Soon after this conversation, a large pickup truck with flashing lights turned onto Mildred Street. I could hear loud rap music as the passenger door opened and deposited Evian, a bit disheveled, on the sidewalk. The truck roared away. Evian came inside and said, “I am really tired.” She threw herself onto the couch, her head inches from mine. She stretched and yawned theatrically.
I practiced the words in my head: I need to take you home now. But when I opened my mouth, I said, “Do you want some spaghetti?”
“No,” she said, “I’m good.”
“Do you have any homework?” I asked.
She laughed. “No,” she said. Evian smelled like beer.
My phone rang. It was Camilla, from next door. “Is everything okay over there?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”
I hung up the phone. Evian fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. A new episode of House Hunters International began. A Canadian couple was looking for a Costa Rican bungalow in which they could begin a new life.
33
Carla
I RAN TOWARD THE shelter, pushing the metal door open and finding a dim room full of slumbering people. The room smelled like unwashed skin. I scanned the bodies but did not see my brother. A priest who had been reading in the light provided by a small window stood and approached me. “You are safe,” he said soothingly, quietly. “God has brought you to this place, and you are safe.”
Terror burns your skin from the inside. Constant watchfulness freezes your bones. Looking at the kindly priest, I almost fell to the floor. My shoulders slid down my back, and I took a shuddering breath. “Are you hungry?” he asked. I said nothing.
“Come,” said Father, and I followed him to a small kitchen where he ladled soup into a white bowl. He handed me the soup and I ate. “Where have you come from?” he asked me.
“Tegucigalpa,” I said.
“And you are going to El Norte?”
“I am going to find my mother in Texas.”
He nodded. “You are all alone?” he asked.
“I was with my brother, Junior. And another boy, Ernesto.” I described them both, and Father told me to stand. “We have a soccer field in the back,” he said.
I was eager to get outside, but Father touched my arm and asked if I would like to have confession. Too afraid to admit the way I had been violated, I shook my head.
“Bad things happen to good people sometimes,” said Father. He placed his hand on my cheek. “God forgives you, if your heart is good.” I wanted to believe Father. I looked deep into his brown eyes, searching.
“My heart,” I said.
He nodded. “I know,” he said. “God bless you, my child. You are a strong person to make this journey.”
On his face, I saw pity. I knew he had seen terrible things, worse, perhaps, than the ones I had seen. He knew—as I did now—about what was possible. We had both tasted evil.
Father took my hand. If I spoke, I would beg him to keep me, to be not just a priest but my father. I could stay here in this place, cleaning and cooking for others. If he would never let go of me, I would do anything.
We went to the back of the room where so many were sleeping. By the door, a large map was taped to the wall. I stopped short and stared. I had seen maps in books when I had gone to school. Father put his finger on a city by the bottom of the map. “Tegu,” he said. I watched him. He moved his hand up the map. “And now you are here,” he said.
“And Texas?” I said.
Five inches higher, he touched a blue ribbon. “The Rio Bravo,” he said. “And if you cross it, you are in the United States.”
It didn’t seem impossible, standing in that room, looking at a piece of paper. I’d come so far already. I thought for one moment about how it would feel to put my face into my mother’s hair.
“You could go back,” said Father, mistaking my quiet for fear.
I shook my head.
“Your hope,” said Father. “It inspires me, your hope.”
I was iridescent, empowered by his words. “What else can I do but hope?” I asked. I assumed he knew what things were like at home.
“Indeed,” said Father.
I pushed open the back door, and there he was. He was bouncing a half-deflated ball, wearing only a pair of athletic shorts. I ran to Junior. “I found you,” I cried.
“Ah, we’re in the middle of a game,” he said, pushing me away but smiling large. His hair was clean and his eyes looked less dull than I remembered. To the other boys, Junior said, “Keep playing. It’s just my sister.”
34
Alice
DONN’S DEPOT PIANO Bar & Saloon had originally been an actual train station. When the wooden structure was slated to be replaced with a brick building, the older station was moved to Austin and attached to a boxcar, parlor car, and red caboose (the last now the ladies’ room). Surrounded by an outdoor deck, the building was soon filled with the musical stylings of Austin native Donn Adelman, who’d bought the place in 1978. Donn and the Station Masters played live music on the weekends, and on weeknights you could never be sure if you’d be hearing a new band, an old band, or your personal jukebox selections. I always brought quarters in my purse, just in case. Parking was a bit of an issue, as West Fifth had become snazzy—full of spas, fitness studios, and something called a Blo Dry Bar. Behind the Depot, I wedged my car into a space uncomfortably close to a telephone pole and slithered out. It was happy hour, and the lot was almost full already.
I climbed the wooden steps to the deck and entered the bar. As always, the place was lit with Christmas lights. Though you couldn’t smoke indoors anymore, the scent lingered. Marion sat near the empty stage with a drink. I waved and went to the bar, where Toni said, “Alice!” and came forward to give me a big hug. I hadn’t been to Donn’s in two years.
“Hey,” I said happily.
“Where’s the big guy, the famous one?” said Toni.
The young man behind the bar leaned in. “Who’s famous?” he said.
“This one’s hubby. Conroe’s BBQ!” said Toni.
“Whoa,” said the man, who sported a reddish goatee.
“She’s famous, too,” said Toni kindly.
“I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” I said.
“You can’t come in here wearing those boots and order a Chardonnay,” said the man.
“She can do what she likes,” said Toni, unscrewing a large bottle and filling a pint glass to the rim with wine. I opened my purse, but Toni said, “We’ll run a tab,” shooing me away.
Marion stood as I approached. “What is that?” she said.
“Chardonnay.”
“Ugh, in a beer glass?” said Marion. “You’ve got to try the Loose Caboose.”
“Sounds good.” I sat down at the rickety table, took a sip of my wine, and sighed. “I need some advice,” I said.
“From me?” said Marion. She laughed. “You need advice and I need a miracle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, hon,” said Marion, smoothing her cocktail napkin. “I’ve got this one school year to raise the TAKS scores and attendance records. One year, and then they close Chávez Memorial. To be honest, I think they’re going to close us anyway.”