killed two men. Unmade them as if they never were.
And there’s nothing I can do but wipe my tears.
My face pressed against glass. Yellow lines. Scrub. Incandescent creatures following the van. What do they want?
More blood.
The deaf lady talking to me.
She can see I’m crying.
“We’re nearly there,” she’s saying.
Francisco gives me a handkerchief, asks me something.
“No, I’m fine.”
Headlights lick asphalt.
Moths call my name.
Close my eyes. Mom’s apartment, Ricky’s chocolate, me looking for the container holding Dad’s ashes. It isn’t there. No doubt Mother sold it to the witches on the floor below.
This is stupid.
This is crazy.
Hector was right. Ricky was right. They were all right.
Lights in the distance. Gas station. Another gas station.
“Ok, friends,” Pedro says. “We’re just about there.”
A strip mall. 7-Eleven. Liquor store. Smoke shop.
Bits of tire. Fenders. License plates.
A gender reassignment clinic.
What is this place?
“America.”
America.
“I don’t feel good.”
The car pulls into a parking lot.
“I don’t feel good, Francisco.”
“Call me Paco, everyone does.”
“Paco, I don’t feel…”
“Let me help you out. We’re here.”
“Where’s
“Come on. I’ll help you to the motel room. It’s been a long day.”
His hand on my arm. The trucks. A chill in the air. Snow clouds to the north.
“It’s ok, you’re safe now.”
Safe. Burn this shirt when I get the chance. Burn all these clothes.
“I need to shower.”
“Yes, a shower.”
Voices. Paco to Pedro. “She’s in shock. Delayed reaction. Give her some brandy.”
“I’ve got some 4H, do you think she would take some of that? Mellow her right out.”
“Worse thing you can do. Get some hot chocolate.”
Chocolate.
Snow clouds.
An outdoor swimming pool.
“Does anyone have a bathing suit that I can borrow?”
“Well, I don’t know, I can check.”
“Check.”
A bathing suit.
“We got it in the lost and found,” Paco says, grinning.
Flip-flops. The edge of the pool. “Gotta warn you. The guy says it’s not heated.”
“It’s ok.”
I step in. The cold clears my head. The chlorine scalds my cuts. I stay in till midnight. Quarter moon. Stars between the clouds.
A towel.
Food.
Whispers.
“Get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”
“Rest. Yes.”
The women in one room. The men in another.
A picture of Jesus. Mosquito corpses on the walls. A calvary for mosquitoes. The fabled mosquito graveyard.
The bed sags. I lay the mattress on the floor.
Sleep comes like a guillotine. And I’m down. No bad dreams. No dreams of any kind.
It’s ok, Ricky. It’s ok, Mom.
It’s ok.
I’m in America and I’ve begun my task and the night is quiet and the world at peace.
The peace of Carthage.
The peace of baby Maria Angela.
The peace of a frozen grave.
4 SLAVE SOUK
The warehouse bakes. Outside, snow. Snow I have never seen. I looked for it in Mexico City on top of Popocatepetl. Saw nothing but ozonic haze.
“The fuck is this?” the man asks, folding his hands behind his back, looking at us skeptically.
He points his finger at Paco.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he asks.
Paco shrugs. The man towers over him, could pulverize him, but somehow Paco’s slouch and silence is all insolence, as if he has the power, not the tall American.
The man turns to Pedro. “I mean, seriously. Two boys, two women, and a fucking old man. This is gotta be a joke. Where’s the real merchandise?”
“I just bring them in,” Pedro says.
“Yeah, that’s right, you just fucking bring ’em in.”
“At considerable risk,” Pedro adds, and he can’t help but give me half a glance.
“How old are you?” the man asks Paco.
Pedro translates the question. “Twenty-eight,” Paco says.
“Like hell, and the other one’s even younger. Hold out your hands, both of you,” he says.
Pedro translates again.
Paco and the Guatemalan kid hold out their hands. He examines them for scar tissue and blisters and shakes his head.
“These are town boys. Juarez trash. Neither’s done a hard day’s work in their fucking lives. Christ… This is really pathetic. I need strong guys for construction. Not fucking children, women, and old-timers.”
He takes off his hat, a peaked cap that says DON’T TREAD ON ME, whatever that’s supposed to mean.
Without the hat he seems even taller. Six foot six. Two hundred and fifty pounds. About forty-five. I give him a cop’s look and memorize the details. Lines on his face, scar below his ear. He dyes his crew-cut hair a chestnut brown, but lets his goatee keep the flecks of gray. His voice is harsh but not strained. He’s used to having
