Then she called the number to speak to him in person. It rang five times. Each ring echoed in her ears like a death toll. A generic voicemail picked up. She had to leave a message, but not one that revealed her true intentions. “I’m still on the train. I’ll be at the border soon. I can meet you at the place you wrote about in your letter.”
When she ended the call, she almost burst into tears. The only place he wrote about in his letter was the Del Mar Crematorium in Tijuana. He’d paid in advance for the services. They would ship his ashes to the cemetery where her mother was buried. He’d bought a plot for himself, and one for Sarai. Because that wasn’t creepy at all.
It struck her as bad luck to make such a macabre reference, but she didn’t know how else to communicate her plans to come west. She blinked to clear her vision and surveyed the passengers. There were two boys about Hugo’s age on the opposite end of the train. She needed someone to take her phone north in case it was being tracked.
“Ask those boys if they’re going to Nogales,” she said to Hugo, handing him her phone. “Trade this for whatever they have.”
He hopped to his feet and walked toward them in easy steps, as if he was strolling down the street instead of navigating the surface of a moving train. The boys gave him a handwoven nylon bag. They looked pretty happy about the deal. Hugo returned with the bag and sat down.
“What did you get?”
“Two oranges and a bottle of water.”
She nodded her approval. They’d entered a long, flat stretch of sage-speckled desert. She couldn’t stay on the train. If she jumped, she’d have to walk through this unforgiving terrain. He started peeling one of the oranges, unaware of her dilemma.
“I guess this is goodbye.”
He almost choked on the fruit slice. It reminded her of his surprised face as she climbed out of the river in Mazatlán.
“I have to jump off the train now.”
He chewed and swallowed. “I’ll jump with you.”
She couldn’t believe he wanted to stay with her. Didn’t he understand the danger she was in? “Why would you do that?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t give you anything.”
He offered her a slice of orange. “I didn’t ask for anything.”
She shared the fruit with him, studying the landscape. There was a cluster of hills in the west. They could walk around them and continue toward Benjamín Hill. When they reached the fork, they could board the train again.
“My sister tried to cross the border when she was eighteen. She didn’t make it through the desert. Some men stopped the group she was with. They attacked her.” He threw the orange peel off the train. “I couldn’t help her. I can help you.”
The tears she’d been fighting all day streaked down her face, unbidden. “So you think of me like a sister?”
“No,” he said, smiling.
She wiped her cheeks and got ready to go. He gathered his belongings. They climbed down the ladder together. The ground rushed by at a dizzying velocity. There was a gravel slope along the tracks that offered a hard, unsteady landing. She couldn’t even look at the wheels. The thought of getting crushed under them terrified her.
“I’ll go first, and you jump right after me,” he said. “Jump out as far as you can.”
“Okay.”
“On three.”
He stood poised at the edge of the metal grate. She balanced her weight on the balls of her feet, pulse racing with adrenaline. “One. Two. Three!”
And then he flew into space, with her hurtling after him.
—
Armando decided not to steal another vehicle in Puerto Pe?asco.
The town was too small. He couldn’t commit grand theft and disappear into the crowd. So he hit the road on foot and stuck out his thumb. His plan was to hitchhike east until he reached Santa Ana. Then he’d head south to Benjamín Hill, one of the last stops on the coastal route. If Sarai was still on the train, she’d show up there at some point.
This remote desert area wasn’t the best place to hitch a ride. He walked for an hour in the blazing heat with no luck. Ironically, the man in the Jesus car picked him up again. Armando didn’t have the luxury of refusing. He climbed into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead, tuning out the driver’s attempts to save his soul.
As the sun set over the parched earth, his thoughts turned dark. He hadn’t heard from Sarai. He felt dead inside. What if he was dead and didn’t know it? He’d seen a movie like that once. Maybe he’d died behind that bush on the highway, like roadkill. Maybe this was purgatory, and the driver was taking him to hell. They hooked a right in Santa Ana, heading south.
The grim reaper collected two more souls from the side of the road. They were brothers from Guatemala, Temoc and Tonio. Armando spoke to them in their native language, which was the same as his mother’s. They said they’d boarded the wrong train and gone to Nogales instead of Tijuana. They had to return to Benjamín Hill and try again.
“How far to Benjamín Hill?” Armando asked the driver.
“Not far,” he said, sipping from an aluminum canteen. The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air. It was the cheapest rotgut you could buy.
Armando kept his eyes on the road, saying nothing. Who was he to tell this religious nomad not to drink and drive? They were close to their final destination.
The man’s behavior became more and more erratic as night fell. He told incoherent Bible stories, chugged booze, and drifted across lanes. He veered onto the shoulder several times. After a near head-on collision, Armando decided he’d had enough.
“Pull over. I want out.”
The man stepped on the gas, obstinate.
Armando showed him his fist. “Pull over, motherfucker. I’m not playing.”
“Just a minute,” he grumbled, sipping from his canteen. He slowed down, but only a little. Armando slid across the seat, stomped on the brake and grabbed the wheel. They screeched to an abrupt halt on the shoulder. A cloud of dust flew up around the vehicle. Armando turned off the ignition in disgust. He thought about shoving the drunk old man out the door and driving away. But the car was too recognizable, and it felt like a bad omen. He’d rather take his chances on foot.