In the dream, Humberto fed me with a warm wooden spoon. There were bad people outside the house, but Humberto had installed a large padlock. I felt a fragile peace.
When a guard opened the cell door in the morning, I jumped up, all the calm of my dream falling from me as if it were a skin I had outgrown. The guard’s eyes slid up and down my body like hungry hands. I looked at the floor and prayed he would not touch me. “You have family in America?” he said. His voice was rough, and my heart beat terribly, thumping at my rib cage as if it would escape.
“My mother,” I whispered. I must have been somewhat delirious. “I want my mother,” I said. My eyes filled stupidly with tears.
“Breakfast,” he said, handing me a tray of bread and water and then closing the cell again. I dried my eyes and ate.
The bus to Honduras was empty but for me and one man, a skinny man with thick eyebrows. It made me upset to think about the cost of the gasoline to drive me and one man all the way back to Tegu. I could have fed Junior for a year with the money. I tried not to ask God why He would allow this, but a voice in my head said anyway, “Why?” Maybe God was taking care of the man who owned the bus, or the old man who drove us, his expression placid as a cow’s.
The bus lumbered to the edge of town. I rested my head on the seat, looking out the dusty window. It was early in the day, most of the shops still shuttered, no children playing outside. The driver turned down an alley. Sharply, the bus pulled to the side and stopped. I sat up, panic igniting in my veins. The other Honduran looked relaxed, as if he knew what was going on. My mouth was dry; I waited. The voice I could not silence in my mind said, Please, God. Please, God. The driver opened the door.
The Honduran man with the large eyebrows stood. “It’s your lucky day, little girl,” he said. “Come.” I lifted my gaze, unsure if I had heard him correctly.
“Let’s go,” he repeated.
My mouth opened. I was scared, wondering what he wanted from me. (I figured it was going to hurt, whatever it was.) I rose and stepped hesitantly toward the man, expecting him to grab me, force me down.
We moved toward the door of the bus and the driver did not look at us, just waited. We stepped into the alleyway. The Honduran man bid me to follow him, and I did, ducking behind a building. The bus started up and drove away.
“You can go,” said the man, once we were out of sight. “Unless you have money for the coyote. What an idiot! But at least he paid the Zetas in time.” He rubbed his eyes.
I didn’t know what he was talking about, though I understand now. The drug cartels in Mexico run everything from the prisons to the human-smuggling coyotes. If a coyote falls behind on payments, his cargo is taken away. As soon as my fellow passenger’s coyote paid the Zetas (who controlled the town we were in), the cartel ordered his release. God had not left me alone. He had put me on a bus that would not leave town.
I took advantage of God’s kindness, the first good thing anyone had done for me in some time. I looked up and down the street, then began to run. I pushed my sore legs against the ground, breathing deeply, moving fast. In the distance, I heard the siren of the train. I could climb atop the train at any time, I knew. I could find my brother, and bring him to America. God was with me.
30
Alice
I WOKE TO THE smell of coffee. Bleary-eyed, I pulled on my ratty robe and opened the bedroom door. Jake was frying eggs in the kitchen next to Lainey, who wore a leather miniskirt and boots that came up above her knees. Her hair was in a bun on the very top of her head, a look I didn’t understand but surmised was chic. Lainey leaned close, smelling Jake’s pan. I put my shoulders back and ran my fingers through my hair, wishing desperately that I had a more glamorous robe to pull on … a kimono, something silk. “Oh, hey,” said Lainey. “I’m so sorry, did we wake you?”
“Not at all,” I said breezily. I made my way quickly to the bathroom, but the door was locked.
“Evian’s in the shower,” said Jake without inflection.
“It’s so funny you have a teenager on your couch,” said Lainey. “Named Evian,” she added.
“Oh, she just needed a place to crash, you know?” I said, my words coming fast and screechy, as if I had no control over my mouth.
“This house is adorable,” said Lainey. “It is so cute. In New York, this place would be huge!”
I went back inside the bedroom and closed the door. There was nothing for me to add to the breakfast confab. I sat down on the bed, considering climbing back under the covers. Instead, I opened my bureau drawer and found a sweater dress that was a bit pilled and stretched out. I took off my pajamas, donned the dress, and added turquoise vintage boots and lipstick. I brushed my hair and pulled it back. Thinking of Evian, I applied mascara. I threw open the bedroom door for the second time, feeling more ready to defend my house and husband. “I love eggs!” I trilled.
Lainey was already out the door, trailed by Pete, who leapt into the truck. Jake had his overnight duffel in his hand. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry, there wasn’t enough.…” I followed his gaze to the kitchen, where two plates and the frying pan sat in a sink full of soapy water. “There’s some coffee,” said Jake.
“Okay,” I said.
“We’ve got to get going,” said Jake.
“Sure,” I said.
Jake smiled at me, and I smiled back. “I love those boots,” he said.
“And I love your—” My sexy statement was cut short by the bathroom door slamming open and Evian appearing in a cloud of fruit-scented steam, a toothbrush in one hand, her phone in the other. She wore tight jeans and a midriff-baring T-shirt.
“Adios,” said Jake, exiting quickly and jogging toward Lainey, who could be heard saying, “I love your neighborhood’s atmosphere. Like East Village meets Rio meets … Perth!”
“You’re out of shampoo,” said Evian, sitting on the couch, staring at her phone.
“Evian,” I said. “We need to talk about what happened last night.”
Obsequiously, she folded her hands in her lap and looked up. “Yes?” she said.
“Who were those men?”
“I’m going to be late for school, Ms. Conroe,” she said. “Maybe we can talk about this later? Um, are you driving me?”
“I guess so,” I said, filling my mug with coffee.
As we made our way to the car, Evian commented, “If I were you, Ms. Conroe, I’d keep my eye on that New York slut with the meth bun.”
“Evian!” I said, unlocking the car doors. “You can’t use language like that, honey. Honestly. If you want people to take you seriously, you need to be more careful about how you present yourself.”
“But am I right, Ms. Conroe?”
I started the car and sighed. “You may be,” I acceded.
We drove toward Chávez. I knew I should force her to explain the previous night’s antics and then tell her she couldn’t stay with me anymore, but I was worn out. “You can drop me here,” said Evian a few blocks from school.