“Austin Pets Alive! is behind the YMCA,” said Camilla. “Come on, we’ll take my Honda Odyssey.”
“You should put on a dress or something,” I said.
“American prude!” cried Camilla. “But good point, regardless.”
The girls were apoplectic with excitement as we drove toward the animal shelter. I could never remember which was Ella and which was Bella, so I addressed them in the plural. “Girls,” I said, turning around to face them, “I’m not positive we’re getting a dog today. I probably need to do some research first. This is just a fact-finding mission.”
“I love puppies!” shouted one of them.
“I love puppies, too!” screamed the other.
“You’re going to have to get the dog right now,” said Camilla. “I’m sorry, but they’ll be too upset if not.”
“Camilla,” I said, “getting a dog is a big decision. This trip … it’s a lark. We’re just having fun.”
“I hear you,” said Camilla. “I wouldn’t want to clean up the shit of the dog either.”
We parked in front of the shelter. When we exited Camilla’s minivan, we could hear the frantic yelping of caged dogs. “Oh, God,” I murmured, remembering the mongrels that had rushed my car near Evian’s house. What the hell was I doing?
“Girls,” said Camilla, “this is a no-kill shelter. Which means if Alice doesn’t get a dog today, she can get the dog tomorrow!” She clapped her hands, and the girls nodded seriously.
“You’re a great mom,” I said.
“I love it very much,” said Camilla. “Who knew? This was what I was meant to be, when I thought I was meant to be famous.” She winked. “Like you and Jake,” she said. I blushed; we had been on the front page of the Statesman the week before, and Bon Appétit was planning a visit. There was even word of Jake joining the cast of a new reality TV show called Barbecue This!
As we ambled toward the shelter, I tried to ignore an acrid smell of urine and ammonia. I pushed open the door to the office, and a genial man with a ponytail greeted us. “What can we do for you today?” he asked.
“We’re just looking around,” I said.
“We’re getting a puppy!” cried one of the girls.
“Is that right?” said the man, smiling.
“Maybe,” I said. I had begun to regret the entire expedition. Visiting these desperate animals wasn’t a lark, as I myself had called it. Even if I did adopt one of these abandoned animals, I would leave the rest behind. I felt useless and sad.
“Have a look around,” he said. “Dogs to your left, cats to your right. You can take any dog you want for a walk. Just let us know.”
As soon as we approached the row of cages, my stomach began to hurt. There were so many of them—bounding toward us, some barking, others sitting very still. The large majority of the animals seemed to be pit bulls. Each had been given a name, and a placard was filled out, describing their personalities. Charlie is rambunctious and would be happy in an active family with children! Roxanne needs one-on-one attention and will thrive in a childless home! Young volunteers rinsed bowls and consulted clipboards, nodding as we passed. Classical music played loudly. The girls fell quiet, and I wondered if this place—the enormous need on display—was too much for them. Camilla walked slowly past the dogs, stopping to peer in at each one.
In a far corner, I saw a puppy sitting quietly. He met my gaze and cocked his head. “Camilla,” I said, grasping her arm.
“Ah, there he is,” she said, following my look and nodding.
I approached the little dog. Justin Bieber is six weeks old. He’s sweet and energetic and needs a forever family! The puppy was part Bernese mountain dog for sure, but smaller than a purebred. He began to pant, standing up on all fours, but did not bark. I held out my hand, and he came forward, touched his cold nose to my palm. “Hey, you,” I said. He looked at my face, hope pure and painful in his eyes.
I turned around to see Camilla smiling at me, her arms tight around her girls.
“Oh, boy,” I said.
“Oh, boy,” agreed Camilla.
19
Carla
WE SPENT THE first night away from home in a Guatemalan graveyard. I held Junior in my arms as he slept fitfully, gasping once in a while, as if still underwater. Ernesto lay atop another grave, smoking his last cigarettes. We were hungry but expectant: in the morning, we would take buses to the train station in Arriaga, Mexico, where we could climb on top of The Beast. The border crossing between Guatemala and Mexico was dangerous, Ernesto whispered. He had made the journey to America twelve times. (This was his thirteenth.)
His first time, he said, was with his father, who worked picking oranges in Florida. Ernesto hated the groves, hated the tiny motel room shared with twenty men, the way his father drank beer and cursed at him. On rainy days—and sometimes the rain lasted for weeks!—the men watched television all day long, packed into one room, growing agitated. It was terrible, said Ernesto. When I asked him how old he had been during his first year in America, Ernesto gestured toward my sleeping six-year-old brother with his cigarette. “His age, about,” he said. Still, Ernesto’s father had thought him big enough to climb ladders into orange trees, grabbing fruit as fast as he was able, holding a large and heavy sack over his shoulder.
In Florida, Ernesto had missed his mother and sisters, who had remained in Honduras. One night while his father and the other men were out at a nearby cantina, Ernesto ran away. The money he had stolen got him a bus ticket to Los Angeles, where he hoped he could find a family like the ones he saw on his favorite television show, Beverly Hills, 90210. But before he reached the state he had dreamed about, someone on the bus reported him as an unaccompanied minor, and he was deported.
Life in his Honduran village no longer fit Ernesto. His mother was strict, and Ernesto bridled at her rules, talking back, even hitting her. Within six months, she hired a coyote to bring him back to his father, where he could earn money and be out of her hair. They did not ride The Beast, but traveled by combi all the way to the Texas border, where fake papers got him into Laredo and on a bus to Florida.
Upon his return, his father beat him until he cried, gave him one day in the motel room to recover, then handed him a sack and brought him back to the groves. “I ran away again,” said Ernesto, “and this time I reached Los Angeles. It was not, of course, like the television show. But after a bad time, I found my family. My real family.”
“Your real family,” I repeated.