Kind of Kin (37 page)

Saturday
| March 8, 2008 | 7:00
P.M.

Garvin County Immigration Detention Center

Pauls Valley, Oklahoma

T
here are
holes in the wall near the floor where the rats run. The room is crowded, dark,
the stink bad. But Luis will be here only a few days more, the woman lawyer has
told him. Only until the deportation papers are completed; then he will be put
on the bus back to Mexico. Luis hopes she is correct. Though the sadness is
strong in him, because he has not been able to see his sons, nevertheless, to
return to Arroyo Seco will be better than to stay in this place. The stench here
is very bad—more bad than the first jail, where the officers in the tan uniforms
first put him. More bad even than the second jail, where the police drove many
hours to deliver him. They took Luis from the van in handcuffs and delivered him
to the gringo sheriff, who walked him along a midnight blue hallway and locked
him in a concrete cell alone.

The second jail was where the woman lawyer first
came to talk with him. She said that Luis must go to the court the next day and
stand before a judge—not for the crime of entering the United States illegally,
she said, but for kidnapping the boy and stealing the old truck. Luis asked her
what would be the punishment for such crimes.
For stealing
the truck,
she said in her clumsy spanish,
many
years in the prison. For stealing the boy, maybe the whole of your life.
She shrugged, her shoulders large, her face calm.
But first it must be determined that a crime has been committed. This is
the purpose of the preliminary hearing. I will see you in the courtroom
tomorrow.
Luis protested then, telling her that he had no money to
pay her.
No worries,
she said.
In this country, the law is the law.
Then she left him before Luis
could think to ask her about the boy, if he was well, if he was still in the
hospital.

In the courtroom the next day, the lawyer talked
quietly, continuously, in his ear, making all the translations, and Luis could
find no good opportunity to ask about the boy. Her spanish was thick, harshly
accented, but clear enough for Luis to understand that the testimony did not go
well for him. One police sat in the chair beside the judge and told of finding
the truck of the grandfather in the arroyo. Another officer told of arresting
Luis in the hospital room where the boy lay very sick. The woman indian doctor
told how the boy arrived at the clinic with so much sickness it was necessary to
carry him to the hospital. The boy suffered from pneumonia, the doctor said, a
bad throat infection, insufficient food, insufficient water, too much cold, an
injured wrist.
Yes,
she repeated each time the large
man asked the question:
Yes, the defendant, Mister Celayo,
was present in the hospital room with the boy.

Luis remembers his confusion when all the people in
the courtroom turned their heads at the same moment, and so Luis also turned to
look, and there, beside the door, stood the boy, with the aunt beside him, her
hand upon his shoulder. The boy appeared so small and thin, his clothes too
large for him, his hair combed to the side and slicked down. The boy walked
alone across the sunlit floor, cradling his bandaged arm. Luis had felt a little
sad, but also fearful, because the boy would not look at him as he stood beside
the judge with his good hand raised, swearing to tell the truth, all the truth,
and only the truth, with the help of God.

Then the large man in the gray suit with the great
mane of gray hair stood in front of the boy. He spoke very kindly, asking the
simple questions: What is your name? How many years have you? Where do you live?
All this the lawyer translated for Luis. The gray man asked the boy where he had
been on the night of february twenty this year.

I dont know
, the boy
answered.

¿Do you remember that
night?
the gray man asked.

I dont know,
the boy
said.

It was a wednesday. Two weeks
ago. The twenty of february. ¿Do you remember now?

I think so.

¿What happened to you that
night?

Nothing
.
You mean my arm?

Well, yes, all right, we can
start with your arm. ¿What happened to your arm?

I hurt it.

How?

I fell off the
bike.

The gray man frowned, walked over to his table,
looked down at some papers.
¿And what happened after you
fell off your bike?
he said.

It was not my bike, it belongs
to my cousin.

All right. And what happened
after you fell off the bike of your cousin?

I decided to drive the truck
of my grandfather to Tulsa.

Then the gray man really frowned. He looked again
at the papers, moved them around on the table. His voice, when he spoke again,
was not so sympathetic:
¿Did you make a report to the
sheriff about the events of that night?

I guess,
the boy
said
. He was asking me questions.

The gray man carried to the boy a piece of paper.
Is this your signature?

Yes.

Ask that the record reflect
the witness has identified his own signature on the Latimer County Sheriff
Report.

The record so reflect,
the clerk said.

¿And what did you tell the
sheriff about what happened that night?
the gray man asked

Luis remembers how the boy sat without moving, and
still he would not look at Luis, and his voice when he answered was so soft that
the judge said he must speak more loudly. In a high clear voice then, the boy
said,
I dont remember
.

¿Did you tell the sheriff that
you rode in the truck with someone?

I might have said a person
rode with me.

All right. ¿Who rode in the
truck with you?

Mister Celayo.

¿And is Mister Celayo in the
room today?

Yes.

¿Could you show the court
which person he is?

The boy lifted his good arm and pointed at Luis.
There,
he said.

Ask that the record reflect
the witness has identified the defendant.

The record so
reflect.

Then the man in the gray suit asked another
question, but Luis was not able to know the question because beside him the
woman lawyer jumped up quickly, very red in the face, her hair brown, her
shoulders big. The woman called out many rapid words in english. There was a
quick, sharp conversation between her and the man in gray and also the judge,
until finally the lawyer sat down. She was not happy with what the gray man
said, what the judge said. She no longer translated for Luis but stood again and
again to say
Ob-jeck-shun! Ob-jeck-shun!
But the man
in the gray suit continued, and the judge did not stop him. Then the woman
lawyer began once again to tell Luis in her flat american voice what the boy was
saying—but not in whispers; she said the words very loud:

Yes, this was my own
idea,
she said the boy said.
I am the person who
drove the truck to Tulsa. I am also the person who drove the truck into the
arroyo when the radiator broke. Yes, sir, I am the person
.
I am not lying.
I know how to drive. I have been driving the truck of my
grandfather for many years. Yes, sir, I know what it means to swear on the
Bible. But I tell you the truth. If someone must be charged with stealing
the truck of my grandfather, this should be me.

The judge was frowning. The man in the gray suit
was frowning. All around the crowded courtroom many people were frowning. The
man in the gray suit returned to the table, grabbed up a paper, waved it at the
boy. He said in a cold voice,
¿What did you declare to the
sheriff in this signed affidavit about where the defendant took
you?

¿The defendant?

Mister Celayo.

The defendant didnt take me.
This was my own idea. To transport the illegal mexican man
myself.

The face of the gray man became very red.
You transported the illegal alien yourself,
he
repeated, looking not at the boy but all around the courtroom, as if he could
not believe such crazy words. Then he came close to the boy, stood over him,
very large and sweating, his face red, his voice loud.
¿And
just how was this smuggling operation of yours financed, little
boy?

I stole the money from my
aunt.

¡You stole—! ¿Your Honor, may
I approach?

Then the woman lawyer too was standing in front of
the judge with the man in gray; they were talking, talking, and the boy remained
very quiet in the chair beside them, very somber, staring straight ahead with
his face that was too old for such a young boy. No one was nearby to translate
for Luis. He sat at the table inside the bell of silence of one who does not
understand the words being spoken around him. Then the boy turned his gaze. The
english voices went on chittering and clicking very loud, but Luis and the boy
greeted each other in silence. No expression passed between them, no smile or
nod or gesture, but the silent greeting leaped across the sun-swept room, from
the boy to Luis, and back again:
Hello, friend. It is well.
No problem.
Okay
.

Saturday
| March 8, 2008 | 7:30
P.M.

Sweet's house | Cedar

S
weet
checked the fridge again. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to have to
go to the store. They'd been living on canned tuna and frozen pizza and macaroni
and cheese all week, but now they were out of almost everything. Well, she'd go
tomorrow, after they visited Daddy. Oh, she dreaded it, though—the thought of
people's eyes watching her in the aisles at Roy's as she pushed the cart.
Watching Dustin. Coming over and trying to get him to talk. But maybe they
wouldn't. People around here were mostly decent that way. Or maybe she could
just let him wait in the car. But she couldn't keep him protected forever, they
couldn't stay cooped up in this house together forever. They had to live in the
world. She listened a moment toward the hall. The shower was still running.
Well. Maybe they could get by a few days more. She went to the pantry to see if
she had powdered milk and cornbread mix. The phone rang. After seven o'clock on
a Saturday evening, who could be calling except a reporter, or . . .
She rushed to the counter to grab the phone.

“Hey.” Misty Dawn's faint bored voice. “Aunt Sweet?
It's me.”

“I'm glad you called, don't hang up! But don't say
anything, okay?”

“Huh?”

“Like location. Or any certain person's name.”

“Oh,” Misty said, and then after a beat. “Right,
okay.”

It wasn't probable her phone was tapped, but Sweet
couldn't be sure. She felt like she couldn't be sure of anything. “How's it
going?” she said.

“Okay, sort of.”

“How's the baby?”

“She's okay.”

“I'm really glad to hear from you. I was worried.
Hey, we've got good news here, you know it? Dustin's home. And things are
looking better for Daddy. Or he's got a lawyer anyway. And they dropped the
harboring charge. So now it's just, you know, that assault charge, but the
lawyer says—”

“Assault? What assault?”

“Oh, just . . . never mind. We're working
on it.” Arvin Holloway had been furious when the D.A. dropped the harboring
charges, even though it was Holloway himself who'd screwed up the paperwork, a
bad warrant or something. Naturally he'd thrown the book at Daddy for what he
could
charge him with—felony aggravated assault
with a dangerous weapon, which it turned out was way worse than harboring
illegal aliens. Her daddy could get sent to prison for ten years, the lawyer
said, just for jumping on Terry, but who could even blame him for that, really?
Well, a lot of people, actually, the lawyer said. Not to mention the whole scene
had been caught on camera. So that was the main problem right now—whether to
take the plea bargain or let her daddy take a chance on going to trial. Well,
and also the problem of where was she going to get the money to pay for the
lawyer. But of course Misty Dawn wouldn't know anything about all that, and
Sweet didn't want to go into it right now. “So, y'all are doing okay, huh?”

“Not really. I mean, we're here in this lousy motel
by the train—”

“Hush! Don't say anything!”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay. Anyway, you know. There's no
money. We got a job though. So that's good.”

“That's great.”

“Just, he won't—it's going to be a while before we
get paid.”

“Okay.” Sweet checked the caller ID, scribbled the
number down on the notepad. “Can I call you at this number?”

“It's a pay phone. The Kum'n'Go on the corner by
the—”

“All right!” Sweet cut her off. “Let me just think
a minute.” The same story, the same story, the same, same old story. “But the
baby's all right?”

“Yeah. She's better since we—” This time Misty Dawn
caught herself. “Yeah, she's doing good.”

“Tell you what, you be at this number nine o'clock
Monday morning. I'll call ya. I'll have something figured out by then.”

“Monday. That's a long time.”

“A day and a half.”

Silence on the other end.

“It's the best I can do. There's a lot going on
here.”

“Yeah, okay.” More silence.

“What?” Sweet said.

“Just. We were wondering. All our stuff's at the
house.”

“What?”

“You know, all our clothes and, well, everything.
Everything we own.”

The jewel-colored towels folded and stacked by
size. The worn, blanket-draped loveseat. The small, dim portable TV.

“We thought maybe you could go up and get it?”
Misty said. “The rent's been due like three weeks. The landlord will probably
just haul it off, or keep it. It's everything we got in the world.”

“Why don't you have your friends in Tulsa go get
it? That Bianca woman.”

“They can't. They're not there. Actually, they're
down here with us, that's how Juan—how we got a job.”

“I can't be seen going in there! No. Just leave it.
You can get new stuff. It's not like it's worth anything.”

“Our marriage license is there, Concepción's birth
certificate. All her baby pictures.”

“Oh, Misty.”

A sudden coin-dropping mechanical sound, followed
by a digital female voice:
Please deposit three dollars for
the next minute.
“I gotta go. I don't have any more quarters. Please,
Aunt Sweet? I won't ask for anything else, I promise.”
Please deposit three dollars for the next minute.
“We need our
stuff! We got to be able to prove our baby was born here! You never know from
one second to the next if—”

“Misty? Hello?” Sweet pushed the disconnect bar a
few times, though she knew the line was dead. She stood blinking at the blank
caller ID a moment before she finally thought to redial the number. It rang and
rang.

A man's voice answered. “Hello.”

“Is, is Misty there?”

“Who?”

“Um, a girl, Misty. She's tall, got long
sandy—”

“This is a pay phone, lady. I don't see nobody
around.”