places? Perhaps these men had family in these states, or perhaps they chose their destinations blindly, at random, with no more to guide their choices than a pleasant sounding name.
“Alabama,” the coyote called out.
No one raised a hand for Alabama. Alabama sounded pretty. Héctor mouthed the word: Al-a-bam-a. Maybe one day he and Lilia and Alejandra would visit Alabama.
“South Carolina,” the coyote called.
Héctor and Miguel stepped forward, raising their hands. A third pollo joined them, and they followed the man with the file box to a corner.
The coyote studied Héctor’s face a few seconds then flipped through a file marked “SC.” He pulled out a card, held it up to Héctor’s face to compare their images, then dropped it back into the box and searched for another. Héctor worried that the box contained no cards with his likeness. Then what? And where did these cards come from? Had they been stolen from the persons whose faces adorned the cards? Were the people pictured on the cards dead?
The coyote was holding a third card now beside Héctor’s face. He nodded, said, “This will work, no?” and handed the South Carolina license to Héctor for his approval.
Héctor studied the face on the card. The man in the photo had much longer hair than Héctor’s. Isadore Ramírez, 2400 Palmetto Blvd., Apt. 12, Columbia, South Carolina.
How could Héctor memorize the card when he couldn’t understand the words’ meanings?
Before he could ask, the coyote handed the other pollo his South Carolina card and said, “Pay attention. I will explain this to you.”
“Here,” he said, pointing with a long, stained nail, “Is your name. Here, your street, here your town, and this is your state.” He studied them a moment, to be sure they understood, before he continued.
“You are Isadore Ramírez. Whatever name you have always answered to … that man is dead. You have never heard of that man before. If you are to be an American, you are to be Ramírez. When you get on a bus, Immigration will likely board, and they will approach passengers at random. Such is what they do. Their actions mean nothing but that they want to intimidate. A guilty man is easily identified when he will not look at the officers, when he cowers and stares at his shoes. You will not do that. When the officer boards the bus, you look at him in his eyes. You have nothing to hide, and you want him to understand that. Likely he will pass you by, but if he does approach you, you will show him your card, and you will answer his questions with confidence.”
Héctor looked into the eyes of Isadore Ramírez and considered the soul behind the face on the card. Héctor imagined slipping into Isadore Ramírez’s ghost and making the spirit behind the photograph whole again, into man. I am Isadore Ramírez now, he thought, and he envisioned his own soul fading, merging with one he would never know. He considered his new name a good sign, as Isadore was the name of his village and its patron saint.
A pay phone stood outside the warehouse, and one by one the men stepped outside to make calls. The day burned hot, dry, and nothing of importance surrounded this place. Tall, half-dead weeds grew beside the metal building, and Héctor hoped prettier places existed in this country. Somewhere nearby, traffic rumbled along a highway.
When his time came, he fished a calling card from his wallet and pushed each number on the phone with great concentration. After fifteen rings he hung up. The others had to make their calls. Héctor shoved his hands into his pockets and returned inside. When they had all finished, Héctor tried once more. After five rings a man answered, and Héctor recognized the voice as the shopkeeper Armando. How near he sounded.
Héctor knew he must speak quickly; the coyote instructed the men to keep their calls brief. “Armando. Could you send a boy up the lane to my Lilia at Crucita’s house? This is Héctor. I must speak with her.”
Armando said, “I cannot leave my shop now, Héctor. No one is here but me this morning, and I see no one nearby to fetch Lilia for you. Where are you? I heard you left Puerto Isadore.”
“Can you get this message to Lilia? Tell her I have crossed into Estados Unidos de América, and I will call again when I am able. Tell her this, Armando. Tell her I am safe. Tell her I made it, and I will call again soon.”
“Sure, sure. I will do this. I must go. I have customers here. Take care, Héctor.”
Héctor replaced the receiver and went inside to find Miguel, to learn how they would get to this tomato farm in South Carolina.
5
CRUOITA’S CHEEKS looked waxen. Was this the natural look of death, or had the women who’d prepared her body applied something to the skin? She lay in a simple casket inside the house, and Lilia sat in a wooden chair beside her.
The old widow from down the lane arrived with a small boy. Lilia recognized him as one of the children she’d often seen chasing mongrels and chickens around the village. The woman tottered with a cane, and her right cheek sagged severely from an unnamed ailment. Her eye was like a dying fish’s eye, bulging a milky blue. Lilia thanked God Crucita had died with her grace and beauty intact until the end.
The old woman pulled from her dress a pocketful of dainty, white lilies with stems too short for a vase. She did not speak but nodded to Lilia as she offered her the flowers with a shaking grip. With one hand on the boy’s shoulder, she leaned over Crucita, studying her face for several moments. The old woman ran a finger along Crucita’s stiff knuckles, then turned, nodded to Lilia, and with the boy beside her, hobbled from the house.
Lilia smelled the pale, waxy flowers from where they lay in her lap, a strong scent from such tiny blossoms. She placed them on Crucita’s breast, so she could enjoy them on her journey to the afterlife.
Rosa handed Lilia a small cup of mezcal and a dish of cake and said, “Eat and drink, Lilia.”
The girls who sold fruit and juice beside the pier entered the house and spoke to Rosa’s husband in the kitchen. Glasses and dishes clinked and music played from a cassette player in the courtyard. Maybe the music had played all afternoon; Lilia could not be certain. She tasted a small bit of cake, sweet and so delicate it dissolved in her mouth before she chewed.
“Crucita would like this,” Lilia said.
Rosa smiled and stepped to the kitchen to refill her cup and to greet the orange seller and his wife who had just arrived. They handed Rosa a basket filled with limes and three small green melons. The orange seller remained in the kitchen, but his wife came to Lilia.
“May I?” she asked Lilia, opening her leathery hand to reveal a shiny, green lime.
“Of course,” Lilia said.
The orange seller’s wife placed the lime beside Crucita. “Your grandmother always liked our fruit. She used to say our limes were her favorite.”
Lilia smiled and nodded in agreement about the quality of the limes.
The orange seller’s wife stood squat and round with oily cheeks and a mouth that always smiled. Lilia wondered if the deep creases beside the woman’s eyes were from her constant grinning or from many years of tending fruit in the severe sunshine.
“Your grandmother looks at peace,” she said, as her husband called to her from the kitchen. She patted Lilia’s shoulder then went to her husband.
The shy girl from the fields—was her name Veronica?—stood in the doorway, a paper sack in her arms. The girl wore a thin brown dress, and sunlight shone through the gauzy fabric, revealing her slender legs. When she approached Lilia, she said, “I have brought you a fish.” Her golden eyes had flecks of dark in their irises; they were pretty eyes, but they were sorrowful as well. The girl paused only a moment, when Lilia thanked her, then turned away. Lilia wondered if the girl considered another’s passing, perhaps her own mother or a sibling.
Lilia watched Veronica leave, grateful for the many who had come today to mourn Crucita’s passing. Rosa’s daughter