“Maybe we could get a bus in Tuxtla?” I said to Rosa, but before she could answer, the dimples were looking directly at me.
“Would cost you a lot more than putting gas in this old thing. A lot more—but then you could sit back and relax.” His eyes swept back to Rosa, until I spoke.
“How much would you give us for the truck?” I asked curtly.
“¿Qué? What did you say?” he said, stepping back in surprise. “You in some kind of trouble?” He looked first at Rosa and then back at me.
“No, no,” Rosa said. “My crazy sister is trying to be funny. Our father would kill us if we sold this old thing. He barely trusts us to drive it to visit our abuela. But she is sick, and we want to get there as soon as possible.” Shooting a warning glance at me, she reached in her waistband and pulled out a small multicolored coin purse attached to a string that was fastened to her pants. Rosa was hiding money, too!
She handed him a few bills. “If you could put in as much as this will buy for now, we will manage.”
He looked at the money and nodded.
We sat in the car while he pumped the gas, and when he finished, Rosa reached out the window to hand him another bill. “Gracias. Thank you so much for your help. God be with you.”
Shaking his head, he backed away from the window. “No. Absolutely not. It was my pleasure,” and the dimples flashed again. “Be careful, señoritas.” Then he climbed into his orange truck and pulled away as Rosa started up the engine. We watched the needle move until it pointed all the way to full.
“How much did you give him?” I asked.
“I don’t think that much. I’m not sure. Dios lo bendiga.” She shifted into drive and stepped on the gas. “You see, la Virgen is with us!”
“Maybe so,” I answered, but I wondered how generous “Dimples” would have been if Rosa had a wide nose and a few missing teeth.
How vividly I can recall that feeling of freedom and endless possibility as Rosa and I drove along that afternoon. Our gas tank was full. We each carried some money. And we were on our way to Oaxaca! I felt like an adult, grown up and in control. For me, all fear and uncertainty had disappeared, as well as any sense of regret. Only when I thought of the boys did I feel a twinge of sadness, yet I was certain we would be together again one day. At that moment, I felt a joy I hadn’t known since before Papá disappeared.
After passing by Tuxtla Gutiérrez in the distance, I had settled back, closed my eyes, and dozed off for a bit. Suddenly Rosa’s panicked voice woke me, “Which way do I go? I just passed a sign. I should have looked more closely!”
Ahead the road split, and it was coming upon us fast. “Stay on the one that seems straighter!” I cried. She did, and we continued on, both of us leaning forward again, peering at the road, at the fields flitting past beside us, and at the hills in the distance.
Less than an hour later, we saw the sign for Arriaga and realized our mistake. We had curved left, and now instead of crossing the Chiapas-Oaxaca border, we would be arriving in Arriaga, a city in Chiapas known mostly for La Bestia, the Beast, a deadly cargo train that desperate Central American migrants used to hitch a ride through Mexico on their way to el norte. Heavily patrolled by both police and ruthless gangs, the Beast was a dangerous free ride toward either a new beginning or a tragic end.
“Shouldn’t we turn around?” I suggested, as Rosa pulled to the side of the road and rolled to a stop.
She sat for a moment and then said, “No. This might be better after all. If Tito is looking for us, if he found someone to drive him or notified police, they would be looking in Tuxtla and beyond, heading toward Oaxaca.” As her own words seemed to sink in, she sighed and settled back into her seat, relaxed and relieved. Then she bowed her head, blessed herself, and said a silent prayer.
When she finally turned to me, I said, “Your Virgin?”
“Of course—nuestra Virgen,” she said with a smug smile, our Virgin, then shifted into gear, scattering rocks as she pulled back onto the road.
I wanted to volley back, “Not just two stupid girls who don’t have a clue as to where they are going?” but I kept it to myself, for until the tire blew out just a few minutes later, I was beginning to question my own disbelief.
Two cars stopped to help us after the truck spun in a circle and then slowly thumped and bumped backwards down an embankment, coming to a stop practically on its side. Shaken, Rosa and I awkwardly climbed out on her side with the help of two men. After assessing our few bruises, including the ones that had nothing to do with our little accident, we insisted we were fine and did not need to go to a hospital but would gladly accept a ride to a service station on the edge of Arriaga. Once there, we pretended to seek help until our ride drove away. Then exhausted, dripping with sweat, and still stunned by the turn of events, we skittered behind the building toward a low cement wall and sank onto the only patch of shade beneath a small tree. Rosa began to sob.
I kept my eyes on the hills and distant mountains that surrounded Arriaga, for even quaint Zinacantán had a beauty that was absent from this sad place. To the left of the gas station was a sagging one-story building with boarded windows and a door hanging off its hinges. To the right, there were two heaping mounds, one of dirt and one of gravel. A gray hawk, perched above us on a wire between two posts, scanned its surroundings. Clutched in my hand was a plastic water bottle given to me by someone at the scene of our accident. I unscrewed the top and took a long drink. It was warm and tasteless. I passed it to Rosa, who sniffled and then lifted it to her parched lips. I could hear the sounds of traffic and horns blaring in the distance.
“Now what?” I asked softly. “Should we find a bus station?”
Rosa sat watching the hawk and then finally spoke, almost in a whisper, “I think we are close enough to the Oaxacan border to walk. If it’s 20 minutes by car, as that man said, it can’t take too long on foot. We should save our money, Alma.” She paused then added, “I’m not really sure what we are doing, are you?”
The hawk screeched, startling us both as it lifted off and flew behind us toward the mountains.
I turned to Rosa and waited until she met my eyes. “We need to get to Oaxaca to start,” I began, “see if anyone has heard from Papá, and then, if not, on to el norte.”
Rosa sighed and shook her head. “Alma, it will be enough to get to Oaxaca and find someone we can trust. Maybe Mundo. He was Papá’s friend, so he might help us. Or maybe Father Estrada. He has always been kind to us.”
I thought of the priest who had called authorities in an effort to find out something about Papá when he first went missing—but to no avail. I bit my lower lip to keep it from quivering. If there was still no word from Papá once we got to Oaxaca, I was determined to find a way to get to America. Something in my gut told me this was the answer. But for now, I simply nodded.
Following the sounds of ranchera music and the smells of street food, we made our way toward a clock tower in the distance. As we got closer to Arriaga’s town square, our spirits lifted, and once there, to our stunned surprise, we discovered that we were standing beside train tracks. They ran straight through the heart of the city.
“Problem solved!” I joked to Rosa. “We can ride La Bestia to Oaxaca!”