Into the Beautiful North (34 page)

“Excuse me?”

“You started something, m’ija! I am trying to figure out how to organize the women to send expeditions to Chicago and Los Angeles. Drag some of these fools back where they belong.” A male mumble in the background. “Yes, dear. Chava says I will become president of Mexico on a repatriation ticket!”

Nayeli grimaced: there was a long smooch.

They made up some chatter. Everyone was all right—Vampi was in love; Yolo was in love; Atómiko was still a complete, indefensible idiot (said fondly); Nayeli’s mother was doing well and had recently screened a Godzilla film festival to great local acclaim.

“I am so tired,” Nayeli finally confessed.

“Don’t despair,” Irma told her. “You changed the world.”

“I did nothing, Tía.”

“Look,” Irma said. Nayeli heard her order Chava out of the room. Shuffling. Then: “Are you still there? Good. Look—you did something I could never do. You came here on a mission. Why do you think I allowed you to come? Eh? Why? Because you are the future. You had to be tested. And you passed.”

Nayeli said, “I am not strong like you.”

“Let me tell you something, Nayeli,” Irma replied. “And I will deny ever having said this. You are stronger than I’ll ever be. Yes, I am Irma! Yes, I am La Osa! Yes, I am the women’s bowling champion of Sinaloa! But I am only that person in my village. Do you see?”

Nayeli was silent.

“I am a coward, Nayeli. I can’t be a hero in the big world—it scares me. Exhausts me. I belong in Tres Camarones. They need Tía Irma to run things. But the rest of the world? Ay… Why do you think I needed you to be the warrior? Now, go get your father and kick his ass.”

She hung up.

In the dark, Tacho said, “Nayeli? I want to go home.”

She sat beside him and put the washcloth on his forehead.

“Tachito-Machito, mi flor,” she cooed. “What about Hollywood? What about Beberly Hills?”

He shook his head under her hand.

“Sweetheart,” he said. “People like us? We don’t marry Johnny Depp.”

She sat with him until he fell asleep.

Chapter Thirty-four

I
n the morning, Nayeli tucked Tacho in and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. She wore her running shoes and the big sweatshirt. High orange-and-black clouds scuttled toward Indiana. She tucked her postcard back into her pocket. She was utterly on her own.

She walked down to El Gallito and tapped on the window.

“Hey,” the guy inside said, “this is a drive-through. You’ll get run over.”

“Hola,” she said.

“Quiubo,” he replied, nodding once. “Want a taco?”

“I’m looking for my father,” she said.

“Do you live here?”

“No, I came from Sinaloa.”

“Ah.” He stirred a pot of beans. Made her a burrito with cheese.

“What do I owe you?” she asked as he handed it out to her.

“One smile, Sinaloa.”

She smiled like the sunrise.

“I am Nayeli.”

“What’s your jefito’s name?”

“Pepe Cervantes.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He came here a few years ago.”

“I probably feed him. But I don’t ask anybody their names. You know.”

A car pulled up on the other side of the shack.

“I got work,” he said. “Try the library.”

“The library?”

“It’s the big silver building downtown. They help everybody.”

“But… I’m, we’re…”

He laughed.

“This is Kankakee, morra! They like Mexicans here!”

She marched. Court Street was long and old. Behind her, the Mary-crest Lanes bowling alley: she idly imagined La Osa decimating opponents there. City Housing Authority. Youth for Christ City Life. Aunt Martha’s Youth Service Center. Trendz Beauty. King Middle School. She was shocked at how out of shape she was: her feet and legs hurt. Back home, she would have run this as a warm-up for a game.

“I am getting old,” she said out loud.

When she got downtown, she approached the big silver monolith with caution. She followed the sidewalk down a hill and went to the lower doors of the library. She had never entered such a beautiful building before. Come to think of it, she had never been in a public library, either. A small group of Mexican kids sat on the bench outside, murmuring and laughing. She nodded to them and stepped through the glass doors.

So many books!

She stood there, looking around. Tables with computers. Elevators. A huge desk with white people to her right. She felt stupid and rural. She started to walk back out but was embarrassed to walk past the Mexican kids again. She went back in and sat on a soft chair and looked at the brightly lit room.

One of the white men behind the big counter saw her and went to a slender white woman and whispered in her ear. She looked up at Nayeli. She had short brownish hair and wore glasses. Nayeli liked the big hoops in her ears. Expecting a frown, Nayeli ducked her head. But the woman smiled when she looked back up. Nayeli smiled. The woman nodded her head and went back to her task.

Nayeli searched all the faces. She didn’t recognize anybody. She wondered if she would know her father now if she saw him. Had he changed?

She sat down at the computer tables and clicked on the Internet. She started trolling. She Googled Tres Camarones.

“Do you need help?” a voice said.

Nayeli looked up. It was the smiling woman. Her name tag said:
MARY-JO
.

“¿Habla español?” Nayeli asked.

Mary-Jo laughed and held her fingers in the air, forming a li’l pinch.

“¡Muy poco!” she said.

Nayeli laughed.

“I look for my father,” she said in English.

The young man from the desk walked by and said, “Miss Mary-Jo runs this city!” Mary-Jo waved him away. “You’re in good hands,” he called.

“Are you the… mayor?” Nayeli asked.

Mary-Jo laughed again, shook her head.

“My aunt is mayor,” Nayeli explained, “in my town.”

“Where’s that?”

“Sinaloa.”

Mary-Jo put a finger to her chin, thought.

“Come with me,” she said.

Nayeli matched her brisk pace as they went behind the desk. She felt self-conscious, like everybody was watching her. But of course no one even looked.

Mary-Jo tapped on a chair back with her fingertips. Nayeli sat.

“We have some Sinaloans in town, I think. Working in the greenhouses. But most of your paisanos come from Guanajuato.”

She grabbed a phone.

“Our sister city.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

Mary-Jo punched in some numbers.

“I’ll call the police.”

Nayeli started to jump up, but Mary-Jo took her wrist.

“Sit,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

She smiled into the phone.

“Hi. It’s me. Yeah, I always need something. Librarians never rest, didn’t you know that? Can you run over here for a sec? I’ll give you a cookie. Oh, good! Bye!” She smiled at Nayeli. “How about you?” she asked. “Would you like a cookie?”

Baffled, Nayeli accepted a vast sugar cookie and a pink napkin.

After a few minutes, a huge Mexican American detective walked in. He wore a suit, but Nayeli could see the cuffs on his belt. He had a badge on his jacket.

Mary-Jo said, “Nayeli’s looking for her dad. From Sinaloa.”

“Cervantes,” Nayeli said. “Pepe.”

“You come all the way from Sinaloa?” the cop asked.

“Excuse?” Nayeli asked.

“¿Viniste desde Sinaloa?”

“Sí.”

He whistled.

“That’s a long trip.”

He got on Mary-Jo’s phone and made several calls. Mary-Jo smiled at Nayeli. “I love Mexico,” she said. “It’s such a fascinating country!”

“Yes,” Nayeli managed to say.

Mary-Jo patted her arm.

“Mexicanos,” she said in accented Spanish, “son nuestros hermanos. En Kankakee—todos son bienvenidos.” She beamed. So did Nayeli.

The cop dialed around for half an hour, jotting notes. He finally hung up the phone. Looked at his notebook.

“There’s a gentleman,” he said, “on the north end, around the corner from Donna’s. Might be our man.”

“Donna’s is our pink building,” Mary-Jo said. “It’s quite a sight.”

“Yes, I saw. Pepto-Bismol!”

The librarian and the cop burst out laughing.

He jotted down the address on a sticky note.

“Got a car?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Mary-Jo said. “I never went for lunch. Why don’t I take her myself.”

“Are you sure? I can take her.”

“No, no. I’ll be glad to do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, that’s all right.”

They were actually arguing about doing something nice for Nayeli. She loved KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS. It was the strangest place she had ever been.

It’s not far,” Mary-Jo said as they got into her car. “Just take a minute.”

They pulled out of the lot and turned up the hill and beat it through the yellow light at the intersection.

“Our town,” Mary-Jo said, “has seen some hard times. But it’s a wonderful place. We’re bringing it back.”

They drove through the northern end of town, past the bathtub Jesus, to a small street near Donna’s pink emporium.

“This is the street,” Mary-Jo said. She slowed to make the turn, stopped at the stop sign.

“Is OK. I walk from here.”

“Oh no, dear. I couldn’t just drop you off.”

“Yes, please. I must go. Sola. Yes? Is my father. Ha pasado mucho tiempo, y usted sabe que es difícil para mi.”

Mary-Jo looked at her. She nodded. She gave Nayeli a small hug.

“Good luck,” she said.

Nayeli got out.

“Gracias,” she said, unable to say more.

Miss Mary-Jo waved her fingers and grinned and spun a quick U-turn and drove back into town. Nayeli stood and watched her go. She had the address in her hand. She breathed deeply and turned and started to walk.

She squinted at the doors of the little houses. Some of the people here had statues of geese in their yards, and they had dressed these geese in long skirts and bonnets, or in overalls. Nayeli didn’t understand what the goose thing was all about. She apparently missed the address, too, because she ended up at a dead end. A barrier ran between two cottonwoods, and beyond it, a little green tractor sliced the mud of a field into curls of deep chocolate, as if God’s own birthday cake were on the platter. Beyond the field, old highway 57 carried its endless stream of big trucks. Maybe she’d have a big black chocolate cake with her father when they celebrated.

She turned back and started walking the other way, watching for the number.

Was he there? Did he share a house with other men? Was he well? Surely he would laugh when he saw her. He would hurry to her and lift her in the air and spin around like he did when she was small. He would smell of Old Spice and his whiskers would prickle her face and she would cry,
¡Papá!

What would she tell him? Where would she begin? With Irma’s election? With Yul Brynner? She laughed out loud.
¡Ay, Tía Irma! Yul Brynner!
She put her hand over her mouth—she didn’t want people thinking she was a madwoman. She snorted.

The trip, the Border Patrol, the dump… it had all been worth it. Just to take her father home. Just to see her mother’s face. She bounced on her sore feet.

She passed the cross street and walked on. A big new pickup stopped behind her at the cross and made a left turn. She could hear the music beating from the cab as it drove up behind her then passed slowly. Some accordion banda music. Crazy norteño cowboy music.

The truck was a fat-bottom Dodge, electric blue. It had four wheels in back, and a bright silver toolbox in the bed. Twin aerials waved in the air. On one, the US flag, and on the other, the Mexican flag. Nayeli laughed again: in the darkened back window of the cab, there was a white cartoon of a bad boy peeing.

The big truck banged up into a driveway and shut down. The music snapped off. The door opened and a pudgy woman in yellow stretch pants crawled out of the passenger’s side. She reached into the back—there were more seats back there. She unbuckled a toddler from a car seat and hefted him onto her hip. Nayeli could hear her voice but not what she was saying. She hurried, hoping to ask her if she knew Papá.

The driver got out on his side. He slammed the door and came around to the woman’s side. He wore a straw cowboy hat and boots and tight jeans. Nayeli stopped where she was.