He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he knew it was nothing good. “What, like a foreigner? I thought you said you grew up in the U.S.”
“I did. They say I’m undocumented, and I have nothing to prove otherwise.”
He winced, hearing her voice shake. There was nothing quite so compelling to Bo as the sound of a woman whose heart was breaking. Truth be told, he couldn’t remember a hell of a lot about Yolanda Martinez—but he remembered what was important. That she had a tender heart and beautiful eyes. That they had been each other’s first love. That she’d been the first to teach him that love alone couldn’t save a person from hurt.
“What do you mean, ‘prove otherwise’?” he’d demanded. “Nobody ever asked me to prove I’m a U.S. citizen.” Even as he said the words, he knew he was being willfully ignorant. People didn’t ask light-haired, blue-eyed Anglos if they were citizens. Such inquiries were reserved for people with dark skin and Hispanic surnames…like Yolanda Martinez. “Okay,” he’d told her, “then just clear it up for them. Show them whatever paperwork they need and everything will be fine.”
“I don’t have anything to show them. Don’t you remember, Bo? They way we ended things…The way my parents were?” She reminded him that she was the only child of ultra-conservative parents. Having a baby at age seventeen had strained her relationship with them, and the years had only increased the distance. Her father had died a while back, and her mother had returned to Nuevo Laredo, her Mexican hometown, just across the Rio Grande from Texas.
Yolanda had no time to explain much more about the situation, but suddenly Bo was part of it. Although he felt sorry for her, he also felt himself suppressing a surge of anger at her, hiding it from AJ. The kid had enough troubles without being told his mother had screwed up. The last thing Bo wanted to do was lower the boy’s opinion of Yolanda.
Rounded up en masse with undocumented employees at the factory where she worked, Yolanda claimed she had no one other than Bo to turn to. “I’m being sent to a detention center,” she’d said in a voice strained by terror and dread. “AJ’s at school…” She related the rest in a furtive, terrified tone. The armed raid had begun without a breath of warning. Seventy undocumented workers had been rounded up for deportation. Many of these workers’ American-born children would be left alone, to be lost in the foster system or fobbed off on relatives, most of whom were undocumented, as well.
AJ had no one, Yolanda had explained between sobs. He was an only child, and she was a single mother. All her trusted friends and relatives had already been detained or deported. With no one else to look after him, AJ would be sent to foster care and lost.
Bo had felt a sick lurch of panic. He didn’t want the kid thrown to the wolves, but hell. He and Yolanda had been in high school when she’d gotten pregnant. Their lives were completely separate; the only tenuous tie had been the flow of Bo’s money into an escrow account set up a dozen years ago. Now, all these years later, that tenuous tie was made flesh and blood: AJ needed Bo.
He’d ponied up for a ticket; the only flight he could get last-minute was a redeye routed through Chicago, making the journey an all-night ordeal. Mrs. Alvarez, a teacher’s aide at AJ’s school, had helped him. She’d dug up his birth certificate and put him on the plane.
It had been a hell of a night for the kid.
Bo took out his phone. “I need to call Mrs. Alvarez. I promised to let her know as soon as your flight got in. We’ll see if there’s any word on your mom.”
Finally, a flash of interest sparked in the boy’s eyes. He offered a quick nod. They kept walking as Bo scrolled to her number and hit Send, dialing a woman he’d never met, but whose semihysterical phone call had thrown his life into chaos.
“Mrs. Alvarez?” he said when she picked up. “AJ’s with me. He just got in.”
“Thank you for calling. Is he all right?”
“Seems to be.” He glanced at the dark-eyed stranger. “Quiet, though.”
“AJ? That’s not like him.”
“Any word on Yolanda?” Bo felt the boy looking at him.
“None. I’ve spent hours trying to get answers, but it’s impossible. The bureaucracy is absolutely incredible. The INS and the detention center are closed for the weekend. Nobody knows what’s happening. We’re lucky she managed to call you before they in-processed her at the detention center.”
The sinister terminology made him shudder. “Yeah, lucky. Okay. Well, keep me posted.”
“Of course. Can I speak to AJ?”
“Sure.” Bo handed him the phone.
AJ’s face sharpened as he took it. “Where’s my mom?” he asked. His voice was different from what Bo had expected—and then he realized he hadn’t known what to expect. Not this, though. Not this boyish rasp of emotion as AJ lowered his head and asked, “Is she okay?”
Then he was quiet for a minute, his face solemn. It was the face of a stranger. Bo had trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that this was his kid. He tried to pick out some resemblance, some point of reference that would somehow make sense of all this. But there was nothing. The Yankees cap and Windbreaker, maybe. Bo had sent them in his annual Christmas box to AJ. The fact that the kid was wearing them had to mean something, Bo told himself.
Right, he thought. It didn’t mean shit. Years ago, when Bo had asked to see AJ, Yolanda had claimed that if Bo showed up in AJ’s life, it would only confuse the boy.
Now that he’d met AJ face-to-face, Bo knew that was a total crock. This kid, with his keen, guarded eyes, was not the type to be confused by anything.
AJ handed over the phone. Did all kids have
