Math Problem #6
Chart on wall of Border Patrol waiting room from Mexico’s Foreign Relations Office:
Deaths along the Mexico/California border: 1995: 61; 1996: 87; 1997: 149; 1998: 329; 1999: 358.
Written at the bottom: 2000, to date mid-August, 401—crossed out and replaced with 411.
What is the average number of deaths per year?
Consider just the more recent three years, 1998–2000. What is the average number of deaths each day?
I realized, as I wrote and then computed my answer, that this wouldn’t include the bodies we saw in the desert or all those unaccounted for throughout the years.
11
Night of the Blinding Stars
This time no one met us at the drop off point at the bus station in Nogales. No Señor José. No van without seats. Not that any of us would place our trust in him again. I wondered what his success rate was percentage-wise: 50%, 30%? Hit and miss? I would never want Orlando to know of our fate; better he thought we were safely in el norte, and that his plan to defy his father had been a success.
Rosa had been silent since her declaration that she would not attempt to cross again. Curled up into herself, she slept through most of the deportation ordeal or simply nodded yes or no to the few questions I asked, so I left her alone. Manuel, who had developed a cough, had been exhausted as well. When I asked him what he thought we should do next, he pulled me to him and whispered “Let’s talk about it later. Más tarde, mi amor,” and then fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. So, I had let it all go, figuring our destiny would take its own path no matter how hard I tried to plan ahead.
Once at the bus station, however, a decision had to be made. Starving, we took inventory of our remaining money, bought a few burritos and iced water bottles from a vendor, sat down on a bench outside of the terminal, and ate in silence. We licked our fingers and gulped from the bottles. I savored the cool liquid easing down my throat, thinking how desperate I had been for this simple need. Could I go through that again?
As if answering my thoughts, Rosa cleared her throat and spoke. “We should call the Garcias and arrange to go back. They will be worried about us.”
Manuel kept his head down, eyes averted. I waited a few moments, then said, “Rosa, I’m just not sure.”
“Sure of what? We would have died out there.” There was a mark on her left cheek, a burn or scrape. I wanted to reach out and touch it.
“Sí, lo sé. I agree. But I’m not sure, absolutely sure, that giving up is the answer. I think we need to rest and think things through. Consider our options. Make a decision when we are more clearheaded.”
“More clearheaded? ¡Eso es ridículo! I’m beginning to wonder if we are capable of being clearheaded,” she said, grabbing her water bottle and taking a long drink.
“What if we rest and then try one more time, but not in the desert. The first route could have worked. La migra isn’t always there. Look at all the people who do make it.”
“You saw the numbers on that wall,” she said sharply. “I saw you writing them down in your little book.” So, she hadn’t been sleeping after all.
“But those numbers are nothing compared to those who make it—hundreds, thousands!”
She looked at me with weary eyes. “No puedo. I can’t do it again. I just can’t,” then softly, “You go ahead. You and Manuel.”
My heart sank. “Rosa! I’m not going anywhere without you!” I shouted. A man walking by turned to look at us. I reached for her hand. “Rosa, we planned this together. Please. We can’t give up. What about Papá?”
Her shoulders slowly sank. Finally, she said, “You saw the bones in the desert. You know now how dangerous it is to cross.”
“But Papá has done this for years! He knew where to cross!” I cried.
She paused, then lifted her eyes to mine. “But the fences went up and the dangers increased in those last years before he disappeared. You saw the numbers in 1997. They almost doubled!”
I was stunned that she had noticed that, too. “So that’s it? We just give up and assume that he’s dead?”
I thought her silence was her final answer, but her eyes slowly welled up with tears as she took a breath and haltingly said, “Alma, we’ve been through this . . . if he isn’t dead . . . if he’s living somewhere in el norte . . . he would get a message to us.”
“He could be ill,” I said, though this was not what was eating at my soul.
“It’s been three years. If he recovered, he’d contact us or those caring for him would. And if he’s in a coma or something, with no identification, well, how would we ever find him? Search every institution in America?” She had moved closer to me and placed her hand on my leg.
I knew what I had to say, what I had to let out of the deep recesses of my mind, but it frightened me. Before, when I allowed even a glimpse of this possibility, it was incomprehensible . . . until now. Now I was beginning to understand.
I turned to Manuel, who had been silent. He was biting his lower lip and nervously squeezing the empty bottle. “Manuel, tell me now. What have you been thinking?” The torment on his face was the answer I expected, for it was what I felt myself.
“Alma, I don’t want us to part, but I can’t let my family down either,” he rubbed his forehead. “No sé. I don’t know what to do, and I certainly
