Into the Beautiful North Page 21

  Suddenly, Nayeli said, “I still want to find my father.”

  Idly, Tacho said, “Why would he want to go back?”

  “Me,” she replied.

  “Ay, m’ija,” he sighed. “All they need is a few hot-air balloons to make it perfect here.” Ahead of them, a hot-air balloon rose. “Oh,” he said. “America wins every time.”

  Chava cleared his throat.

  They turned their attention to him.

  “I have only been to the camp a few times,” Chava told Nayeli. “I make it my habit to stop at the store to buy them supplies. It is…” He thought for a moment. “It is very hard where they live.”

  They got off the freeway and entered the town. All green: palm trees, ice plant, ferns on patios, pine trees, gardens, lawns. Big haciendas everywhere—or the red-roof-tile versions of haciendas. Fine cars. All shiny. Tacho felt he could definitely live in Del Mar. Atómiko awoke and looked out at rich ladies in hats. “Nice,” he noted. They pulled into the lot at the big supermarket. Atómiko stayed in the car, and the other two followed Chava Chavarín into the store.

  Glories of food. The yellowest peppers. The reddest apples. The crispest asparagus. Small cartons with mushrooms piled inside like snowballs. The vegetable bins periodically sang “Singin’ in the Rain” and started to sprinkle water on the coddled produce. Nayeli ran her hands through the mist and laughed.

  In the meat section: no blood, clean cuts set out neatly like books in a library. Fish lay in mounds of ice, no stink. Tacho was thrilled that refried beans came in different flavors in Los Yunaites: they sold traditional beans and vegetarian beans (which was kind of odd, in his opinion—weren’t beans already vegetables?), hot ’n’ spicy jalapeño refried beans, and chorizo-flavored beans. They also had low-fat beans. Nayeli lost interest in the Mexican section and found herself studying the breakfast cereals. This was truly astounding to her. Who was Count Chocula? What was a Boo-Berry?

  Two young white men with shaved heads were standing at each end of the aisle, watching them.

  Tacho insisted the Quaker Oats guy was gay. “Look at him!” Tacho said, pointing to the oatmeal box. “He’s like the old queen who does an Elizabeth Taylor drag show!” Nayeli laughed and pushed him away.

  “¡Ay, Tacho!” she gasped.

  He made her laugh so much she couldn’t even breathe. She was so happy. Tacho was back!

  They turned to head up to the coffee aisle. A boy was there, blocking the way. Sully.

  “Hey, Jimbo,” he called.

  “Yeah, Sully.”

  They turned. Jimbo was behind them. His stubbly scalp bore an 88 tattoo. He was as tall as the top of the highest cereal shelf. They turned back to Sully. He wore a military jacket. He had heavy black work boots with bright red laces.

  “Check out the wetbacks,” Sully said.

  “I can smell ’em from here,” Jimbo said. They snickered.

  Nayeli and Tacho stood in place, looking up at Sully. He was smiling at them. Why were they so afraid of him?

  “You illegals?” Sully asked. “Are you, amigos? Wets?”

  “Jesus,” Jimbo said. “They’s mute, too.”

  Sully shook his head.

  “We have standards,” he said. “We have laws. ¿Comprende?”

  “Sí,” Nayeli said, taking Tacho’s hand and trying to move past Sully.

  “Hey,” he said softly. He moved in front of her. “Don’t you want an American baby? Huh? You came here for an American baby, right? So you can stay forever?”

  “Mud people,” Jimbo offered.

  “I’d do you,” Sully said. “But, you know, I don’t want the AIDS.”

  Jimbo barked out a single laugh.

  “Check out the homo,” Sully said.

  He reached out to touch Tacho when Chava Chavarín ran into the back of his heel with his shopping cart.

  “Ow!” Sully yelled.

  “Oh!” Chava cried. “So sorry! Sorry, boys! Stupid Mexican! My fault!”

  He had Nayeli and Tacho in tow and was out of the aisle and in line at the checker before Sully and Jimbo could regroup.

  “Who are they?” Nayeli asked.

  Chava shook his head.

  “Don’t look at them.”

  The two boys appeared and hovered, glaring and looming but unable to do anything with so many witnesses around. Before they slammed out the electric doors, Jimbo pointed at them.

  “Catch you later!” he called.

  “Some people,” Chava noted mildly, “don’t like us here.”

  Nayeli had no idea where she was. They crossed the freeway on a small bridge, heading away from the beaches and the magnificent buildings. The hills were dry, yellow. Valleys and small canyons fell into shadow. In the distance, the fields and hills were crimson, pink, yellow, baby blue.

  “Flowers,” Chava said.

  “Duh,” said Atómiko.

  Chava pulled off the road and parked against a steel barrier. They got out and each took a bag of groceries. Atómiko held his bag in one arm and his staff over his right shoulder with the other.

  Chava said, “This is the richest country in the world.” He looked at each of them. “This is the richest state of that rich country.” They watched him. “And this is probably the richest city of the richest state of the richest country. Let’s go.”

  He stepped over the barrier and started downslope, into one of the dry canyons. The friends looked at one another and shrugged. They followed him down. It wasn’t far. At bottom, they found a small creek running with green water. Atómiko was delighted to see tiny fish scattering from under his shadow. They walked upstream, toward a stand of salt cedar and bamboo. They could smell the camp before they saw it: smoke, trash, human waste. Atómiko perked right up: home!

  Chava called out, “¡Hola! ¡Somos amigos!” He made it a habit of letting the paisanos know he was a friend before he trudged into their camp—seeing them flinch or run simply broke his heart. He hated it. So he announced himself. Still, they would be tense until he revealed himself. “¡Amigos Mexicanos!” he called.

  He pushed through the bamboo, and they followed him. They stopped and stared. A dog ran at them, barking, and Atómiko immediately crouched and growled a few friendly curses at the dog, and it wagged its tail and bumped into him with its chest.

  Dark, thin men stood staring at them. Smoke. The ground was muddy, darker than the men. Improvised tents were gathered in a rough U shape. Splintery poles propped up sheets of plastic. The fires in the small clearing held coffeepots on stones, frying pans. The men nodded—a few looked at Nayeli and dropped their eyes shyly. They had managed to hammer together a little wooden shrine. It was lifted off the ground by a stout wooden pole. In it, covered by a shingle roof, standing on a small shelf, was a statue of the Blessed Mother.

  Tacho’s shoes and pants were ruined. He didn’t care. He said, “We brought groceries.”

  “Are you missionaries?” a man with terrible teeth asked. Tacho and Nayeli blinked—he could have been Don Porfirio at the Tijuana garbage dump. When was that? A year ago?

  “No, paisa’,” Chava said. “Just friends. I am a friend of Angel’s.”

  “Ah!” The man’s face creased in a deep smile. “I remember you! Don Salvador!” He stepped forward and shook Chava’s hand.

  Chava said to the friends, “This is the jefe of the camp. Don Arturo.”

  Don Arturo shook all their hands.

  “Welcome to Camp Guadalupe,” he said. “Have some coffee.”

  Atómiko went right to the nearest pot. One of the paisanos handed him a battered cup. “Orale, carnal,” he said. He poured himself a stout shot and drank it. The paisanos were checking out his staff. “I’ve only killed about twenty cabrones with it,” he noted.

  “Angel is washing up,” Don Arturo said. “He will be here in a minute. Sit, sit.”

  They squatted on crates around the fire. Chava handed Don Arturo a box of doughnuts.

  “¡Ah, caray!” the old man said. “
Donas.”

  He handed doughnuts out to his men. They all said gracias almost silently, nodding their heads and keeping their eyes downcast.

  “You live here?” Nayeli said.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do?”

  “We pick flowers.”

  The boys nodded. Sí, sí, they murmured.

  “We pick chiles and tomatoes. When the season changes, we go north and pick strawberries and apples.”

  That’s right, the paisanos said.

  “Is it hard work?” she asked.

  He laughed.

  “How does it look to you, señorita?”

  “Hard.”

  They all laughed.

  “If you were born to be a ten-penny nail,” Don Arturo said, “you cannot curse the hammer.”

  The paisanos all nodded.

  “Forty brothers camp here and work the farms. We share costs—food, things like that.”

  “Beer,” one paisano called out. The men laughed.

  “Sometimes,” Don Arturo admitted. “Better poor and happy than rich and miserable.”

  Atómiko said, “Better still rich and happy.”

  “That’s a fact,” agreed Don Arturo.

  Atómiko poured himself some more coffee.

  “We boil water from the stream so we can drink,” Don Arturo explained. “Churches donate clothes. Sometimes, it is too hard to wash the pants, and we throw them away.”

  Nayeli noted a muddy pile of old clothing strewn in the reeds.

  “It’s a shame,” Don Arturo said. “We don’t make enough money to rent motel rooms or houses.”

  Then the bamboo parted and a very handsome young man stepped through.

  “Angel,” Chava Chavarín said.

  And behind him came Sully and Jimbo and four companions.

  Sully had a chain hanging from his right fist. Jimbo carried a bat. The other four were unarmed. Sully swung the chain like a pendulum.

  “What do we have here?” he asked. “What do we have here?”

  Chava had never been in a fight in his life. He held up his hands placatingly, and he hated himself for it.

  “Immigration rally?” Sully asked.

  The paisanos backed away.

  “They found me at the water,” Angel said. “I’m sorry.”

  Jimbo pushed Angel, hard.

  He fell to his knees.

  “Stay down, doggie-doggie,” Jimbo said.

  His homeboys laughed.

  “Beanertown,” Sully said. “Christ, you people. See what the mud people do to America? It’s Calcutta down here.” He spit at Chava’s feet. “You people stink.”

  Jimbo lectured his associates: “They come in here, turn our country into the third world. Am I right, Sully?”

  “Right-o.”

  Atómiko lowered his coffee cup and belched loudly.

  “Did you hear a bullfrog?” he quipped.

  These border jumpers, Atómiko thought, how subservient could you get? They all hung their heads and acted like they were wringing their hats in fear of these gringo thugs. They ought to come on down to Tijuana and face the cops if they wanted to be scared. Too bad there were no women here; it would have been fun to show off for a sweet little brown girl. Oh well, he had Nayeli, even if she was blind to his charms.

  Atómiko stood up and tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. He hung the cup on a nail. They all studied him carefully. He scratched his crotch, stared at the thugs and chuckled.

  “You boys want to help me scratch this? Got a bad itch!” he hollered.

  Angel started laughing and turned and looked up at the skin-heads. You would have thought that Sully and his boys were the most amusing monkeys in the zoo.

  “What are you looking at, José?” Sully demanded.

  Nayeli turned to Tacho and asked, “¿Qué dijo?”

  Atómiko relocated his scratching to his beard. He kept his other hand dangling loosely over the butt end of his staff. It hung across his shoulders like a barely noticed tool for the harvest.

  He replied, in his Tijuana English: “I dunno what I look at. But I figure it out pooty soon!” He laughed. He squinted at Angel. “What are they, brother?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Angel replied. “I never saw anything like them.”

  “You want to dance with me?” Sully asked, playing to the boys now.

  He showed Atómiko his chain. Atómiko made an Ooooh! face.

  “I no wan’ dance with you,” Atómiko said. “I wan’ break you neck. And then I go to your house an’ make babies with you madre.”

  “¿Qué?” said Nayeli.

  “We’re in serious trouble,” Tacho whispered.

  “Oh.”

  She rose.

  “Sit down, bitch!” Sully snapped.

  “Ay.” Atómiko winced. “You made a mistake, pendejo.”

  Nayeli turned back to Tacho.

  “Did he call me a bad name?” she asked.

  “Sorry, m’ija,” Tacho replied.

  She held up a finger at Sully and waggled it, scolding him.

  “Nayeli,” Chava warned.

  “Morra,” said Tacho, “don’t start anything crazy.”

  “They started it.”

  “What’s your name?” Angel asked, still kneeling.

  “Nayeli.”

  “What?” Sully demanded. “Speak English, greaser.”

  “¿Qué?” Atómiko demanded.

  “Goddamned beaner.”

  “Te voy a chingar.”

  “What?”

  Nayeli said, “Watch his chain.”

  “Shut it!” Sully barked.

  “I see it, I see it.”

  “I put greasers in the hospital, man,” Sully said.

  “OK,” Atómiko said.

  Sully was a little confused. The script dictated that at this point, the greasers begged or tried to flee. Fear. These two were just standing there. Then Angel stood up.

  Atómiko pulled the staff off his shoulders and started to spin it languidly in front of his face.

  “What are you, a cheerleader?” Sully said. His boys guffawed.

  “Baton twirler.” Jimbo laughed.

  “No,” Atómiko said. “Samurai.”

  He cracked the pole across Sully’s face so fast it looked like a cloud had passed in front of him; his nose smashed loud as a small firecracker, blood exploding from his face. Angel grabbed Sully and launched him through the reeds and into the creek. Nayeli knee-kicked Jimbo, and he went down clutching his leg and howling. His baseball bat fell on the ground. He tried to sit up, and she spun once and kicked him in the jaw. His head bounced off the mud and he wet his pants. Sully came out of the creek, swung the chain blindly, the blood and tears ruining his eyesight. His homeboys spread out with their arms open. They were closing on Nayeli.

  Atómiko stood still, wide-legged, holding his staff perfectly erect before his face. He screamed and lunged four times, smack-smack-smack-smack. Sully’s scalp parted over his eyebrows and more blood covered his face. He fell to his knees as Atómiko’s blows cracked on his shoulders.

  Angel was moving around like a crab, and he seemed to be bowing to everybody, but when he bowed, the white boys flew through the air.

  “Yeah!” Tacho shouted, jumping to his feet. One of the thugs decked him with one punch. Nayeli was on the boy in an instant, jabbing him in the neck and around the eyes with her nails, striking like a bobcat. He staggered around with her on his back, on his front, up on one shoulder. “Get her off! Get her off!” He tried to bear-hug her, but she head-butted him.

  Angel stood in front of Chava and Don Arturo, defending the elders.

  “You all right?” he called.

  “We’ve got it,” Nayeli replied.

  One of his boys turned to help get Nayeli off the kid’s back, and Atómiko swept the staff across the backs of his knees and dropped him into a campfire. He screamed. “My hair! Fire! I’m burning!” His head smoking like a torch, he broke through
the bushes and fell sobbing into the creek. Nayeli hopped down.

  The remaining thugs circled her and Atómiko. Jimbo had lurched to his feet and limped toward them, gripping his thigh above his ruined knee. The two friends stood back-to-back. Atómiko made patterns with his staff, swinging it around and around, covering Nayeli’s left, then her right. As the three thugs closed in, Tacho and Angel attacked from behind with a frying pan and Jimbo’s abandoned baseball bat. The bat made a horrid flat clang when it hit the nearest fighter’s head. Poor ol’ Jimbo. He dropped like a bag of frijoles.

  “Aluminum,” Atómiko noted. “I prefer wood.”

  Whap! His staff stung the boy in front of him in the throat. The boy fell to his knees, choking. Atómiko jammed the end of the pole into his solar plexus, then smacked him on each ear so he’d remember the day.

  Nayeli jumped in front of the last one standing. She was breathing heavily, covered in sweat. It dripped off her hair. But she was smiling. That was what scared the boy the worst: the crazy beaner chick was smiling. She licked her lips. She raised her fists.

  “Hello, baby,” she said.

  The boy plunged through the bamboo stand and ran all the way up and out of the canyon.

  Nayeli turned to Angel and said, “Do you want a job?”

  Chava dropped them off near midnight. Angel was going home with him to shower and buy some clothes. Nayeli couldn’t wait to hold up three fingers to Yolo to see her smile. But her arms were so sore from the battle that she didn’t think she could raise them. Her legs were trembling.

  Tacho got out of the car and limped as if he’d been the one fighting everybody.

  “M’ija,” he noted, “I am just too old for this. And too pretty.”

  She laughed.

  Atómiko said, “I am more pretty than you are.”

  They walked up the little lawn and found Carla. Somebody had set up a huge inflatable pool on the grass, and Carla was lounging in the water. Atómiko pulled off his filthy shirt and kicked off his shoes and fell into the pool, sending a big wave out onto the grass.

  “That there’s the only water that grass has seen this year,” Carla told them.