“Take a good look at her. How old do you think she is?” said Galileo, pointing to Evelyn.
“She looks very young, but I need the birth certificate to prove it. In her file it says the water swept away all her documents when she was crossing the river. That was three years ago: you could have obtained a copy by now.”
“Who was going to do that? My mother is an illiterate old woman, and in Guatemala that kind of thing takes a long time and costs money,” said Miriam, once she had recovered from her shock at her husband arguing like a legal expert.
“What the girl says about gangs and her murdered brothers is common, I’ve heard it many times. There are lots of similar stories from immigrants. The judges have heard them as well. Some of them believe them, others don’t. Asylum or deportation will depend on which judge you get,” was the man’s parting shot.
Reverting to his usual docile attitude, Galileo Leon favored waiting for the law to run its course: it may be slow, but it gets there, he said. Miriam, however, was of the opinion that if the law does get there, it never favors the weakest, and so immediately launched a campaign to have her daughter disappear. She did not ask Evelyn’s opinion when she contacted her acquaintances in the subterranean network of undocumented immigrants or when she agreed to send her to work in the house of some people in Brooklyn. She had been tipped off by another woman member of the church, whose sister knew someone who had been a maid with that family and said they did not care about papers or any other details of that kind. As long as the girl performed her duties, no one was going to inquire about her legal status. When Evelyn wanted to know what those duties would be, she was told she would have to look after a sick child, nothing more.
Miriam showed her daughter New York on a map, helped her pack her belongings in a small suitcase, gave her an address in Manhattan, and put her on a Greyhound bus. Nineteen hours later, Evelyn presented herself at the Latin American Pentecostal Church, a two-story building that from outside had little of the dignity of a temple. She was received by a volunteer from the congregation, who read the letter of introduction from the Chicago pastor, offered to put her up for a night in her own apartment, and the next day explained how she could travel by subway to the Church of the Tabernacle of the New Life in Brooklyn. There another woman almost identical to the first gave her a soft drink and a leaflet outlining the church’s religious services and social activities, as well as instructions on how to reach her new employers’ address.
At three in the afternoon on an autumn day in 2011, when the trees were starting to grow bare and the street was strewn with a rustling, short-lived covering of fallen leaves, Evelyn Ortega rang the bell of a three-story corner house with a garden full of broken statues of Greek heroes. And that was where she ended up working peacefully for the following years with her fake documents.
Lucia, Richard, Evelyn
Upstate New York
Lucia
Chile, 2007–2008
Richard’s guts felt better, but he fell asleep immediately, overcome by fatigue after this long, drawn-out day, and perturbed by the combination of uncertainty and newly discovered love gnawing away at him. Meanwhile, Lucia and Evelyn cut a towel into strips and went outside to get the fingerprints off the Lexus. According to the Internet instructions Lucia had obtained earlier on her cell phone, it was enough to wipe them with a cloth, but she had insisted on using alcohol just to be on the safe side, as they could still be identified even if the vehicle was at the bottom of a lake. “How do you know?” Richard had asked her before he fell asleep. As usual she replied, “Don’t ask.” In the blue-tinged light of the snow they systematically rubbed the visible parts of the car inside and out, except for the trunk’s interior. Then they went back inside the cabin to warm up with a cup of tea and to chat, while Richard rested. They had three hours before it grew dark.
Evelyn had been silent since the previous night, doing whatever she was asked to do as distantly as if she were sleepwalking. Lucia guessed she was immersed in her past, reliving the tragedy of her short life. Understanding that the situation was much more nerve-racking for Evelyn than for her or Richard, she had given up any attempt to distract or console her. Evelyn was paralyzed with terror. The threat from Frank Leroy hung over her, and that was even worse than being arrested or deported. And yet there was another reason, which Lucia had sensed since they had left Brooklyn.
“You told us how your brothers died in Guatemala, Evelyn. Kathryn died a violent death as well. I imagine that must bring back dreadful memories.”
Without raising her eyes from the steaming cup, the young girl nodded.
“My brother was killed too,” said Lucia. “I loved him a great deal. We think he was arrested, but we heard nothing more about him. We weren’t able to bury him, because they did not hand over his remains.”
“Is . . . is . . . is it certain he died?” asked Evelyn.
“Yes, Evelyn. I spent years investigating the fate of those who were arrested and never appeared again, like Enrique. I wrote two books about it. They died from torture or were executed. Their bodies were blown up or thrown into the sea. A few mass graves have been found, though not many.”
With great difficulty, stumbling over the words, Evelyn managed to say that at least they had buried her brothers, Gregorio and Andres, with proper respect, even though few of their neighbors had attended the funeral due to fear of the gangs. They had lit candles and burned aromatic herbs in her grandmother’s house. They sang and wept for the boys, drank to them with rum, and buried them with some of their possessions so they would not miss them in their other life. As was the custom, they prayed a novena for them, since children spend nine months in their mother’s womb before they are born, and because the deceased take nine days to be reborn in heaven. Her brothers had graves in consecrated ground, where her grandmother went to lay flowers on Sundays and take them food on the Day of the Dead.
“Like my brother Enrique, Kathryn will have none of that . . . ,” murmured Lucia, moved by the thought.
“Souls who have not found rest come back to frighten the living,” said Evelyn in one long rush.
“I know. They come to visit us in our dreams. Kathryn has already appeared to you, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, last night.”
“I’m truly sorry we can’t say farewell to Kathryn with the rites of your people, Evelyn. But I’m going to have masses said for her for nine days. I promise.”
“Did . . . your mo . . . mother p-p-pray for you . . . your brother?”
“She prayed for him up to the last day of her life, Evelyn.”