The Only Road (3 page)

“We could run away.” They were the first words she'd spoken in two days. Everyone's eyes turned to Ángela, as if she had said a bad word. Abuela slapped the
masa
on the counter again. Padre Lorenzo opened his mouth to say something and finished it off as a silent prayer instead. Baby Quico, who was draped over Rosita's shoulder, let out a loud burp.

Papá shifted and all eyes turned on him. He licked his lips before taking a deep breath. “That might be the best solution.”

Jaime imagined himself living in the rainforest, swinging through the trees like Tarzan, a pet jaguar as his watchdog, surviving off bananas and insects. For a moment he got lost in that world—the hundreds of shades of green, the wildlife camouflaged within those greens—it'd be fun. For a day.

“What do you mean?” Mamá whispered.

Papá cleared his throat. “They can go live with Tomás.”

“
¡No!
” Mamá shouted so loudly
the baby started crying. She ran to Jaime and Ángela and hugged them tight. “It's too dangerous. Think of something else.”

“We've thought of everything.” Papá hid his face in his hands. “It's the only way.”

Jaime could barely breathe, and not just because Mamá was squeezing him so hard. The daydream of living in the rainforest suddenly seemed like a vacation. She was right, going to Tomás was too dangerous. Everyone knew the stories. Gangs robbed you at every turn. Immigration officers beat you up before sending you back home—that had happened to a few people in the village. The papá of one of Jaime's classmates had lost an arm boarding a moving train. Jaime could think of two other people from the
village who had tried to make the journey and were never heard from again. They were assumed dead. Rosita's best friend, the beautiful Marcela, who Jaime and Miguel used to argue over who would get to marry, had been abducted near the border of los Estados Unidos. Whispers among the grown-ups claimed she had been sold as a slave. She was still missing.

And all of this was just going through México. Then there was crossing the border into los Estados Unidos.

But hardest of all was the idea of leaving home to live with Tomás.

Tomás, his older brother. Memories of him ranged from hazy to facts based on others' stories. The one time his family went to the beach and Tomás pointed out the colors of the stormy sunset reflected on the water, Jaime knew was a real memory. Every time he witnessed a spectacular sunset, with the reds burning into the cool greens and blues, he thought of Tomás and wondered if Tomás could see it too. That sunset would forever stay in Jaime's mind, but Tomás's face had blurred to the poor-quality image the village computer showed during their rare video Skype calls.

“How's my little brother?” Tomás always asked when they talked.

Jaime never knew what to say and would reply with a simple “
Bien.
” Then he'd ask Tomás questions: Did he see
the new James Bond movie? Had he met Jennifer Lopez yet? Was it true that the public schools there had art classes?

Jaime had been four when his seventeen-year-old brother had left to work on a cattle ranch in El Norte, in a place no one in Guatemala had ever heard of called Nuevo México. Tomás was lucky, everyone said. Because of Tomás's love for Hollywood movies, he'd learned English perfectly, which had allowed him to move there legally through a sponsorship the rancher offered. Few had that luck. Not that Jaime would call it luck. From what Tomás said, he worked more than sixty hours a week in the scorching sun and the bitter cold. There wasn't much time for enjoying sunsets, or going to movies.

And now his papá was talking about Jaime and Ángela traveling over four thousand kilometers to join Tomás? Jaime didn't blame his mamá for becoming hysterical. He didn't want to go either.

“W-will it just be us two? Can't we all go?” Jaime wished with all his might that someone would give him a different answer than the one he feared.

Glances from the adults shifted from Mamá with her limp to Abuela, who struggled to roll out tortillas, then to Rosita and little Quico. None of them could make the trip, and none of the others would leave them behind.

Tío Daniel shook his head and muttered, “We could never afford that. As it is, two passages . . .”

“It's
better this way.” Papá articulated his words slowly as if he were trying to convince himself. “And once you're there, you'll be with Tomás, your
familia
.”

“No, no, no,” Mamá kept repeating. “You two can't go. Can't.”

Ángela escaped Mamá's grasp only to have Tía hug her in the same tight embrace.

Tía looked up to the heavens and wailed, “Two children in one week. Why are you punishing me?”

No one in the kitchen said anything—they just allowed Mamá and Tía to continue crying on their children's shoulders, both of whom were the same height as their diminutive mothers. No one told them to stop; no one told them it was going to be okay.

It was a while before Mamá finally released Jaime. His back was sweaty from where her arms had held him. He wished there were something he could say, something to make her feel better, but this new turn of events had left him numb. If he and Ángela stayed, they could end up dead; if they left, they might end up dead. Either way, life was never again going to be the same.

Their mamás stared at their children a second longer before each tucking a loose strand of wavy black hair behind their right ears and sighing. Without realizing it, Abuela used the back of her wrist to do the same with her silver hair.

“We need to start making plans. I'll contact Tomás. There isn't much time.” Papá pressed his hands against his worn pants and stood. He and Tío began conferring in low voices as they headed to the door.

Padre Lorenzo saw his opportunity to leave as well. “I have brothers in México who offer shelter and sanctuary for refugees. I shall contact them.”

Abuela said nothing, just grabbed a glass bottle with her arthritic hands and rolled out the tortillas until they were too thin to cook. Rosita shifted the sleeping Quico from her lap and excused herself from the kitchen.

“Do we really have to go?” Jaime whispered to Ángela.

Ángela licked her lips and removed the Alphas' crumpled note from her pocket. She crushed it further in her hands until it couldn't compress any more, then flung it at Jaime's memorial drawing of Miguel, which was taped to the wall. “Would you like to be in the gang responsible for his death?”

“No.” He didn't have to think about that.

Ángela nodded as if she'd read his mind. “Then we don't have a choice.”

•  •  •

Only those who had been in the kitchen that day knew of the escape plan.

Jaime and Ángela had to pretend nothing was going on and continue as if they were spending the rest of their
lives in their Guatemalan village. Jaime volunteered to help paint the backdrop for the Easter pageant, and Ángela told Pulguita she would deliver the mysterious packet in a few days. If people thought they were acting weird, hopefully it was excused as mourning Miguel and not because there was something to hide.

The hardest part for Jaime was saying good-bye to his friends and extended family without them knowing. He gave his two best friends at school the Batman comic books that Tomás had sent him for Christmas, saying he was tired of not understanding the English words. For his little cousins he divided his few art supplies. A gut-wrenching feeling told him there were many people he'd never see again.

Hopefully the Alphas were among them.

A few days after the funeral, Tía Rosario held up jeans that looked a lot like Jaime's favorite pair. Correction: they
were
his favorite pair. The ink stain on the front left pocket proved it.

“You're the one with an eye for detail,” she said. “Look at these carefully and see if you notice anything strange about them.”

Confused, Jaime took his jeans from his aunt. He searched them up and down. No holes, no new stains. “What's wrong with them?”

“Nothing, but look at them again. Pay special attention to the waistband,” she said while grabbing a pair that were
probably Ángela's, judging by the stitching on the back pockets.

Jaime squinted at the waistband and ran the material between his fingers. He compared the material with the rest of the pants. He even sniffed it. Nothing. He shook his head. “They seem perfectly normal.”

Tía let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Now whatever you do, don't lose them and don't tell anyone about them. We've exchanged fifteen thousand quetzales into a little less than two thousand US dollars and sewed them into the waistband and cuffs. Don't use any of it unless absolutely necessary until you get to the border of El Norte—even then, it might not be enough to pay for the crossing. If someone tries to rob you, hopefully no one will know the money's there.”

Jaime collapsed into a chair, gripping his sketchbook tight to his chest.

“Fifteen thousand quetzales for the two of us?” The words came out in a whisper.

Tía shook her head no. She squinted at the seams one more time; glasses were a rich person's accessory. “For each of you.”

The world seemed to tilt as he blinked and took several deep breaths. Thirty thousand quetzales. Jaime couldn't imagine that much money. No wonder they were taking days to prepare, just to gather all that money. His insides twisted with guilt; he was going to be sick. The whole
family was making sacrifices for him. Doing this because of him. It wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth it.

“You can't do this.” The words spilled out of him like marbles from a ripped sack. “It's too much. We'll stay—”

“You won't,” Tía interrupted with such determination it sounded like Abuela speaking. “All our work won't be for nothing. You're going so you can be safe. End of discussion.”

But thirty thousand quetzales. . . .
Of course he and Ángela were the only ones leaving; the family couldn't afford to send anyone else. He doubted his parents together made that in a year.

Just because he hadn't been at the park with Miguel.

All our work won't be for nothing
, he repeated Tía's words. But if they really had to take this trip, a lot could happen. Four thousand kilometers was a long way.

If only he and Ángela had passports. And papers that said they could enter los Estados Unidos legally. Like Tomás.

“Are you sure it's well hidden?” Now that he knew what the pants contained, he kept imagining incriminating lumps in the seams or loud crinkles in the fabric.

Tía gave him an odd smile that combined worry with pride. “We can only thank the Lord he gave me a job sewing jeans at the factory. I know how the seams should look.”

Jaime took one last glance at the jeans, pretending he didn't know what they held. The neat rows of stitches on the waistband did look exactly like they were supposed to.

•  •  •

Moonlight was streaming through the empty window when his papá shook him awake. “It's time.”

Jaime blinked a few times and rolled out of the hammock strung in the room he shared with his parents. He didn't have to ask what was going on. One day remained before Ángela had to make her delivery. One day before he was expected to join her. Join
them
.

He pulled on a dark green shirt and his favorite jeans, thinking he could feel the weight of the money sewed into the seams. In the backpack Mamá had packed for him days ago, he put his sketchbook, pencil case, and the only family picture he had with Tomás. On the windowsill a lizard watched his every move.

Neither parent had gone to sleep, though Mamá's makeup looked fresh and Papá had shaved. They each put an arm around him as they walked to his aunt and uncle's house. The streets were quiet and still. With an occasional shift the wind brought sounds of cars in the distance and people at the local tavern. The Alphas, if they were awake, were off terrorizing a different neighborhood. Above the walkers making their pilgrimage, the sky was clear, shining every star down on them. If only it were a normal night, and Jaime could curl up in the outside hammock and capture the starry night in his sketchbook.

They walked through the patio into the kitchen, where
anyone who was family or considered family always hung out. But this morning it only held Abuela. A mini-banquet of
desayuno chapín
had been laid out, like those American turkey feasts they showed in movies, “tanks geeveen” or something. Eggs from the chickens out back, Abuela's corn tortillas, black beans, fried plantains, sliced avocados and mangos, pork
salchichas
, and a steaming mug of hot chocolate that had been Miguel's favorite. Such a meal they could only afford on Christmas.

Any other time, Jaime would have dived right in. Any other time, the old television wouldn't be missing from its usual spot.