Crossing the Wire (7 page)

I
THOUGHT WE WOULD
hole up when daylight came, but I was wrong. We walked on and on. As long as we kept to the highest and most rugged places, Miguel thought we wouldn't be seen. The day warmed and stayed comfortable. At a trickling spring, we found water.

The second night got so cold, only the work of the hiking kept us from freezing. The moon was throwing plenty of light. We had left the scaly Guadalupe Mountains behind and were into the Peloncillos, strewn with giant boulders.

Miguel would often pull out his map and show me where we were. “Look how far we've come,” he said in the middle of the night. “We've crossed from New Mexico to Arizona and back into New Mexico.”

My answer was a yawn. I was asleep on my feet.

Ten minutes later, I fell into a clump of cactus and started some
rocks rolling. A herd of animals we didn't even know were there went bounding away in the moonlight. Bighorn sheep, Miguel said they were. The night grew quiet again, but the desert mountains were far from empty. It was never long before something made the hair stand up on the back of my neck—coyotes, owls, who-knows-what.

Daylight brought the honking of thousands of northbound geese, who made it look like we were moving at the speed of ants. Miguel had his map out and was looking for a way down to the narrow San Bernardino Valley, in sight to the west but not yet in reach. We would have to cross that valley before we could climb into the high Chiricahua Mountains on the other side.

“What about this deep canyon right below us?” I asked. “Bet we could find a way to drop into it, and it leads to the valley.”

“Skeleton Canyon, it's called. Look here, it has a road up it. We might run into Border Patrol. Let's keep looking. How did you hurt your head, anyway?”

“Train,” I said. “The doctor said that the stitches will fall out when they're ready.”

“Stay away from trains,” Miguel grunted.

We kept going north. Above Skull Canyon, Miguel spread out the map on a slab of granite. It was broad daylight, but Miguel was pretty sure we were out of the reach of the Border Patrol. My guide showed me how to get a rough idea of north by the position of the sun and the time of day. I already knew, but I didn't tell him so. Always lay the map out, he said, so it's pointing north. He started
talking about the patches of color on the map, the different ownership of land the colors stood for. My eyes drifted to a nearby rock where a spiny lizard with bright orange markings was doing pushups. Somehow its attitude reminded me of Rico. I had to smile.

“Well?” said Miguel irritably.

“I was just wondering why they do that.”

“To attract the girls, of course. I used to do it when I was your age.”

My laugh was cut short as Miguel slapped the map with the side of his hand. “Why do you think I am showing you all this?”

I was taken aback. “It's a good thing to know, I guess.”

“What is your plan? Let someone else lead the way and hope for the best? Well, the best seldom happens. Everything I tell you is in case we get separated!”

“That's not going to happen, Miguel.”

“What do you know! It could happen in a hundred ways. Then where would you be?”

As we came down the slopes of the Peloncillos, we found warmer temperatures and springtime. The hillsides were washed blue and red with wildflowers. The rocks were sprinkled with golden poppies. Hummingbirds shot back and forth like arrows.

Miguel was warmer too, more cheerful. He seemed to actually be enjoying my company. We laughed at the clumsy bees smacking into our hats. In Skull Canyon, we drank from the creek like camels, filled our water jugs, and bathed. My bandage fell off. I washed my hair with a bar of soap and also washed some underwear.

Miguel took a switchblade out of his pack, opened it, folded it shut, opened it, folded it shut.

“Have you ever had to use it?” I asked.

“Many times,” he replied. Miguel opened the knife once more. With a laugh, he began to trim his fingernails.

“I didn't know my guide had a sense of humor,” I said.

“Life has many surprises, my friend.”

It was enjoyable to rest and to eat under a tall cottonwood, newly leafed out and spring green. We were going to wait for the sun to dry our laundry spread out on the rocks. Miguel was feeling so good, he sang a ballad about a gunfighter who raided across the border with Pancho Villa.

“Your father,” Miguel said after the song. “I have the feeling he is dead.”

I gave a painful nod.

“Crossing the desert? At work in El Norte?”

“At work. In South Carolina.”

“Doing something dangerous, I suppose. We never refuse. How long ago?”

“Four years.”

“Before the famous September 11, then. Before the Americans got so afraid of terrorists, and hired so many more Border Patrol. Probably your father was able to come home every year for the holidays.”

“From Christmas until the middle of March.”

“A couple months a year was all you had of him. Same for my
kids. I have two girls and two boys.”

“You're brave to come home.”

“No, just stupid. Hardly anybody from my village risks it anymore. I would do anything to bring my wife and my little ones across, if only I could. How I would love for my kids to have the advantages of the States. Kids can even go to school without having to prove they are legal. The Americans are generous that way.”

“My friend who left before me calls El Norte the land of opportunity.”

“It is, if you're willing to work hard. In the States, it's possible to start from the ground and reach the top of the tree. In Mexico, if you are born poor, there are no branches within reach, and the trunk is coated with lard.”

“My friend—his name is Rico—was born poor, yet his father built him a ladder. Until a couple of weeks ago, he was in school in Silao. He could have learned a trade and got a good job, yet he ran away to the States.”

“Who's to blame him? In El Norte, there's a lot more fruit on the tree, which reminds me of something I should warn you about. When you make money up there, it's very easy to spend it. To waste it on things that are senseless.”

“I'll send it home, all that I can.”

“Good.”

To my surprise, Miguel said we were in no hurry to move on. After all the hard walking, we finally got some sleep.

Miguel nudged me awake in the middle of the afternoon, and we
climbed to a lookout. The San Bernardino Valley lay below, nearly in our laps. Across the valley, the towering Chiricahua Mountains looked close enough to touch. I could even see the shapes of the tall trees blanketing their upper slopes.

Miguel spread out the map. We were back in Arizona, this time to stay. For the first time, he told me where we were going, and how we were going to get there. His route ran the length of the Chiricahua Mountains and then the Dos Cabezas. Only when we were within a mile of what he called the interstate highway, at a town called Willcox, were we going to come down out of the mountains.

It was unbelievable, what Miguel had in mind. By the time we got there we would have walked all the way from Mexico to the big highway running across southern Arizona. “How many miles?” I asked.

“Don't even think about the distance. It can be done, that's all that counts.”

Our destination was a blank spot on the map along a gravel road north of Willcox. The illegals called it The Skinny Dog. La Perra Flaca was a place where mojados lived ten or fifteen to a trailer and were met every morning by labor contractors who took them to work in the onions and the chilies.

“Once you get north of the interstate,” Miguel explained, “the Border Patrol doesn't bother you anymore unless you get into trouble or an accident.”

“I can work there too—with you?”

“Why do you think I'm telling you all this?”

“I can't tell you how happy this makes me feel.”

“Well, you never know how long the work will last. We'll work there until you can send a money order home. Then we'll move on to other states.”

“Why not stay there?”

“The work dries up. Anyway, we can do better. In case we get separated, I'll look for you at La Perra Flaca. Your nose will tell you when you're getting close. The sewage overflows.”

Miguel passed the binoculars and had me scan the paved road that ran the length of the San Bernardino Valley. We were going to cross it a mile north of Apache, where the valley narrowed to eight miles. We had to cross the flats before we could find cover in the Chiricahua Mountains.

“I can see a gas station,” I said. “And a few trailers. Where's Apache?”

“That's it.”

“I see two perreras.”

“The dogcatchers flock to those convenience stores for the coffee that is like battery acid.”

“A white jeep with green markings is driving in.”

“More Border Patrol.”

“Maybe all the patrolmen will be there tonight.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Look, it's starting to get cloudy. The moon won't give us away.”

“They have night-vision goggles.”

“I see three more perreras—two on the side of the highway and one on a dirt road dragging something behind.”

“Tires hooked together. Every day, they erase the old footprints so they can see the new ones.”

Miguel took the binoculars back and looked some more. He said that the desert was rigged with motion sensors and hidden cameras—ordinary cameras for the daytime, heat cameras for the night. Even in pitch dark the Border Patrol could see you moving through the desert by the heat of your body. In Apache or nearby, a man was watching dozens of TV screens. Higher overhead than we could see, an airplane that could fly without a pilot might be watching us right now.

“They sure go to a lot of trouble,” I said. “It's a crazy world, no?”

“You got that right. They say that one out of every ten citizens of Mexico is living in the States. Think if they ever rounded us all up. Who would do all the work? Are they willing to pick the fruits and the vegetables to fill their grocery stores? How much would their food cost without us to harvest it? I tell you, they would miss us badly. As for our own country, think if we weren't able send all this money back to our families.”

“It's my family's only chance.”

“Listen carefully now…when we cross to the Chiricahuas tonight, we have to be very alert. If we're unlucky, we'll have to run fast as antelopes.”

“But you can't do that.”

“In my case it was just an expression.”

“I wish there weren't so many Border Patrol.”

“I didn't expect this many this far north. It's a sign that wets are hiking greater distances than ever. It means we'll have to go higher in the mountains than I was thinking. Up into the tall trees. It'll be cold up there.”

“Better cold than hot, no? You know what, I predict we won't have trouble with the Border Patrol tonight.”

“I'm happy to hear you say that, but talking about bulls is not the same as facing them in the ring.”

“That was one of my father's sayings!”

“Your father was a wise man.”

For comfort, I turned my face to the late sun. High above, the vultures were wheeling in circles.

“Those vultures are Mexicans,” Miguel said. “Migratory workers, indocumentados. Yet no one throws them in the zoo for lack of documents. Well, I'm afraid it's time for us to get going. Even the best horse needs to be spurred. Did your father used to say that one?”

“No, but how about this: ‘Once mounted on a horse, one must hang on when he bucks.'”

“Good advice. Keep it in mind, Victor.”

A
T DUSK WE BEGAN
the crossing of the valley. Keeping low as quail, we threaded our way through prickly pear and yuccas. Miguel began to limp faster on his bad knee, keeping the lights of Apache on his left. Close on his heels, I picked up a shoeful of cactus needles but didn't say anything.

Up ahead, there were cars on the highway, not many, but sometimes they came in bunches. When we got close, Miguel hid me in the brush, then bellied up to the shoulder of the road. He crossed first while I waited. When Miguel's whistle finally came, I scrambled up the shoulder and darted across. After days on dirt, rock, and sand, the pavement under my feet felt strange.

I ran into the cover of the scrub on the far side of the highway. “Stay down,” I heard Miguel call. Cars were coming from both directions. At last there was nothing but quiet, and Miguel whistled again. I found him and we crouched together in the brush.

“It's really dark,” I said. I was shivering, and not just from the cold. “Not much moonlight is getting through those clouds.”

“The clouds are thin,” he scoffed. “Plenty of light.”

“It seems farther to the mountains than it did before,” I said. I couldn't help it, I was trembling. “Are you sure there isn't another way?”

“There are hundreds. You could cross at Naco, and try to find the Americans in Bisbee who hide people in their homes and sometimes even drive them to Tucson or Phoenix. You could cross into the Huachuca Mountains, the Patagonias, or the Pajaritos. You could try Santa Cruz Valley, the Altar Valley, the Indian reservation, the Organ Pipe cactus park, the Cabeza Prieta—”

“Enough,” I said. “I'm sorry I questioned you. We wouldn't be here if you didn't think this was best.”

“Only four more miles and we'll be in those mountains, compadre.”

“I just wish it wasn't so dark.”

Seconds later, we came to a dirt road parallel to the highway. Miguel whispered instructions in my ear. I crossed first. Miguel, walking backward, erased our tracks with a small piece of brush.

With that we headed into the open, the Chiricahua Mountains four miles away. The valley floor was mostly grasses sprinkled with bushes and ocotillo—no places to hide as far as I could see. I felt safe as a caterpillar crawling through a yard full of chickens. What about the heat cameras and all the other Migra tricks? Miguel went as fast as he could on his stick, wincing with the pain but
showing none of the fear I still couldn't shake.

Beyond the clouds, there were stars, like candles burning. The idea of the candles helped. I could see my mother in the village church, lighting a candle for me in front of the Lady. I saw my family sitting around the table, Chuy making one of his chango faces. He really did look like a little monkey.

The land began to rise as we started up a plain of gravel. The bushes were knee-high—still no cover. As I soon discovered, Miguel had a plan all along. He'd been marching toward a snaking line of mesquite bushes that turned out to mark the bank of a dry streambed cutting through the valley from the mountains. When we dropped ten or more feet to the bottom of the arroyo, I felt a lot safer.

We followed the twists and turns of the wash until we came to a sharp corner dammed by logs and rocks. We had no choice but to climb out. Miguel led the way up. He crawled out on his knees so as not to attract attention, and I did the same.

The clouds had parted in front of the moon. It was more than half full, and shining much too bright. “We'll drop back in soon as we can,” Miguel whispered. He pointed to the sprinklings of oak and juniper trees on higher ground, on the lap of the mountains. “Once we get inside those, we're invisible.”

His words were still hanging in the air. I happened to be looking back toward the highway when the headlights of a vehicle suddenly came on between the highway and us. They were pointed in our direction. “Miguel,” I yelped.

“Don't like the looks of that,” Miguel muttered. “Their instruments might be onto us. Keep low.”

“We've been so careful. It must be someone else they're after.”

The headlights began to move. I could see the shape of the vehicle. “Perrera,” I said, as it gained more and more speed, heading our way.

“Bad luck,” Miguel grunted, and took off hobbling on his stick. Half a minute later, he found a way back down into the dry creekbed. On my way over the steep embankment, I slipped and banged my arm. No matter. I caught up with him, and that was all that counted.

It was slow going in the wash, but we would be spotted if we climbed out. We made some progress, but then I thought I heard the perrera. We stopped and listened. “Holy mother of God!” I said. The dog wagon was over our left shoulders and not very far behind.

Miguel clapped me on the shoulder. “You have the advantage, Victor. They're wearing heavy body armor. You can run faster than they can.”

We heard their truck stopping, then the sound of a slamming door. We looked back and saw a patrolman at the top of the bank, about a hundred yards behind us. The Migra had his gun drawn, and was on his way down to the bottom of the arroyo. Where were the clouds when we needed them?

“He'll find our footprints,” I whispered.

“Follow quietly,” Miguel whispered back.

We'd barely gotten started when a second patrolman appeared at the top of the bank, much closer. No question he had seen us. Miguel tried to run on the walking stick. The patrolman yelled for us to stop and give ourselves up.

Miguel took off, desperately fast. All I knew was, this couldn't be the end. I picked my way through the rubble along the rocky floor of the wash. I caught up as Miguel was climbing out on the bank opposite the two Border Patrol.

We lost track of them, but they hadn't lost track of us. Just when I thought they had decided to let us go, their vehicle fired up and started following along the other side of the arroyo. As long as there was no way for them to cross, we were going to be okay. Ahead, the oaks and junipers grew thicker, taller. Just beyond them, the steep, brushy slopes offered good cover. Hope began to run strong. The mountains were close, so close. Suddenly mindless of Miguel, I sprinted ahead.

A sharp cry came from behind. Miguel was down.

I ran back to him. “I'll be okay in a minute,” he said. “Lie flat next to me in these rocks. Let's hope they can't get across.”

“Look, thick clouds covering the moon!”

Suddenly it was a whole lot darker, and we had hope again.

I waited on my belly. The engine sounded different, muffled. “They're in the bottom of the wash,” Miguel said. “They found a place to get across.”

The Border Patrol truck climbed out of the arroyo, not a hundred yards behind us. The patrolmen got out, looking all around.
Neither of us moved a muscle. From that distance, in the dark, we were just two more rocks, or so we were hoping. Fortunately their headlights weren't on us.

Then something weird—two pairs of circular eyes glowing green in the dark. “Night-vision goggles,” Miguel whispered. “Help me up, quick!”

I did, but he was shaky on his feet and needed steadying. We looked over our shoulders into the blinding headlights of the Border Patrol. “Hurry,” Miguel told himself as he took off, but he had hurt himself and couldn't go any faster.

The ground was strewn with rocks, which promised to be our salvation. The Border Patrol couldn't drive any faster than Miguel could hobble. We managed to close the distance to the trees by half, and were entering a boulder field.

Finally the perrera ground to a halt, its headlights frozen in place. “It's too rough for them to keep going,” I said. “They're going to let us go.”

“I'll believe that when I see it.” Miguel rested on my shoulder as we waited to see if they were going to chase us on foot.

“Please,” Miguel murmured. “Show us mercy.”

It wasn't to be. The patrolmen were coming on. One of them had a rifle, or maybe it was a shotgun.

Fast as he could, Miguel hobbled on. The oaks and the junipers were no more than three hundred yards away. Miguel looked back toward the patrolmen. Suddenly he dropped his pack to the ground and tore it open. I had no idea what he was doing. Miguel
pulled out his map, grabbed the can opener, shoved them at me. “You'll need these lighters to start fires,” he said. “Here, take this roll of parachute cord. Go high.”

“Miguel…”

He slapped his switchblade into my hand. “You'll need this too, to make kindling. Let's go, let's go!”

Fast as I could, I stowed these things, and we took off again, Miguel trying to run. After a fashion, like a crippled dog, he was able to. A glance over my shoulder, and I could see that the patrolmen were running too, and they were closing in. Miguel stumbled and almost went down.

“Grab hold of my shoulder!” I cried.

“They'll catch both of us!”

Miguel held back, and then he stopped in his tracks. “Now is the time,” Miguel said. “Run as fast as you can.”

“Not without you! Let them deport us. We'll start over.”

“They'll split us up. Listen, Victor, you can make it to La Perra Flaca.”

“Without you?”

“If you find work, wait for me there. I'll be along.”

I froze.

“Go, go!” Miguel screamed.

I took off running. A glance over my shoulder, and I saw Miguel following as best as he could. The patrolmen were practically on him when Miguel tripped and went down.

I halted in my tracks. They were handcuffing Miguel. “Stop!”
one of them called after me. “Stop, please. Sit down right where you are!”

I ran. A look back and I could see that the more slender of the two was chasing me.

The patrolman was fast, very fast, even with his body armor, and he was gaining ground. But I had more reason to run than he ever would. I ran toward the trees with everything I had. My lungs opened up and my eyes widened to see like an owl. I put my fear aside and ran, ran for my family.

I didn't look back again. I ran into a thicket of catclaw mesquite. The catclaw tore my cheeks and my hands, but it didn't stop me. I could hear the patrolman panting to keep up. I led him deeper into the thorny scrub, where he might not put up with the punishment.

At last I was out of the thorns and under the dense and friendly cover of oak and juniper. I was pretty sure I'd lost the Migra.

Finally, I stopped. I threw myself on the ground. I waited, listening for the slightest sound. For a long time there was nothing but the night insects and the hooting of an owl. I was alone.