in the metal siding. The metal doors at the ends of the carrier were locked shut.

The wild-haired boy sprang for a ladder and climbed. I hated the idea of hanging on to another ladder for miles on end, but now I had no choice, not if I was going to catch this train. Too late now to do anything but leap and grab and climb up after him.

As I climbed, the train picked up speed. Three mojados were running alongside, still hoping to get on board, but the train was already moving too fast. Disappointment was written large on their faces.

With all the racket and motion, my stomach churned and my head swam. I had nothing to tie myself on with. What was to keep me from falling?

“Keep coming, amigo,” called the voice from above, so full of confidence. He scampered the rest of the way up the ladder, then disappeared over the top. What in the world?

High on the ladder, high as an eagle's nest, I looked over the roof. My wild companion was nowhere to be seen.

“Drop your bag first,” called his echoing voice.

Holding for dear life to the top of the ladder, I leaned over a narrow opening. It wasn't so far to the floor—an easy drop if the train was standing still. To get inside, I was going to have to climb on top of the train first, and it was swaying like a tree in a windstorm. I looked away for a second, and that was a mistake. The ground was a long, long way down, and everything was a blur. My legs began to tremble. “You can do it!” called that encouraging voice.

I don't have any choice, I thought. I threw my bag inside, then climbed onto the roof of the carrier. For a second, I thought the wind would blow me off, but I kept my balance and got down fast. My hands held, my legs cooperated, and I dropped to safety in front of a brand-new Suburban.

“Easy as can be!” cried the boy, whose bright smile was gleaming in the darkness. So were the brand-new Suburbans as they caught some light from above and from slits in the metal walls. “How do you like it? Pretty good, no?”

“How come no police today, no soldiers?”

“Sometimes it's hot and sometimes it's not.”

“How far can we take this train?”

“All the way to Nogales, I'm pretty sure. These cars are heading to Phoenix, that's what I heard. Hey, there's some blood showing through your hat. Are you bleeding?”

“Maybe,” I said. I took my hat off carefully.

“Bleeding, but not that bad,” he reported. “Got some stitches under there, I bet. Radical look, how it's shaved all around the bandage. How do you like mine?”

“Your what?”

“My haircut!”

I took another look. I remembered an animal I had seen in a book. “It's wild,” I said. “Sticks up like porcupine quills.”

His smile vanished. “Like when a porcupine is afraid? My head looks like the rear end of a frightened porcupine, is that what you're saying?”

“Kind of…I mean, it looks really good.”

He started laughing. “I like that, Stitches. That's a good one. How did you get hurt?”

“Jumped off a train last night—lots of police and soldiers.”

“I was on the same train. You jumped too soon. You weren't the only one to get hurt. Did you hear about the woman from El Salvador?”

“No, nothing.”

“They say she was on her way to New York City to work in a restaurant. She lost both her legs, but was still alive when they took her away. I heard she has three small children back home. It could have happened to you. You must be new at this.”

“First time.”

“It's simple. Don't try to get on or off if the train is moving faster than you can run. Last year I saw a man get killed in four pieces. A couple of weeks ago, some Maras threw me off, and the train was going way too fast. I got lucky. I bounced like a rubber ball.”

“Who are Maras?”

“Where are you from, anyway?”

I hesitated. “Chiapas,” I said.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“If you were from Chiapas, you'd know what Maras are.”

“So, what are they?”

“Tell me first, where are you really from?”

“Near Silao, where they put together these Suburbans.”

“So how come you said you were from Chiapas?”

“Because when I say I'm from Guanajuato, nobody believes me.”

“I would have, if you gave me a chance.”

“I was born in Chiapas.”

“So, you're Mexican, that's what you're telling me.”

“No identification, that's the problem. I feel like the whole Mexican army is after me. They seem to think I'm from Guatemala.”

“I'm Julio,” the boy said, and stuck out his hand. “Julio from Honduras, a small village outside of San Pedro Sula.”

“Victor,” I said as I offered mine. “Victor from Mexico, a small village outside Silao.”

“Don't lie to me again, 'mano—okay?”

“Promise.”

“You're not very good at it. You're the worst liar I ever met.”

“So, what are those Maras you were talking about?”

“The biggest and worst gang there is, if you're from Guatemala or Chiapas. They've taken over the railroads. They rob everybody who's trying to get across the border into Mexico. You got any money?”

“Eighty centavos.”

“I picked a rich one. How do you expect to get across the wire without coyote money?”

“I don't know, to tell you the truth. Do all these people on these freight trains have coyote money?”

“Almost all of them. You have to be really crazy, really stupid, or really poor to cross the border without a coyote.”

“What about you?”

“I'm all three. It's going to be a long ride, Victor. Let's make ourselves comfortable.”

Julio said we were going to search for keys to the Suburbans—they must be hidden somewhere. It was too much trouble for the factory to send the keys separately to El Norte. “My best friend's brother-in-law works at the plant in Silao,” I said.

“So?”

“He just does.”

“Weren't you about to say that he told you where they hide the keys?”

“Nothing that helpful.”

“They might be anywhere,” Julio said as he slid under the first car. I went to my knees and started searching the next one. It was like trying to milk a goat in the pitch dark. After searching behind the grill, the license plates, and the underside of the engine, I felt a bump on the side of the frame near the back, under a smooth strip of tape. A minute later, we were inside the vehicle, enjoying the comfortable, plastic-covered seats.

Julio, in the driver's seat, turned the electricity on but not the motor. He turned the radio on and started punching through the channels. “What kind of music you like?”

“Anything—ranchera, mostly.”

“I like ranchera.” He kept punching until he found that loud,
clear signal from Radio XEG in Monterrey. “There, we have music. Everything is lively and good. You got any food, got any water?”

“Got water.”

“I don't believe you. You think you're going to just fly across the border like a bird or a bat? What is your plan?”

“Every man is entitled to make a kite out of his pants.”

“That's a good one! Where'd you get that?”

“From my father—he's dead.”

“Well, mine isn't, but sometimes maybe he wishes he was. You can't eat if you can't work.”

Julio must have found a hidden switch. Suddenly his seat went way back, almost like a bed. He laughed and pretended he was snoring, then grew quiet as he drifted off. For the time being, getting to know each other was over.

I figured out how to make my own seat go back and fell asleep despite my hunger, the pounding of my wound, and the fact that I had to pee.

I woke to the sound of the car door opening. Julio climbed out and stood over a crack in the floor. I could hear his stream splashing on the car below. I started laughing, and he did, too. He said to cut it out, he couldn't concentrate. He got back in and I left to do the same. When I got back I asked him what to do about the other kind. He said not to even think about it.

“How did you know about getting inside here?” I asked him.

“A guy told me.”

“Ever done it before?”

“Never.”

“Been to the States before?”

“Last year, but it wasn't easy. I would've crossed into California—San Diego—but I heard they built a big metal wall all across there. I decided to try to find my aunt and uncle instead, in Texas.”

“Was it easy to cross into Texas?”

“Are you kidding? It took me eight tries.”

“What is it really like in the States?”

“You'll have to see for yourself. It's impossible to explain. It's so different, it's like another world.”

“Is it good? Is it bad?”

“It's both.”

Julio didn't like to talk about it, same as my father. “Papá,” I once asked my father, “why is El Norte so rich?” He only smiled and made a joke: “God gives money to the wealthy because without it, they would starve to death.”

I got back to the subject of crossing. “Julio, why are you trying to cross into Arizona this time?”

“Because everybody is saying Arizona is the way to go. Its border is so long, so full of deserts and mountains, the Migra are like a hundred cats trying to catch a million mice. You know about La Migra, I take it.”

“American immigration, U.S. Border Patrol. That much I do know. What kind of work will you try to do this time?”

“Anything. I'll wash dishes in a restaurant, sack groceries, do landscaping or construction. I'll even pick lettuce. I'm a good worker, and they're always looking for good workers up there. The truth is, they know we work harder than they do. Grab my backpack off the backseat, will you? I'm busy driving.”

“What do you need?”

“Food and water. You hungry?”