He approached, looking us up and down, then turned on his heel. “Next!” he commanded to the bird-man. Then to Ramírez, “We don’t have time for this. Put them in the vehicle.”
I glanced toward the empty vehicle. Where had the others gone? I turned toward the field and saw in the distance figures moving rapidly away. Had they let them go?
“Wait,” I said. “We have money as well.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out a few bills that I’d placed there in Arriaga. I offered it first to Ramírez and then to the one in command. “Please, let us go. Our father is waiting in Oaxaca.”
The large man approached me, took the money from my hand, but kept his eyes on mine. “Where are you from? Guatemala? El Salvador? Honduras?”
“No. We are from Mexico. I was born in Oaxaca, but we have lived in Chiapas since . . . for this past year.” I turned to Rosa and Manuel. “This is my sister and . . . my brother.”
Ramírez was laughing. “If you are from Mexico, why didn’t you just take a bus?” He shook his head. “Nice try, idiots.”
Manuel stepped forward. “Our cousin dared us. Said he’d give us thirty pesos if we rode it to Oaxaca.”
“Thirty pesos? ¡Estúpidos!” the third officer retorted.
The officer in charge nodded. “Pretty stupid thing to do for thirty pesos. You could have been killed.” He fingered the money. “What will you do in Oaxaca?” he asked.
I swallowed. “My father has found work for us.”
“Why didn’t your father come and get you?” Ramírez spit out the words, then turned to his boss. “They’re lying. They’re not Mexicans.”
“Shut up, you moron. Now go get the next group. I’ll deal with these.” He turned back to me and stepped closer. His thick mustache curled over his fat lip. It was threaded with gray, like Tito’s. “How many stars does the Mexican flag have, four or five?” he asked.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t have any stars. Not the Mexican flag.” I knew that Honduras’s flag had stars, but I wasn’t sure how many.
“What do you use to make salsa?”
What did he mean? Spices, mortar? I knitted my brow quizzically. Was it different in Central America? My grandmother used the Indian terms, but what if they were the same as Guatemalan? Then I heard Rosa say beside me, “You mean the molcajete? Forgive me. My sister hates to cook. She’d rather play with numbers on her paper.”
The numbers! I thought of my little box of stars as the man paused and turned to Manuel. Grabbing his T-shirt between his fingers, he asked him, “And what do you call this?” I held my breath. He was trying to trick us or catch us in a lie. In Mexico, we usually called it camiseta. In Guatemala, perhaps something else—playera?
“My box!” I shouted. “Wait! In my box I have papers—my school grades from Oaxaca.” I reached for my pack on Manuel’s back, grimacing as my shoulder sent a jolt of pain. I knelt on the ground, struggling to open it, until Rosa squatted beside me and unzipped it with ease. I had wrapped the box in my red rebozo. As I opened the layers, I held my breath. How had it weathered our travels? Was it still intact? My father had given me the hand-painted box filled with stickers and stars when I was seven. Whenever he returned from el norte, I would greet him with a stack of schoolwork and my little box of stars. I loved watching his large hands open the lid, his fingers slipping through the selection until he found just the right star to reward my hard work.
As I spread open the cloth and found the box whole and undamaged, I wondered if his hands would ever touch it again. It was a deep shade of blue with one white calla lily painted on the lid, its stem arching down over the side. My eyes filled with tears as I lifted the lid and searched through my treasures. ¿Dónde estás, Papá? His picture from the newspaper was still there, safely tucked in a corner—and at the bottom, folded in half, was my last report card from 1998. This one he had never seen.
I unfolded it slowly and blinked back my tears; then still kneeling, I held it up to the officer, who leaned forward. Squinting, he looked it over, then nodded.
“What happened to your shoulder?” he asked.
I looked sheepishly away. “I fell from the train.”
“She needs a doctor,” Rosa spoke beside me. “Please let us go on to Oaxaca. My father will take care of us. Please, let us go.”
He didn’t speak, but glanced first at the approaching men and then at the money in his hand. He signaled for the men to be seated and then turned back to us. He watched in silence as Rosa took the school report, placed it in my box, gently re-wrapped the red cloth, and placed the small bundle securely in my bag. Slowly she helped me stand.
Manuel took the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped forward, “It was my fault,” he said, his voice quivering. “I talked them into riding the train. And . . . well . . . it’s my fault she fell. I should have taken better care . . . of my sisters.” He bowed his head and mumbled, “At least let them get to Oaxaca . . . to Papá. Please.”
“Well, you should be ashamed of yourself, young man!” he snapped, startling Manuel. “And you should be punished. But I’m sure your father will see to that.” He tossed my money at my feet. “Now get the hell out of here. And stay away from those trains.” Then he turned on his heel and strode toward the poor souls who were emptying their pockets a few feet away.
Spotting a road beyond an embankment,
