Crossing the Wire: Chapters 1–7

Rico always spoke of cars with reverence, even in front of his father, who couldn’t afford one.

Most of the fields lay fallow, abandoned by men working in El Norte or by families who had left for the cities—usually Querétaro or Mexico City.

"This evening I will bring back the news from the meeting of the co-ops,” Señor Rivera said, "about the outlook for the prices this year.”

The platter of tortillas and the bowl of rice and beans were going to make a meager meal.

As my mother set the food down, I grappled with my feelings.

They broke up the clods behind me and raked the earth smooth as they had been doing weekday afternoons.

The village bells were tolling, possibly to mark the return of the bus.

To picture my mother huddled on the sidewalk all day long, her hand held out and her eyes on the ground, made me turn myself inside out with exasperation.

My mother placed her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t you understand, my son? Even if you were able to cross the desert and find work, you would always be among strangers, and living in the fear of being deported. And what about us? We also would be living in fear, not knowing how you are doing, hearing nothing at all, not even that you are alive. Your father’s letters never even got to the village.”

The great spotted cat had come to the edge of the forest and looked at me one day as I was playing on the grass behind our house with its roof of thatch.

My mother had put on her finery from Chiapas: her blouse embroidered with many colors, and her long black skirt.

El Cristo Rey was a silhouette against a band of violet surrendering to black.

As I boarded, I was amazed by the plush seats with high backs and headrests, and by the air-conditioning.

Inside the Guadalajara terminal, there was not even room to sit on the floor. A good many of the throng were obviously mojados on the move.

Two more customs police, one with an automatic rifle, were supervising a man unloading the heavy fruit and vegetable boxes stacked high in the cattle cage enclosing the bed of the truck.

A burly policeman in a tight, starched uniform boarded the bus.

Skinny, uncombed, and more than a little nervous, this man was apparently the driver.

The police removed the plywood and uncovered a terrible sight in the bed of the pickup: people writhing like snakes—men, women, and children.

The police saw me trying to sidle away. They ordered me to get down with the others and I did.

I fell back onto my elbows, and shuddered at a freight train hurtling through the darkness.