I had no idea what was happening. Why were they bothering us? The police held up wanted posters with pictures of people I knew —my father, Mark, Rena, Ramona, and others. Despite Antonia’s protests, they began removing items from the apartment.
Hyrum and I avoided the men as much as possible and answered with “Yo no sé” (“I don’t know”) whenever they questioned us. We had been well trained to give that response to any and all questions from authorities. I was asked to identify the people on the posters, but I didn’t give them any information. Hyrum and I couldn’t figure out what was going on or why the officials were looking for people we knew.
Through the slightly open door of the back bedroom, we watched the policemen push Dan Jordan, Ramona’s husband, roughly onto a sofa and begin questioning him.
“Are you Ervil LeBaron?” A tall, gaunt officer with a huge mustache stood over him.
Dan hung his head low and mumbled, “Yes.”
Why isn’t Dan telling the officers his real name? I knew my father was in a back room of the apartment, and I watched the policemen go into his room and come out a few minutes later. Apparently satisfied with Dan’s answer, the police arrested him and Rena and led them out of the apartment in handcuffs.
Three of the federales stayed in the apartment for several more hours. None of us were allowed to leave during that time. I could feel their stares as I did my chores. They frequently demanded that I make them coffee or quiet the little children. And I could see Antonia’s added stress as she prepared food for them. Naturally, she took out her frustration on Hyrum and me. He and I stayed close to one another, barely speaking about the terrifying events, even after the authorities vacated the ransacked apartment.
The authorities completely missed the fact that Ervil LeBaron had been within their grasp the entire time. Our family called this a miracle of God’s protection on my father, since there was no other viable explanation. We all believed he was supernaturally spared from being arrested.
A FEW WEEKS LATER, Gamaliel, the brother of sister-wives Teresa and Yolanda, arrived at the house to take me to Mérida to stay with other relatives for a while. As usual, I didn’t protest; I merely gathered my few belongings and put them in a sack. I ran alongside Gamaliel to reach the bus station, desperately trying to keep up with his long strides. He didn’t slow down for me at all. When we arrived, he got in line to purchase our tickets while I waited in front of a carnicería (butcher shop) across the street.
My mouth watered as I watched several patrons exit the carnicería with brown paper bags filled with chicharrones (deep-fried pork rinds). A bacon-like aroma wafted past me each time. I fantasized that a kind Mexican woman might take pity on a little girl with matted blonde hair and offer to share her snack. But none did. My stomach growled so loudly that I quickly crossed both arms over my tummy to quiet it.
I spotted Gamaliel waving at me from the bus station and trotted across the street to him. “Tengo hambre, Gamaliel.” (“I’m hungry.”)
“We don’t have time to eat, Anna.” He grabbed my tiny fist in his large, brown hand and pulled me toward the bus marked “Mérida, Yucatán.” Passengers who were already on the bus had lowered every window. I wondered whether their attempts at lessening the stifling heat had been successful but later discovered they had not. I stumbled alongside Gamaliel, trying to keep my feet underneath me.
We boarded the bus, and Gamaliel handed our tickets to a toothless driver whose long handlebar mustache reminded me of one of the Mexican policemen who had raided Rafael and Antonia’s apartment.
“We’re lucky we made it.” I didn’t know whether Gamaliel was speaking to the driver, to me, or to himself, so I kept silent. We walked down the center aisle and looked for an empty seat, but there were none. I was thankful I didn’t have to ride on Gamaliel’s lap. We passed dozens of people, a complete cross section of Mexican society —men and women, old and young, professionals, farmers, and street vendors —as we made our way to a place where we could stand together.
After several stops where people got off, we managed to find two vacant seats next to each other. Gamaliel pointed out a few landmarks along the way as the bus traveled on the winding highways to Mérida. I was staring out the window, lost in my own thoughts, when suddenly Gamaliel elbowed me in the ribs and pointed at a highway sign to Guatemala. “If you follow that road to Guatemala, and then keep going, you’ll eventually get to Guatepeor. Get it? You’ll be going from mala (bad) to peor (worse).”
I gave him a wry smile. Intense fatigue and hunger kept me from humoring his joke any more than that.
“What’s wrong, little one?” He lifted my chin with two fingers, so I had to meet his gaze.
“Well . . .”
“Go ahead. What is it?”
“I’m hungry.” I looked down at my filthy chanclas, ashamed that I’d given in to complaining. I felt embarrassed for feeling weak and needy, having to beg for something to eat, but the thin, watery oatmeal I drank for breakfast had long since been digested.
“Ah, yes. That makes sense. It is well past lunchtime, and you haven’t had anything to eat since early this morning.” He stood there and glanced around the bus, seeing a street vendor in the throng of passengers behind us. Gamaliel quickly made his way to the man, bought two apples, and returned to where I was sitting, holding on to the vertical metal poles to steady himself as he walked. The bus bounced in and out of potholes along the highway. “Here you go, Anna.”
I could hardly believe my good fortune. I hadn’t had an apple —or hardly any fruit —since leaving the United States months earlier. The truth was, my siblings and I were all malnourished, and we’d been battling diarrhea the entire time we’d lived in Mexico. We had no choice but to drink the water, and parasites attacked our unsuspecting systems with a vengeance.
I stared at the delicious fruit, turning it over and over in my hand, before taking a first crunchy bite. The sweet juice trickled down my chin, hands, and even my forearms. Something primal took over, and I closed my eyes and gobbled up the fruity goodness like my life depended on it.
Moments later, I opened my eyes to see a boy watching me from the opposite side of the bus. His loud voice announced to the entire bus, “?Miren! ?Come la manzana como cochina!” (“Look! She’s like a pig with that apple!”) The words stung, reminding me how Antonia had used the same description of me.