La Frontera

By Mark Miner

Part 2

Two white-and-green Suburbans rolled up, and soon eight BP-ers were fanning out along the hillside.  The walked it up like quail hunters, thoughtfully and confidently, eyes up, ears open, weapons holstered but ready.

 
Juan, Jorge, and Ramón were worming their way down the other side of the hill, Alberto and Antonia were praying, Felípe was burying himself under sage and Soledad was still crying. 

 
That was two days ago.  Juan and company had watched, silent, dusty, bitter, as the morning's companions became the afternoon's inmates.  The gray van drove away with their compatriots, their cash, and their hopes. 

 
Juan and Ramón had kept their water jugs, Jorge had scrambled away without his.  This posed a problem.  Jorge had not complained, not at first, but as the afternoon waxed into night he began to hint at his dilemma.

 
      "Vas a tomar toda la agua?"  Are you going to drink all of the water?  he once asked Ramón.  Out of pity, Ramón had given him a drink, but there was less than a quart now in the former milk jug.

 
Sonoran desert night wrapped itself around the travelers.  They had made headway, keeping Baboquivari peak on their left and following in sight of the big wash, but it had been slow going. 

 
A rumble of engines filled the wash, and headlight beams slewed across ocotillo and palo verde trees.  Juan shook Ramón awake, and he kicked Jorge out of his slumber.  The three watched as an old Blazer kicked its way through the sand, stopping a quarter mile downstream of their perch.  Parking lights replaced headlights, and the motor shut off. 

 
      "Tengo sed."  I am thirsty, said Jorge, and he slipped into the night.  Ramón and Juan knelt cautiously, waiting, watching.  Jorge's ridiculous Steelers sweatshirt moved from tree to tree.  He had asked Alejandro who the Steelers were, learning only yesterday that they played fútbol.  Jorge laughed. "Nadie pueden comparar con la ciudad de México."  No-one can compete with Mexico City, he scoffed.  Alejandro smiled and shook his head.  Fútbol Americano.

 
Now Jorge was peering down from the bank of the wash.  A man stood beside the Blazer, the orange ember of a cigarette glowing at times.

 
A soft Hola! carried across the wash.  The ember whipped around. 

      "Quien es?" Who is it, called the ember. 

                                    Do you have water?

                                    Yes, a little, do you need it?

                                    For the love of God, yes!

                                    Come here, then.

 
The white Steelers logo scrambled down the bank to meet the ember, who rummaged in the Blazer and produced a plastic bottle that gleamed in the half moonlight.  Snack! as the plastic seal broke, and then soft watery noises.

 
Juan and Ramón exchanged a glance, maybe this was their ticket out of the desert.  They were thirsty too.