Illegal (5 page)

We walked in silence as I held Mama's elbow. Her breath pounded. I tried to keep her from weaving on the sidewalk like a drunkard. The terror of the fight dripped off us. This place was humid and full of concrete—like an alien world.

At a bus stop, we collapsed onto scarred benches.

“Where should we be going?” I asked. Grass grew in the cracks. The sidewalks bulged in lopsided angles. Writing was carved into the Plexiglas windows of the bus stop.

Mama stared into the distance. “Closer to the tall buildings. That's what your father talked about on the telephone. Tall buildings.”

I hadn't bothered to look up over the trees in front of us. In the distance were the largest buildings I had ever seen. The windows winked in the sun. Was this the
Tejas
Papa had described?

Summoning my strength I said, “We need to rest and to find food.” I could hear familiar music coming from around a corner. I recognized a word on the sign down the block:
TAQUERÍA
.

“Look. A restaurant. We'll go there and eat.” We never had the money for a
taquería
in Cedula, but this felt familiar, like a sanctuary. A
washatería
next to the pink building shot out hot, stale air.

Mama stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and crumpled to the ground. I helped her up but she felt like a limp noodle. “You are such a good daughter. Just wait until I tell your father how brave you are,” said Mama.

The sun rose hot in the sky and the cement steamed in wavy heat patterns. My hands were still sticky from the mangos in the truck. Sweat beaded on Mama's upper lip.

“I can't wait to see him.” I wanted to give her hope.
It would push us through. I felt like I was inventing lies that I would say over and over again, hoping they would become true. The voice in my head had fallen silent.

The
taquería
glowed pink and green. A blast of cool air hit me in the face when I opened the door. The tortillas smelled fresh and made me feel at home and a little safer. Everyone spoke Spanish. The music blared
Tejano
in a lively rhythm.

Mama placed her hand to my chest. “Nora, do you have blood on your shirt?”

I looked down to see the splotches. I tried to smooth the wrinkled cotton down, but rings of salt expanded around my waist in a rippled stain.

“A little. I think there's more on the driver. I bit him. Didn't you see?” The reality of the moment crept into my senses. I was doing my best to block out the pain, but the evidence stained my shirt.

“No, everything moved so fast, because he was screaming. You saved us.”

I was growing braver. No thoughts, only actions. I wasn't waiting for someone to save us.

A waitress clunked icy glasses down on the table. The site of water brought me back to the present instantly. A busboy brought a plastic
bowl of chips and salsa.

“We didn't order this,” I told the busboy frantically. “No extras.”

“It comes with the meal,” he said a bit snottily. I gave him an ugly stare.

We both grabbed the glasses. The cool water dissolved the cracks in my throat. Mama took deep drinks out of the orange plastic cup and I could hear her gulp across the table.

“You looked thirsty.
¿Tu quieres algo?
” asked the waitress. She wore a thick gold chain with the name Cecelia written on it. I couldn't pull my eyes away from her face and her dangling earrings.

Mama bobbed her head and her parched lips hung open like a hungry bird. “Yes, lots of water, and maybe a Coca-Cola for the
niña
.”

I didn't bother to correct her. The ice in the glass felt good against my bruised chin, and a Coke would be nice.

“
Despacio
. There is enough water here for everyone.” The waitress touched my head and smoothed my hair where the trucker had grabbed me. “You drink as much as you need, and I'll be sure to tell the busboy.”

Mama smiled and reached across the table for my
hand. She looked better.

Outside the windows of the restaurant, teenagers strutted by in shorts and tiny tops. They almost looked naked. One of them had a star tattoo on her shoulder. They looked my age, but seemed so much older. Like a pack of feral dogs, roaming the outskirts of town until a meal appeared or someone shot them.

“She's nice,” Mama said, gesturing to the waitress and ignoring my glances out the front window. “She knows how to give respect.”

Nodding, I became lost in thought. Why would those girls dress that way? Did I need new clothes? Grandma said that only
putas
had tattoos. What did I know?

“I need to use the bathroom.” I reached into the suitcase for something clean and not covered in blood. The shirt smelled like Grandma's hot iron. I wanted to hug it, to bring Grandma closer to me, but I worried someone might think I was crazy.

I pushed open the door to discover a half-naked girl bathing herself in the sink. Her deeply tanned back was emaciated and bruised around the edges.

“Shut the door, this ain't a peep show,” she said to me as I stood in the doorway shocked and staring.

I slipped into the stall to escape her aggressive
stare. She looked like a naked version of the hunter girls, except without tattoos. I waited until I heard the door slam to come out, wishing I could tear off my old skin and flush away the memory of the fight.

The mirror reflected an angry red line that ran down my scalp from where the hair had been pulled from my head. I touched the hairline and rearranged it to the left, fluffing the hair out. I continued to wash until the water made me numb.

The dripping blood from my neck had stained my shirt. When I looked closer at the stain, I could see it.

A rose. The Virgin of Guadalupe's rose. She sent visions of roses.

It was a sign of strength. Not like a burning bush, or tears on a statue, or a mysterious voice in my head, but a real sign. I wondered if this counted as one of those miracles, like when a statue cried or Jesus showed up on someone's burned toast.

Was this God's way of talking to me? What if it was just a stain, not something meaningful? What if faith was just something a church made up to get money from villagers?

I needed to believe in something.

I pulled the shirt carefully over my head and folded it gently. The bloodstain would be my secret
until I could figure out what was really going on.

There were plenty of signs in the bathroom. It looked like someone had gone crazy with a marker and scribbled everywhere. I couldn't even make out the words.

Mama switched places with me and headed to the bathroom. While she was gone, the food arrived. I saw the skinny girl sitting in a nearby booth. Her eyes followed people around the restaurant like a hungry tiger.

“Are you going to eat this all by yourself?” asked the waitress with the gold chain as she placed down our food. The waitress raised her painted eyebrows waiting for my answer. She looked over her shoulder at the kitchen, then sat down as if we were old friends. “What's with the bruise on your cheek?”

I answered her question with a question. This worked when a teacher pointed at you and you didn't know how to answer. “What's all that scribbling in the bathroom?”

“Oh, just graffiti from the gangs. I don't bother cleaning it anymore, because it's back up the following day.”

“Gangs?” We didn't have any of those in Cedula. There wasn't much of anything to steal. A few people
tried to grow
mota
, but it didn't do well in Cedula because of the drought. The drug dealers preferred villages that weren't starving. It's hard to sell drugs to people who can't even afford to buy a decent meal.

Cecelia gave me a warning. “Stay away from the gangs. Or is that bruise from one of them?”

Maybe those girls I saw were in a gang. The clothes they were wearing said nothing but trouble. “No.”

A man across the room pointed to his coffee cup, and Cecelia rose from the table.

“Buen provecho,”
said Cecelia. She reached out to my cheek and pulled my chin up. “Was the fight worth the pain?”

So many questions and not enough answers. “I don't know. It was necessary.” I couldn't reveal our problems to a stranger. What if she wanted to call the police, even out of pity? Were all Americans this nosy?

Cecelia patted my shoulder and moved on to the next booth to fill empty coffee cups.

The skinny girl rose as Cecelia walked by. “I can work just for tips and food. It will be good for both of us,” said the girl.

“No, you can't. You aren't of age, and that isn't legal. Next thing, your brother would be dealing
drugs out of this place. I'm sorry, Flora, but you can't hang around here. You gotta go.” Cecelia pointed at the door.

I looked away from the girl, because I had enough problems of my own.

Just like Mama said in Matamoras, I couldn't feed every beggar.

Mexican pesos.

I approached Cecelia at the front register. “I have a problem.” A tight feeling gripped my stomach, because it would be easy for the waitress to trick me and steal the money. She smiled with her golden teeth. Why would she help me when she couldn't help the skinny girl?

I held in my hand a few thousand pesos, what I thought would be the equivalent of the same meal in Mexico. It's not like we ate in restaurants in Cedula,
either, so who knows if I was even close.

When in doubt, pretend that you know what you are doing.
Grandma always whispered this to me when I was left alone at the market with the fruit.

“I don't have dollars—” I paused, grasping for confidence. “Yet.”

Papa once told me to
look people in the eye
. The first one to look away is weaker, and you can dictate the price. “Can you tell me a place to make a fair exchange?” I asked. I had to sound like an adult.

Mama savored the word “fair.” She avoided saying “best” or “final,” because there was always a lower price than
best
or
final
, but a
fair
price, that was the deal you wanted.

Cecelia squeezed her lips into a fat smile, which made her eyes close. “
No problema.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Everything had been so hard. All we had to do was find Papa. Or was it?

Cecelia wrinkled her forehead in concern and touched my cheek in kindness. “It's okay, you know. You're not the first person to arrive here like this,” said Cecelia.

How did Cecelia know we'd just arrived? Was there a blinking sign on my forehead?

“I must see two or three people a month like you.
Hot, sweaty, tired. Like you've escaped a cage. My parents arrived by crossing the river in a wagon from Laredo. My mother almost drowned until my grandfather saved her by grabbing her ponytail and pulling her out of the water. Many people come this way.” She told the story as if it were coming from a book.

I pulled my hand to my forehead. “We came hidden in the back of a truck. We're looking for my father. The truck driver fought us for more money.”

“Don't worry about it.” She pushed my hand with the pesos toward my pocket. “The meal is free. As for your papa, do you have any idea where he is?”

“No, we don't even have an address. No family here. Not even a place to stay.” I realized that this entire trip had been my idea, and I didn't know what to do next.

“I thought this was going to be easier.” We were lost and had no place to go. “We just want to find him and go home.”

Cecelia offered a suggestion. “My cousin has some rooms to rent. It's not far from here. Safer than the streets or shelters.”

“I need a fair price.” There was that word again. “Fair.” Not best. Not lowest. “We can pay, but it must
be fair.” I didn't even know what a fair price was.

I saw Mama's eyes flutter open at the table. Her cheeks had a warm glow, instead of the pallor of old, stale coffee, as we walked out into the hot air.

Grandma's voice echoed in my head.
When in doubt, start at home.

As we walked out of the
taquería
, I took in the details all around us. The wooden apartments had better paint than in Mexico. More room existed between each building. Sprouts of grass tried to grow. I didn't see as many dogs eating garbage, either. Other than that, this place looked just like Mexico, except with newer cars.

I wondered how we would find Papa, because home would be where he was.

Here in the streets of Houston.

Every part of me was hot. The trash by the curb smelled ripe, like a new version of stink candle. Even though our place in Cedula was falling apart, we kept it very clean. Neat and tidy made things feel safe. A flimsy screen door opened and out came a large woman in a flowered dress.

“Hola, ¿como estás?”
said the woman extending her hand to my mother.

I stepped forward. “
Buenas tardes, señora
. Cecelia sent me.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, turning to face me. “I'm Yolanda. I have a good place for you. One bed, a small kitchen with a table, and a
baño
. Sixty-five dollars a week. Rent is due on Sundays.”

I peeked inside. The place smelled like someone had already been peeing inside, and not in a toilet. I tried to convince myself I had still done a good thing.

“We'll have an indoor bathroom?” Mama asked. Papa promised when he returned we would install indoor plumbing from a new well. Both ideas dried up in his absence.

“Yes, Mama,” I said softly.

“The park is across the street. A nice place, full of people on the weekend. This is a great location,” said Yolanda.

The empty park was dotted with picnic benches. In the distance sat a barbecue pit inside a pavilion.

I gave Mama a sideways glance, but she looked a bit dizzy. Perhaps we could find something better? It seemed like a lot of money, but she was in no condition to continue looking. I got us into this mess; it was my job to get us out. Besides, it shouldn't take that long to find Papa, and then we could leave.

A cool breeze came from nowhere and blew hair into my eyes. I took a deep breath. Salt. Brackish air
floated from the park. How far away was the ocean? The trees rustled like a gentle giggle. I turned and saw large trees behind the building. They were larger than the grapefruit trees from our orchard and they waved a welcome hello.

I would just clean it up. I would show Mama how smart I really was.

“We'll take it for sixty,” I said.

This was our new home. It didn't matter what it smelled like.