Fiction Published in Scarlet Leaf Review

 

This fiction story was motivated by the current political environment as it relates to immigration policy and enforcement.  I hope the story serves as a reminder about the humanity needed when formulating meaningful public policy.  It has been published in Scarlet Leaf Review, December, 2017.  Here is the opening paragraph:

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Gaining Momentum

By Cathy Beaudoin

 

 

Pedro was one of a half-dozen men who paid smugglers to get them from the southern reaches of Mexico to the United States. In the beginning, the men rode in a cargo van. Then, after being given a gallon of water, they were hidden in sealed crates stacked in a tractor-trailer truck. Pedro held his breath when the border patrol randomly searched three of the crates. Luckily, the only items they saw were packaged electronics, ready for sale. Once over the border, the illegal immigrants were driven to California’s Mojave Desert. When Pedro jumped out of the truck, a stranger was waiting for him. The man asked if he was Pedro. Pedro stared through him. He thought he was about to be arrested, and had just wasted the money his uncle lent him.  Instead, he was given a bicycle, and some directions. After exchanging words in Spanish, Pedro understood it was another two hundred miles before he would reach California’s Central Valley. He repeated the man’s words to himself. Follow the map, and watch for police and immigration vehicles.  

 

Hours passed and Pedro rode the bike, with its rusty fenders and broken headlight, along the gravel road. The bike’s chain was drier than a creek bed in the unforgiving desert. The front tire was frayed, a patched inner tube partially exposed. He crept forward. Every ten to fifteen minutes, he scanned the land around him. It was easy to see vehicles coming in his direction.  They made discrete dust devils on the horizon, and were a cue he needed to get off the road and lay flat behind the densest scrub brush he could find. The game of cat and mouse added hours to the trip. This was the same journey his uncle made three years earlier. But things were different now. He knew the longer he was visible, the more likely it was he would get caught. 

 

In the middle of the day, the summer sun pounded him. Hours later, he was broiling, like a pig on a spit. Crispy on the outside, moisture trapped on the inside. When Pedro tried to swallow, there was no saliva. He wondered how long it took for a man to die. Would anyone know? Or care? He looked up and mouthed a simple prayer. O Mother, have pity on me.  Forgive me. Have mercy on me. He slogged on. 

 

The road flattened out, and he faced a long downhill stretch. He was grateful to gain some momentum. The trip was as hard as any of the back-breaking work he’d done back in the sugar cane fields. At least there, relief came at the end of the day. But he barely made enough money to take care of his wife and son. It was only with his brother’s help that he built a two-room house from cement blocks. Like the houses around them, theirs wasn’t ventilated, and the patio doubled as a kitchen. His wife cooked all the meals outside, over an open fire. When he came home from work, Pedro bathed behind the house, then sat while his wife did the evening chores. Life was simple. But they wanted more for their son.

 

As Pedro pedaled, he was certain there were eyes on him. He doubted his uncle’s enthusiasm. 

 

“Come to California, you can work here. The farm owners love Mexicans, and the pay is much better.”

 

“But I don’t have working papers. I’ll just get deported.”

 

“No, no you won’t. If you can get here, it’s okay. They need workers. No one makes trouble here.”

 

The hours and miles ticked by. Pedro thought about his family, and prayed to God for water. Longer prayers now. At least until he thought he saw a town in the distance. Was it two miles away? Five miles? He didn’t believe it was real until he leaned his bicycle against the wall of a convenience store.  In the men’s bathroom, he put his mouth under the faucet and drank for a full minute. His belly full of water, he pulled the directions out of his back pocket and tried to understand them. Finally, with some of the twelve dollars and fourteen cents in his pocket, he bought a candy bar. After he paid, in heavily accented English he asked the boy behind the register, “Route 43 around here?” 

 

The boy did not flinch. “Up the road about 5 miles, take route 58 West. It’ll git ya there.”

 

Pedro pointed up the road, “58 West first?”

 

“Yup.”  

 

On his way out, Pedro glanced over his shoulder and saw the boy giving directions to the next customer in line. He wiped the nervous perspiration from his brow.  

 

*****

 

After joining Pedro in California six months earlier, Rosa still found herself dreaming about going back to Mexico. She thought about the days when her son played stickball in the streets, and how she used to feed her family warm tortillas stuffed with skillet fried vegetables, chicken, and chili peppers. Often, when preparing those dinners, a whiff of a pepper closed her throat. She missed cooking outside over an open wood fire. Using electric heat seemed to suck the moisture and flavor out of everything. As much as she wished they were back with family and friends, this was her home now. She remained silent.    

 

“This is what parents do,” her mother murmured when they hugged and said their good-byes, “give things up.”

 

Her mother was right.  Rosa pulled the bed covers up to her shoulders and tried to sleep. 

 

“Mamá. It’s time to get up.” The words came from the other side of the bedroom door.  Rosa wasn’t used to hearing her son so excited.

 

“Okay, okay, uno momento.” She glanced at Pedro’s side of the bed. “Where’s your papá?”

 

“Waiting outside. Hurry Mamá, you know he has to go to work.”

 

Rosa willed herself out of bed. After using the bathroom, she made her way back to the bedroom, picked up an old hairbrush she’d used since she was a child, and combed the tangles out of her long, thick, black hair. For clothes, Rosa picked out a new, bright-colored blouse and a pair of black, straight-leg jeans. She grabbed her leather sandals, a gift Pedro gave her when she first arrived in California. Back home, they couldn’t afford new shoes.

 

Rosa heard her son race out the front door yelling, “Papá, ella está lista. Hurry.”

 

As she followed him outside, and into the sunshine, her husband came from around the corner pushing a brand-new bicycle. Pedro and his son already had bikes. Now, on her thirty-first birthday, Rosa had one too. 

 

“Happy birthday, Mamá. Look, look, a new bike.”  Rosa giggled. The frame was light blue, her favorite color. The wheels had whitewall tires and shiny spokes. Tassels hung from the rubber grips on the handlebars. She watched Pedro run his fingers across the weaving of the white basket attached to the front handlebar. 

 

“I made sure to get a basket. It’ll make carrying groceries easier.” Buying food was a constant struggle for Rosa. Back home, she picked vegetables from their backyard garden, or bartered with neighbors, to supplement the chickens they raised. Here, she had to walk two miles to the grocery store after working all day.

 

“Mamá, do you like it?”’

 

“Sí, Sí. I love it.”  She hugged her son, and then her husband. Conscious of the time, Pedro took control.

 

“Happy birthday, Rosa. I thought we could walk over to the bike path and take a half hour to practice riding it. Then I have to go to work.”

 

“Thank you, Pedro. I love you both. But I don’t know how to ride a bike.” She giggled again.

 

“It’s easy, Mamá. You’ll see.”  Each took their bike by the handlebars and started the five-minute walk to the bike path. Along the way, Rosa kept looking at the streamers and the shiny chrome. She never had anything like this before. Once they found a straight, quarter-mile stretch on the bike path, Pedro laid his bike on the ground. He told Rosa to straddle the bike frame, with her feet planted on the ground. She listened to his instructions: put one foot on the top pedal, push down and sat back on the seat, and then push down on the second pedal with the other foot.

 

“I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

 

Although she did what he said, Rosa didn’t pedal hard enough to gain momentum. Pedro ran beside her, pushing the bike so she could feel the freedom.

 

“Pedal, Mamá. Pedal.”

 

Rosa pedaled, but had trouble keeping the handlebars straight. The bike wobbled, and she almost fell.

 

“Uno momento,” Pedro cried, needing to catch his breath. Rosa dragged her feet on the ground until the bike came to a complete stop.

 

After letting Pedro rest for a minute, Rosa was ready to try again. Pedro pushed and once she got going, she pedaled away. Pedro and her son hopped on their bikes and followed her. At the bottom of the next incline, Rosa stopped and the threesome walked up the hill.

 

“Okay, no push this time,” Rosa insisted. Pedro placed the bike so that it was facing downhill. Rosa put her foot on the pedal, pushed off, sat on the seat, and pedaled harder this time. She held the handlebars tight, and momentum took her away. Instinctively, she scanned the land around her, making sure no one had ­­­eyes on them. With her back to her husband and son, Rosa stopped pedaling and mouthed towards the sky, “For you my son…this is for you.”

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-- THE END --

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