I didn’t know how to respond. If I were a Border Patrol agent, I’d make my way through the van and move the boxes. “A heating and cooling van with Illinois license plates? I don’t know. That would make me suspicious.” I looked at Gustaf to see if he agreed with me, but he only scratched his chin and smiled. Clearly, he thought my father’s scheme would not work. But this was something I had to work out with my father, adult to adult.
My father closed the hatch to the “secret” compartment and bounded out of the van. “I thought of that too!” he said, beaming. He led me and Gustaf to the side of the van and pointed to a spot just below the phone number. “All our other vans have the company’s address in Aurora, but I took it off this one.”
Gustaf and I moved closer and bent to better examine the place where the address used to be. Sure enough, there was a patch of white where the address had been painted over. Gustaf and I looked at each other and I know we were thinking the same thing. The repainting would be the first thing the Border Patrol would notice.
“As to the plates,” my father continued, totally unaware of the look Gustaf and I had given each other, “I can say that the company leased the vehicle, and everyone knows leased vehicles come with license plates from all over.” My father waited to make sure Gustaf agreed, but Gustaf’s face was as blank as it was when he beat me at poker the night before. Then my father turned to me expectantly.
“It’s not going to work,” I said, looking steadily into my father’s eyes. He had to know that I was not the same little boy he used to comfort when there were nightmares.
My father clenched his jaw. It was a gesture I remembered. He used it when he needed to control rising anger. Still, there was a tone of irritation when he spoke. “I thought about this carefully. If I’m stopped, I’ll say that my company is in San Angelo and I came to install some new units at the Desert Air Motel in Sanderson. I paid Mrs. Ortega, the day supervisor at the hotel, twenty dollars to say that was the case. If the Border Patrol doesn’t believe me, I’ll hand them her phone number and ask them to call her.”
I smiled. That sounded a lot more like the father I used to know. The man who thought he could convince anyone to do things for him. And when they didn’t, he got quietly angry.
Father walked to the porch for the coffee. He sipped to see if it had cooled down and then drank half of the liquid in one gulp.
Gustaf smiled at me and then approached my father slowly, eyes on the ground, pondering. He looked up and tugged at his ear before speaking. “Speaking as an impartial observer, I have to say that there’s something fishy about a repair vehicle full of disorganized equipment. And, no offense, but you seem like the kind of guy who would try to sneak a Mexican in the back of his van.”
There was a moment of silence. My father’s face turned red.
Then I laughed.
Gustaf seemed relieved that his observation had been well received, at least by one. My father still seemed too flustered to respond, so Gustaf pointed in the direction of the barn. “Follow me,” he said. “I got an idea.”
My father took his cell phone out to check on the time. The old watch with the worn-out leather band had been replaced by the cell phone. “We really should be going,” he called after Gustaf. “I’d like to make it to St. Louis, Missouri, tonight. Then get home tomorrow morning.”
Gustaf did not hear or chose not to. He walked to the side of the gray barn and stopped in front of a rusty aluminum trailer. The back of the trailer was a ramp. Gustaf lowered it, lifted the bar that went across the entrance, and walked in. In front of the trailer was another bar. Gustaf lifted that as well. Just beyond the last bar, the trailer had a built-in container for hay. Gustaf reached in there and lifted out a dusty blanket. He turned to my father. “Emiliano can crouch in here. I’ll sprinkle some hay on top of him and put the horse in the trailer.”
“Thank you. He’ll go in the van.”
Gustaf ignored him, looked at me, waited for me to decide.
“I’m grateful for all the planning you did.” This was true. It was obvious that my father had put in a lot of thought on my behalf and part of me was touched. But it was not up to him anymore to make decisions regarding risks that affected my life. I went on, looking straight into my father’s eyes. “But this is my life and it is my decision. I’ll go in the trailer.”
My father shook his head, more sad than angry, it seemed. He said to Gustaf, “Do you know the risk you are taking? Why would you want to take that risk?” Then, looking at me, “Do you want him to take that risk?”
For a moment there, it felt as if I had to choose between two fathers. But it wasn’t about picking sides. “It’s about me not getting caught. I can’t afford to get caught.” There’s something I have to do in Chicago. “It is much less likely that I will be caught in the horse trailer. Much less. Look at him.” I pointed at Gustaf. “They will never suspect him. He’s Gustaf Larsson. He’s the kind of person they want in this country.”
Gustaf coughed and laughed and choked all at the same time. When he recovered, he said to my father, “You asked me why I would want to take the risk. First, I’m with Emiliano. I don’t see the Border Patrol searching me. I’ve gone through that checkpoint on 285 must be fifty times by now and they just wave me by. So I don’t see much risk. And …” Gustaf looked at his feet, stammered, and turned slightly red. “If Emiliano wants to go to Chicago, then he must have good reasons for wanting to, and I’m willing to help him.”
There was silence. The only thing I could say was thank you. Finally, my father spoke. He sounded slightly defeated. “All right.”
Gustaf spoke up before my father could say anything else. “There’s a fork in the road where 285 meets Farm Road 2400. That’s about twenty miles after the checkpoint. I’ll go first and wait for you there. I’ll get the halter.” Gustaf disappeared inside the barn.
The horse in the corral stopped and pricked up his ears, as if aware that he was being talked about.
“You really prefer to ride with that smelly animal?” my father asked when Gustaf was far enough not to hear.
“That smelly animal never abandoned me,” I answered.
Then I went to get the horse.
The horse skittered and pulled and kicked a few times, but he finally let me lead him into the trailer.
“This isn’t a good idea,” my father said from outside the trailer. “The box Emiliano’s going in has no cover. Anyone who peeks in the trailer will see him.”
“I’ll throw some hay on top of him,” Gustaf said, moving my father aside and climbing in. “All right. Assume the position,” he said to me with a grin.
I took a deep breath and crouched into the hay trough. I could lie on my back with my head resting on a dusty blanket and my arms crossed on my chest.
“You look like you’re in a coffin,” Gustaf said, trying not to laugh. “Now close your eyes.” Gustaf began to sprinkle hay on top of me. “I’m thinking that maybe I’ll just drive on to San Angelo and sell you to the dog food people.”
It took me a few moments to realize that Gustaf was talking to the horse.