David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

And, he reminded himself, failure’s not an option. Everyone is so proud of you.

He drifted off into fitful sleep and the dreams that came to him seemed slight, disjointed-except one, which echoed back to another dream, the one he’d had at Mariko’s house all those weeks ago. Again there was twilight, a gun blast, the snarling dog. And yet the sense he was carrying something priceless, something he’d have to fight to keep, had changed. He saw his mother standing a little ways ahead. Her hair, usually long and densely matted in her pictures, was cut short like a nun’s. She looked sickly and frail. The face, however, was unmistakable. He tried to call out but the sound caught in his throat and that was when his mother-or whoever, whatever she was-pointed to a dusty leather bag at his feet. A ridiculously large and agile tarantula pushed its way out from under the unbuckled flap, scuttering toward him.

He shot up blinking, felt the scaly presence on his neck, brushed the lizard off.

A throng of golondrinas chirruped in the trees outside. Not to be outdone, a rooster crowed. Roque rubbed his neck as he rose from his bed of cardboard to peer out through the sooty cob-webbed window, hoping for some trace of daylight.

RAFA APPEARED WITHIN THE HOUR AND UNLOCKED THE DOORS. THE dream had left a residue, a sense of defeat, and Roque feared what he might do if trapped inside any longer. Lupe didn’t stir at first and only rose once Roque backed the Corolla out of the service bay, her hair mussed, her eyes piggish with sleep as she clutched the plastic bag of new clothes.

Rafa told them it would be best to cross the border early, before the guards working the day shift settled into their routine, but Roque got the feeling he just wanted them gone. Lupe dropped into the passenger seat, the better for appearances, he supposed, though he imagined she’d want to climb in back once the border was cleared, fall asleep again. He had a pretty good idea she’d be sleeping a lot in the coming days.

The clouds were a steely blue-gray and fat with rain, the air fresh but muggy. Twice in twenty minutes a quick thrumming shower fell, whipped by crosswinds, the downpour stopping as suddenly as it began. If that’s the worst of the weather, he thought, Tío and Samir shouldn’t have too bad a slog. Still, he wondered what shape and frame of mind they’d be in after trekking through pathless rough all night, rain or no rain.

The landscape was rolling windswept bluffs covered with tall brown grass, not unlike the foothills of Northern California, except there were more trees and he recognized none of them. He had no idea what bugs or other critters lurked out there, nor did he know if bandits were a problem. It was Humilde’s job to steer clear of such things, for which he’d been paid through Lonely, part of Happy’s end, the up-front fee. Roque had their pocket money with him, locked inside the glove box, a little less than three hundred dollars cash, enough for food and gas, they hoped. If Tío Faustino got jacked, he’d get jacked for nothing, not that that would change the experience much.

Taking a turn too fast, Roque braked hard to miss a stalled truck sitting square in the road. The back end got away from him on the slick pavement, the car fishtailed as he overcorrected and Lupe sucked in a scared breath. Finally he got the car square, passing the breakdown, accelerating away, a knee-jerk fear of robbery. He watched as the truck grew small in his rearview. Pay attention, he told himself, heart clapping inside his chest.

A little farther on the terrain flattened out, broad fields extending for miles to either side of the highway. Scrawny cows grazed in the cane stubble amid bolts of sunlight and roaming pockets of cloud shadow. Shortly he spotted the Puente Jorge de Alvarado ahead, the bridge that spanned the Río Paz.

Trucks pulled over onto the side, engines idling, waiting for a signal to proceed across the bridge to inspection, while young women in aprons went driver to driver, selling refrescos and fruit juice and pan dulce . The atmosphere was genial. Roque’s heart raced.

Once past the line of trucks and across the bridge he entered the rustic customs plaza and headed for the inbound lane marked “Tráficos Livianos,” intended for cars. Lupe undid her hair, shook it out, sliding a little closer in her seat. They’d discussed none of this. She leaned over the center console, draped an arm around him and rested her head against his shoulder, the better to hide her bruises. It was all show-they were a loving pair, they’d tangled recently, he’d knocked her around, just to remind her who spoke and who listened. A man other men would understand.

The immigration agent waved the car forward. He was short, dark, muscled like a wrestler. Roque had the registration out-it was in his name, arranged by Lonely-and his passport. Lupe listlessly fished around in her pocket for her Documento Unico de Identidad, handed it to Roque, then once again buried her face sleepily into his arm.

Bowing at the window, the agent reviewed the documents cursorily, then gazed in at the couple. His eyes lingered on Lupe, a stare so intense Roque wondered if she’d stuck out her tongue. Seconds passed. Finally she glanced up, offered a drowsy smile.

Roque studied the burly agent’s face. It was a knot of dark-skinned folds and creases, studded by onyx eyes, almost princely in its homeliness. He was taking too much time. I should ask if anything’s wrong, Roque thought, but he couldn’t get his mouth to form the words. Keep smiling, he told himself, ridiculous advice, sure to fail. Maybe he wants a bribe. No, disaster. Sit tight. It’s a trick, the silence. A ruse. Wait.

Lupe squeezed his arm. “Amorcito,” she murmured sleepily.

Still, the guard waited. Then with a brisk jolt he returned the documents, stepped back, waved the next car forward.

Roque put the car in gear and pulled away.- Stay put for just a minute more, till he can’t see us .

Lupe said nothing, still clinging to him gently and he fought back the stir of a mindless erection. They passed the line of merchant stalls along the roadway, the vendors selling Mayan handicrafts, watermelons, lightbulbs, socks. He checked the mirror, saw the agent growing smaller, occupied now with the next car in the queue.

“Okay,” he said at last.

Yawning, she lifted her head, unwrapped her arm from around his shoulder and settled back in her own seat, hands folded between her thighs, listing against the door.- Next time , she said, don’t just sit there like a fool. Check your hair in the mirror, jot down your mileage, pick your teeth, chew your nails-anything. He was waiting for you to say something stupid .

– He was looking at you, your face .

– Because he knew it would put you on edge. You’d get protective. You’d fuck up .

– Well, I didn’t fuck up. Here we are. On our way .

– Lucky us . She nestled tighter against her door.

He returned his focus to the road. A chain of jagged mountains loomed to the north, necklaced by immaculate clouds. A boy led a trio of coarse-haired goats along the roadbed.

He reached for the radio dial, hoping he could catch a signal. Nearly three hundred kilometers separated them from the capital but maybe there was a station to be found. He started venturing through waves of static, ghostly chords and plaintive melodies rising and fading, never quite coming whole. Finally a throaty alto came through clearly, Ana Gabriel, a mariachi tune: “Hay Unos Ojos,” There Are Some Eyes. It was one of the traditional songs he’d played for his uncle and the others at Carmela’s.

Lupe turned her head.- Wait. Keep it there .