Delia's Crossing (Delia 1)

“A little pocket money,” he said, smiling. “If those two vermin were hungry back there, I’d have none.”

He thought a moment and then handed me some of his money.

“I don’t know if you have any money for the buses or not, but here.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it.

“Why would a young girl like you, pretty, too, want to risk her life to go back to Mexico? You can tell me now. It will pass the time.”

I told him why I had been brought to America and what had happened to me and how Ignacio and his friends had sought to punish Bradley and what had happened. He listened and nodded.

“Ignacio was right to run off, but for you, I don’t think it would have been that serious.”

“I wanted to go home,” I said.

He thought and, for the first time, showed some emotion.

“I have not been home for many years. I do not even know if my brothers and sisters live.”

“Why don’t you go visit?”

“It’s better to remember them than to learn bad things about them now,” he said. “No more talking,” he snapped, as if I had peeled off a scab. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He sprawled out, using his knapsack as a pillow. I wondered what sort of a man made his living guiding desperate people across the desert to work as illegal aliens, knowing that some of them would die trying. Was he doing a good thing or a bad thing? As he had said, he made a very good living doing it, but was he driven by any higher reasons? Did he see himself as someone leading people to a better life, to a better dream, to hope, or did he not care? Was he afraid to know his pollos, afraid to feel sorry if one fell too far behind or got injured? How many had died walking behind him? How many would in the future? When would this migration of illegal birds end?

My body was too tired to ache anymore. Even the pain was exhausted. This time, I slept so deeply and so hard it took him a while to wake me, shaking me so hard he nearly broke my shoulder.

“It’s time to go,” he said. “This is the shortest portion, but it’s the hardest, because we cannot stop, and we have no more water. You understand, Delia? Draw upon all the strength in your well.”

I nodded, scrubbed my cheeks with my dry palms, and stood up. For a moment, I wobbled. He looked at me, concerned.

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Walk.”

“Good.”

He started, and I followed. Where I found the strength, I do not know. It was as if my legs had developed minds of their own and my upper body was long gone and was simply being carried. Two hours into our walk, we again heard voices. This time, they were very close.

“Wait here,” he said, holding up his hand. I stood, but my legs felt as if they were still moving. He disappeared through a bush toward the voices. I waited and waited, nearly falling asleep on my feet. I was too tired even to worry about being deserted.

And then he returned, carrying a jug of water.

“The fools sold it to me,” he said. “I offered them too much for them to refuse. They’ll be sorry when they run out. Here, drink,” he told me.

For a light moment, my conscience complained. I was drinking what might be needed to keep someone else alive, maybe even a child, but the rest of me screamed so loudly against any remorse that I grabbed the jug and began to gulp.

“Slowly, Delia,” he warned.

It felt like life itself rolling down my throat and into my body. I took a deep breath and nodded, thanking him and handing back the jug. He drank.

“We’re definitely going to make it now,” he said. “Let’s go.”

We walked on. I had long since lost track of time, of when an hour or so had passed, but suddenly, he cried out and pointed, and I looked and saw the lights.

“Sasabe, Mexico,” he said. “We’re almost there. You’re almost home.”

I was so happy I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t until we drew very close that I even thought about Ignacio again. I felt guilty having forgotten about him. Neither I nor Pancho had mentioned him during the night. To Pancho, he was just another pollo, I thought, easily forgotten. I wasn’t about to forgive him, but it did occur to me that if he didn’t forget the ones he lost, he would be haunted and unable to do what he did.

He took us through an opening in the barbed-wire fence at the border crossing and into the village. I stood looking at the lights, the people, the cars, and listened to the noise, the laughter, horns beeping, music from the cafés, and thought I had landed on another planet. How could all of this be going on while we were out there struggling to survive, while hundreds were doing so right that moment?