Crossing the Wire (8 page)

T
HE NIGHT WAS COLD.
I passed the dark hours burrowed in the oak brush and shivering in my blanket. My mind kept going over everything that had happened, especially Miguel giving me even more from his pack to go along with his food. Did he really believe I could make it on my own?

Dawn on the high Chiricahuas made them look like a fortress of cliffs and pinnacles. How was I supposed to reach those tall pines up around the peaks? “Go high,” Miguel had commanded at the last.

Up and moving, I was funneled into a deep canyon with a live stream. Following the stream up to where it started seemed like the only way I could reach the big trees, where there would be open ground and easier walking. Twice I left the water to climb and see if the Border Patrol was after me. No sign of them. Too much trouble to catch one person?

Late morning I stopped by a clear pool under cottonwoods that were only beginning to bud. I drank from the pool and ate two
sticks of jerky. I was thinking about bathing in the pool but the day was cloudy and cold, nothing like the day before.

I got out Miguel's map. I found the Chiricahua Mountains and the Dos Cabezas, the freeway, and Willcox, Arizona. I found the blank spot where La Perra Flaca was supposed to be. On a slab of granite, I took stock of everything I had: blanket, water jug, a roll of toilet paper, a change of clothes, Miguel's parachute cord, his knife and lighters, two boxes of cookies, three packs of jerky, four tins of tuna fish, and a box of hard, thick crackers.

I repacked, then studied the map some more. A dirt road ran east and west through the middle of the Chiricahuas. Until I crossed it I wouldn't really know where I was. If I climbed high, then kept heading north, I would cross that road. How I missed Miguel. “You have to be a man,” I kept hearing him say. “You have to be a man.”

Staring at that road on the map wasn't going to bring it any closer. It was time to start climbing again.

The cottonwoods along the stream gave way to trees I'd never seen before. By early afternoon, after scrambling around three waterfalls, I had reached the level of the cliffs and the pinnacles.

One more push, and I climbed into the tall pines. The walking came easier. I tracked the stream to its beginnings, a mere trickle. I drank and filled my jug. The wind was out of the west, the tree limbs beginning to sway. The clouds were thickening. Dirty snowbanks here and there gave me something new to worry about. Could it snow again? March was almost over, but what if winter wasn't?

Fast as I could, I pushed on. I steered toward a mountain to the northwest, the highest in the range. The map called it Chiricahua
Peak, almost ten thousand feet high. By late afternoon the giant pines were creaking and groaning in the wind. My jacket never felt so thin. A dark cloudbank was racing in from the west, and I could feel the moisture coming. I knew I better get down some, and not on the windy side of the mountains.

I found a place on the protected side and spent the rest of the daylight gathering firewood and making a shelter with the knife and the parachute cord. I made my lean-to large, big enough to keep myself and the wood dry. I covered the firewood with a thick layer of branches. By the time I was done, the wind was shrieking through the snags and the crags, and the temperature was dropping fast. I was wearing everything I had, and still I was cold.

Miguel would have been proud of this camp, I thought, and of this shelter, built on a well-drained spot under the trees and close to a small creek. At dusk I made a ring of stones under the high side of the shelter and got a fire going. For now there was nothing to do but wait and see what the weather would do.

I wasn't long finding out. Soon after dark, it started snowing hard, the flakes large as peso coins. It snowed all night as I stoked the fire to keep from freezing. I thought about the earth warming back home, the seeds sprouting in my mother's vegetable garden. I was glad they couldn't picture me like this.

By dawn, a foot of snow covered the ground—a beautiful sight, but strange and scary. The morning brought patches of blue sky, but they didn't last. It started to snow hard again—would it ever quit? All the while, I had to keep ranging farther to find dead branches for the fire. My sneakers were hopelessly soaked, my feet
freezing whenever they were away from the fire. By the time the storm ended, the snow was up to my knees. I wondered if Miguel knew it could get this bad up here. What would he do?

Miguel would wait. The snow will melt soon, I kept telling myself. Hiking through this much of it was impossible. I passed the time going over and over the exact address of the Western Union in Silao where I would wire the money home. I had to believe I could still make that happen.

The next day brought blue skies but no melting. The day after that, finally, warmer air arrived. The snow slumped. It took another day for enough to melt to set me free. I got going, but without much hope. My food was nearly gone.

It was hard walking in the slush, and my feet were numb. I'd never known how much cold feet could hurt. I began to have the strangest feeling—that I was being followed. I would stop every so often to look back and see if anyone was there, but no one was. I felt as alone as a man walking on the moon, small as an ant, utterly helpless.

I kept walking, yet couldn't shake the feeling. The hackles went up on the back of my neck. I turned around fast—nothing, nothing there. I told myself to pretend I was walking at my father's side. In a way it was true. He would always be with me. “Everyone is master of their own fear,” I heard him saying, and that helped.

Farther on, I got even more suspicious. I might have heard something. I whipped around quickly, and there it was, no more than twenty feet away—a huge tawny cat. The puma snarled to find itself discovered, and went into a crouch. Long as my arm, its tail
was waving slowly back and forth.

There were pumas back home, but people rarely laid eyes on one. They preyed on deer and stray goats, and had a reputation for following people at a distance. This one had come close, much too close. Carmita, the old woman who rang the village bells, liked to tell the story of one carrying off a child when she was young, in some other village. I hadn't really believed her. I believed her now. Without a doubt, this animal had been stalking me.

The puma coiled, tail going faster and faster. It was about to spring, and I was wishing I was a whole lot bigger.

I didn't really think about what to do. I only knew I couldn't turn and run. My hand went to my pocket for the switchblade. “I am the jaguar!” I screamed. “The mighty tigre! You are nothing but a mountain lion! Get out of here, or I'll rip you limb from limb. I'll cut you inside out!”

The puma wasn't so sure it wanted a piece of me after all. I reached for a big stick, a piece of a shattered tree limb that the wind had brought down, and started waving it around and around like a crazy man.

The lion turned around, and with a last look over its shoulder, vanished into the forest. I went to look at its tracks. They were bigger than my fist. I found a different stick—a perfect club—and kept going. It took a long time before I wasn't looking as much behind as ahead, and just as long for my heart to quit racing.

By the middle of the afternoon I was on a high ridge with few trees. Chiricahua Peak was straight ahead. I was thinking that less snow would remain on its west side on account of the wind and the
sun. I had just made up my mind to head that way when I heard the chop of a helicopter. It was so loud it had to be close. Where, exactly, I couldn't tell.

Here it came, rushing up from below. It was right there, hovering just off the ridge, with me caught out in the open.

No doubt about it, I'd been seen.

I ran downhill, toward the beginning of a canyon and the nearest trees. The helicopter followed. It was white with green markings, and it was making a terrible wind and noise.

It was a hard run but I reached trees too thick for the helicopter to land. They could still see me, though. The Border Patrol hovered above as I bent over double, gasping for breath. I wondered what would come next. Were they going to find a landing place and send men after me?

Instead, they dropped something, a plastic jar.

It could be food, I thought. It could be anything. Cautiously, I unscrewed the lid. Inside was a message weighted with sand. In hastily scribbled Spanish it read,
STAY WHERE YOU ARE. WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU.

They wanted to help, but there was no promise here that they wouldn't deport me.

What would Miguel do?

The answer came easy. He wouldn't give up. I looked up at the man with the helmet who was leaning out of the helicopter. He was holding a white metal box with a red cross on it. I shook my head, then ran down into the canyon where the slopes were steep and covered with trees thick as dog hair.

I
N THE MORNING
I
ATE
the last of the jerky. By now I should have been in the Dos Cabezas Mountains. I was nearly out of food, and no more than halfway from the border to La Perra Flaca. Somehow, I had to find a shortcut. The map showed a small lake at the foot of the mountains on their western side. A road from the lake led to other roads and eventually the town of Willcox. Maybe I would get lucky and catch a ride.

A few miles down the canyon I came across footprints in the mud—lots of them, and they were fresh. The hikers seemed to be on their way out of the mountains. I guessed I was following some Americans until I found a candy wrapper with a Spanish label. It was the first in a fresh stream of trash with labels in Spanish.

Did I want to meet a group of mojados, or not?

Before long I heard voices. It was Spanish they were speaking. I edged closer, and peeked through the brush. The people were on
a patch of green grass in the sunlight, some sitting and talking, others on their backs with their heads propped on their backpacks. They were muddy, ragged, and filthy—forced down from the snow like I was, and just as bad off. I counted seventeen, including six women.

The presence of the women made me hopeful. I might get some help from this group. I might get some food.

It wouldn't hurt to talk to them. Or would it?

Which was the coyote? It was impossible to tell.

I watched and I waited to see what they were going to do next. Time went by, too much time for a rest break. Were they waiting for someone?

An hour later, a bowlegged man came shuffling up the trail. He had a mustache and wore a black and red jacket—Chicago Bulls. The group stood up and gathered around to see what he would say. The way he looked at them—as if they were cattle—and the way they looked at him—with distrust—it was easy to see he was their coyote.

From a careful distance, I followed as the coyote led them down the trail. After a few miles they came to a gate in a cattle fence, and started down a rough road without tire tracks. I began to think that the mojados were about to be picked up farther down this road. I wondered if I could talk my way into joining them, wherever they were going. I would have to make some kind of deal with the coyote. Maybe he would let me pay after I found work. I was going to owe a whole lot of dollars, maybe as much as Rico's fifteen hundred.

They came to a fork in the road. Instead of leading them downhill, on the main branch, the coyote turned uphill. I doubted this meant they were about to be picked up. Their coyote led them to a cabin on the mountainside below a boarded-up mine. I crept close to see what this was about.

The coyote was showing them that the front door was unlocked. They all started laughing. A woman pointed to a broken window. The coyote seemed to be telling them that he hadn't broken it. Again, laughter. I waited to see what they would do.

They went inside and made themselves at home. Before long, some of them came outside, eating from canned goods. I could picture them all going to jail for breaking in and stealing food. I couldn't take the chance. I had to stay on my own, like Miguel.

The road led me down to a small lake surrounded by pine trees. Guessing it was the lake on the map, I approached with the stealth of the puma. A man was fishing at the other end. A black pickup was showing between the trees.

I tried to imagine walking right up to the fisherman and asking him for a ride, to Willcox or all the way to La Perra Flaca. Whether or not I could actually speak to him—he was a gabacho—there would be no doubt in his mind that I was a wet who'd just sneaked across the border.

Why should he help me? I couldn't take the chance.

Staying hidden in the trees, I worked my way around to the parking lot. By this time the fisherman was close to where I had stood when I first spotted him. It looked like he was going to fish his way all around the lake.

The fisherman's truck was the only vehicle in the lot. I got an idea. Right behind the cab, a big toolbox spanned the bed of the truck. If the toolbox was unlocked, and had room inside…

Stealthily, I climbed into the back of the pickup, tried the lid of the toolbox, found it open. If I lay on my side with my knees pulled up, there would be room, just barely. I could cushion my head with my pack.

I was going to try it, but there was no reason to torture myself before it was necessary. I crept out of the pickup and climbed up the hillside. Through the trees, I kept a sharp eye on the fisherman. He started to catch fish. In the next few hours, he caught six or seven, but let them all go, which made no sense. Midafternoon, he suddenly quit, grabbed his things, and headed to his truck.

Now was the time. I hurried back to the parking lot and climbed into the back of his truck. I lifted one wing of the toolbox lid, rearranged the tools as best I could, spread my blanket across them, placed my pack for a pillow, and climbed inside. My heart was pounding like thunder.

It was an extremely tight fit. For once I was glad I was a head shorter than Rico.

I pulled down the lid until it latched. It was only then that I wondered if there was a way to open it from inside. Wildly, I began to feel around for a latch in the pitch dark. Suddenly I felt like I was buried alive. Without a doubt, this was the stupidest thing I had done in my entire life.

Calm down, I told myself, but it wasn't that easy. Here came the man's footsteps. I thought about pounding with my fists, or crying
out, but I held back, almost hoping he was going to put something in the box.

I heard him open the driver door. There was a backseat in the pickup, and that's where he must have put his things. The engine fired, and he was on his way.

The gabacho drove fast on the washboard road and the pavement full of potholes that came after. I was all cramped up, and the tools under my side felt like spears. At least I had found the inside latch, put there for little children or grown fools. I only hoped that this crazy risk would pay off. The driver was probably on his way home, wherever that was. When it seemed safe, I would take a peek, then climb out and walk away. What would come after that, I had no idea.

The ride and the pain seemed to go on forever. A couple of hours, maybe, long enough to remember the Guatemalans packed into the bottom of the fruit truck, and know they had it worse. The last part was on smooth pavement. Finally, the truck stopped. I could hear the driver pumping gas and lots of traffic going by. When we started up again, there were three stops that lasted a minute or two—traffic lights? At last the driver made a sudden turn, put on the brakes, and shut the engine off. It was over. A minute or two with the opening and closing of the truck doors, and all was quiet except for cars going by every so often. It wasn't a busy street. I guessed I was in front of the driver's house. Now it was a matter of waiting, if I could stand the pain, until I felt it was safe enough to take a peek.

I never got the chance. I heard footsteps, held my breath. The bed of the truck dipped under his weight—he was climbing in. The lid of the toolbox flew open and I was looking up into the face of the gabacho. He was so surprised, the cigarette he was smoking fell from his lips.

The gabacho slammed the lid back down. “Pardon me!” I cried, but I shouldn't have expected any sympathy. I tried the latch, but by now he was sitting on the lid, and had me trapped inside. Before long he was talking to someone, someone who wasn't there. He had a cell phone, I realized. I couldn't understand a word he was saying. “Please,” I kept saying. “Please let me out!”

I didn't have much longer to wait and wonder. When the lid of the toolbox opened again, it was a green uniform I was looking at. Border Patrol. I was so tied in a knot, so much in pain, the patrolman had to help me climb out of the box.

They didn't have to worry about me running down the street. I could barely stand. The Migra, whose nameplate said SANDOVAL, handed me a bottle of water. I drank it down. The gabacho fisherman said some things—he sounded very angry—as the patrolman put me in handcuffs, which meant I was going to jail. I was a prisoner, stunned and full of shame. I told the fisherman I was sorry for surprising him like that. Sandoval translated. After that the gabacho wasn't so angry anymore.

The patrolman frisked me. He reached into my pocket for the switchblade. Out with it came the plastic picture card of the Virgin. “I'll put this in your backpack,” he said, almost like he was
apologizing, and started to go through my things. I begged him to let me keep the map, but he said I wouldn't need it anymore.

Sandoval undid the handcuffs and locked me in the backseat of his Jeep, white with the green stripe running through the side. An iron mesh separated the backseat from the front. We drove off down the street with houses on both sides. He asked where I was from. “Guanajuato,” I said. “Where is this place?”

“Willcox, Arizona.”

“There is a place nearby that the mojados call La Perra Flaca?”

“Not far away.”

“That's where I was trying to go. Is there any chance you would take me there?”

He didn't reply.

“Where are we going now?”

“To Tucson, to the Pima County detention center for juveniles.”

“What will they do with me?”

“Hard to tell—it all depends.”

“Please,” I begged.

“Sorry,” he said. “No more conversation.”

We were soon on a highway, two lanes in each direction, then four. As we approached Tucson, the traffic was heavy. Alongside, for a minute or two, was a sleek gold car with a bunch of kids inside. The driver was a boy barely older than me. The girl in the front was talking on a cell phone. Were they Mexicans? Could they be Americans? Whatever they were, they were all laughing and having a good time. As they sped off, I could still hear the
throbbing bass notes of their music.

I pictured Rico with his brother on this same highway, in an even richer car. Reynaldo was in the car business somehow, as well as cleaning swimming pools. I wondered if Rico was already here. It wasn't like him to be unlucky.

Tucson was nothing like the El Norte I was expecting from TV at Rico's house. The desert city stretched all the way to the mountains with houses that looked Mexican, only much bigger and fancier. I saw a few swimming pools from the highway. I even saw one being cleaned, but I didn't see Rico.

Thoughts of Rico only made me feel worse. For me there was nothing but disappointment and defeat.

As Sandoval drove into a huge compound fenced with chain link and razor wire, I pictured how it might have been different back at the lake. What if I had asked the gabacho for a ride? I might be finding work right now, sending money home soon. He might have taken me all the way to La Perra Flaca.

I would never know.