Champaign. Rantoul. Freight rail lines ran along their left side the whole way. The sidetracked train cars looked to Nayeli like washed-up boats on the edge of a sea. Abandoned semitrailers stood at angles on the edges and berms of vast dead farms. The dark fields ran away from them until they vanished in the violent skies knotting up and relentlessly stalking toward them from Iowa and Nebraska.
Paxton. Onarga. Chebanse.
“¡Chingado!” Tacho cried. “¡Ya, pues! Where is this Kankakee, for God’s sake? I’m through!”
“Soon, Tachito. You’re doing great. Soon, you’ll see.”
And suddenly, they were crossing the Kankakee River.
“Look!” she yelled. “I told you! I told you! It’s beautiful!”
“The Baluarte River back home,” he sniffed, “is better than this.”
Nayeli’s father was near—she could feel him. He would be shocked to see her. He might be angry. But she knew him—knew his good heart. He would be so moved by her brave journey to find him, to save her home. His features would soften and his face would break into a smile, and he would embrace her.
Beyond the river, they saw the KANKAKEE turnoff on the right.
Tacho took in the sight in a swoon of fever. His ears burned. His eyes felt like two coals in his skull. He didn’t trust what he was seeing. He didn’t trust that he wasn’t dreaming. He stopped at a stop sign and stared at the building in front of them.
“Is that there or not?” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a sign from heaven.”
A statue of a huge hand on the roof of the building clutched a globe and held it up to the sky.
“We have been in God’s hand the whole time.” Nayeli smiled.
To Tacho, it looked like the poster for a monster movie at the Cine Pedro Infante.
He turned left.
“Get ready, morra,” he said. “You’re going to get what you asked for.”
“I am ready!” she replied.
The minivan thumped as if Tacho were running over a hundred rabbits. They stared out the windows at sad East Kankakee. Old buildings and old motels. They saw an amazing little Victorian shed that had been some kind of ice cream parlor in its heyday and had now been turned into a Mexican taco stand. El Gallito.
“Menudo,” Nayeli noted.
Tacho bit back on his rising bile.
They passed a carnicería.
“Meat!” she exclaimed, like an insane tour guide of trivial destinations. “And they sell fruit and vegetables. In Spanish! Kankakee has Mexicans! You see?”
“Oh, shut up,” Tacho heard himself saying.
Suddenly, they were in a nice downtown. Red brick and a steely bright building. And out the other side. Strip malls. Gas stations. A building as pink as Tacho’s Pepto. Farther out, they saw an upended bathtub half-buried in a yard and spray-painted silver. A statue of Jesus stood inside it, blessing the dog poo in the yard.
“Tijuana, USA,” Tacho said.
They managed a U-turn, and they banged back through the nice part of town and limped to a motel near the meat market as the engine seemed to come undone and fall apart—great billows of acrid steam cloaked them completely from sight.
“Nayeli,” Tacho said, “you have killed me.”
They were in room 17, on the ground floor. The speeding Iowa rainstorm overtook them there and unzipped the sky. Great crashes of thunder shook the loose glass in the windows. The wind was ancient and cold. Tacho was so embarrassed by his diarrhea that he forced Nayeli to stand outside the motel room when he went to the toilet. She wore the fisherman’s Steamboat sweatshirt and clutched herself, watching the muddy water run down the motel’s drive and flood the street. Black men ran down the opposite sidewalk, grimly holding newspapers over their heads. Cars threw up fans of brown water, made desolate hissing noises on the wet blacktop. She could see houses behind the meat market. An orange plastic child’s wagon lay on its side in the mud. She shivered.
When Tacho came off the toilet, he fell into bed and slept. He was hot—she wet a washcloth and put it on his forehead. He belched the odor of rotten eggs. She cracked the door to let in fresh storm air.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I let you down.”
“No, you didn’t!” she said. “Tachito! Here we are!”
“But I don’t think… I think I need to stay in bed.”
“That’s all right. I should go find him alone.”
“Really? You’re not mad?”
But he was asleep again before she could reassure him.
In the lobby, she broke one of Tacho’s bills and used the change to buy him a 7 Up from the machine. She bought herself a Dr Pepper and some peanut butter crackers. Not much of a supper, but better than nothing. The rain was still pelting the street. The girl behind the desk took a few minutes out of her Sudoku fix and explained to Nayeli that she could make long-distance phone calls from her room. “Dial nine first,” she said.
Nayeli hurried along the side of the motel with her sodas.
Tacho was snoring.
Nayeli ate her crackers, drank her soda. She brewed some motel coffee in the little electric pot on the bathroom counter. She took out her father’s postcard. Through it all, she had carried it, folded in half, in her back pocket. She opened it carefully, because it wanted to tear apart. The crease through the picture was white, and the paranoid old turkey now seemed to have a lightning bolt coming down beside it. Nayeli saw this as a prophecy. She wanted to ask Tacho: Is there not lightning striking right now? But she didn’t wake him.
She took a shower. The shampoo came in a small foil envelope. She washed her underpants with the tiny soap bar under the steaming cascade of American water. It was different, she had noticed. Mexican water was weaker and had a distinct primordial scent. American water didn’t feel, well, it didn’t feel as watery to her as Mexican water.
Nayeli hung her panties on the towel rack and pulled on her other pair and the big sweatshirt and wrapped her head in a thread-bare towel. Tacho had kicked off his blanket. She tucked him back in and kissed his forehead. He was awake enough to mutter, “I don’t care what you do, you wench—I’m not having sex with you.”
She hopped into her own bed and watched the flashes of lightning through the window. She pulled the phone toward her and hesitated. She had Irma’s hotel number written on a piece of paper she had smoothed out beside her father’s postcard.
“¿Bueno?” Irma said.
“¿Tía?”
“¿Sí?”
“Tía, it’s Nayeli.”
“Oh! My beautiful girl! How goes the quest?”
“Ay, Tía.”
“No crying!”
“I’m not crying.”
“That’s my girl.” A pause. “And how is my other little girl?”
“What other—you mean Tacho? That’s mean.”
“I’m just being funny.”
“He is my hero.”
Chastised, Irma sucked her teeth.
“How are things?” Nayeli asked.
“Oh, well. I have my problems, dear girl. Don’t think it’s all just fun and games.”
“What’s wrong?
“Well! It’s Yolo. I swear. She says she’s not going home with the rest of us.”
“What!”
“The fool says she is going to stay in Los Yunaites with Matt.”
Small rings of shock ran down Nayeli’s entire spine.
“What does Matt say?” she gasped.
“Matt! Ha! He came creeping around here, and he confessed he doesn’t want Yolo to stay!”
Nayeli jerked with the news.
“What—what did you tell him?”
“I told him to grow some balls and deal with it himself. It’s hard enough being everybody else’s aunt Irma. I’m not about to start being his!”
“I can’t believe it, Tía.”
“Your turn,” Irma said. “Talk.”
She waited to hear what Nayeli had to report.
> “We are in KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS. Tacho is sick, so I’m going out alone to find my father.”
“It’s a great thing you have done, Nayeli.”
“Is it?”
Irma was uncharacteristically pensive.
“Did you get the men?” Nayeli asked.
“Of course!”
“Good, Tía. I’m glad.”
Tacho rolled over and mumbled, “Vieja fea.” Nayeli didn’t know if he was asleep or not. She smiled.
“There were many men,” La Osa said.
“How many?”
“Seventy.”
“What!”
“That was before we closed the doors.” Irma chuckled. “Who knows how many we turned away.”
“So you found all seven?”
“Well…” Irma turned away from the phone and said something. Nayeli heard the deeper tones of a man’s voice but not the words. She stifled a scandalized laugh. Chava Chavarín was in Irma’s room! “Well, anyway. We did not accept seventy men. We were, if you will recall, only looking for four more.”
“Yes.”
“So, after long consideration, we took twenty-seven.”
Nayeli shouted, “What!”
“I have standards, you know!” Irma snapped. “By God, I wasn’t going to take all seventy traitors back home!”
“Tía. Tía. We were only looking for seven. Total.”
“Yes, well. Easy for you to say! I had all those men here, begging for mercy.” Nayeli heard Irma light a cigarette and take a long pull. She coughed. “And all the while this fool Chavarín was falling for every hard-luck story! Chingado, you think every Mexican doesn’t have a hard-luck story? If we had Yul Brynner, well all right, perhaps seven men could rid the town of bandidos. But with these weaklings? Twenty-seven of these cowards will barely do the job.”
“But… how are we going to get twenty-seven men home?”
“I don’t know, dear. That’s your problem. I’m flying home with good old Ronald Colman here.” Rustling. Giggles. Irma’s love play. It made Nayeli a little queasy. “That Brujo devil worshipper has a truck. Matt will let us use the minivan.”
“We broke it.”
Irma unleashed several of her time-tested epithets.
Nayeli reported on the journey and the breakdown.
“Well,” Irma complained, “so much for that! Take a bus here, unless your good-for-nothing father drives you back. We’ll round up something for the seven. The other twenty cabrones can find their own goddamned way to Tres Camarones! Show some mettle! Oh, by the way, I called my comadre Carmelita Tovar in Tecuala. She’s flying up here next week to interview the rest of the seventy.”
“Excuse me?”
“You started something, m’ija! I am trying to figure out how to organize the women to send expeditions to Chicago and Los Angeles. Drag some of these fools back where they belong.” A male mumble in the background. “Yes, dear. Chava says I will become president of Mexico on a repatriation ticket!”
Nayeli grimaced: there was a long smooch.
They made up some chatter. Everyone was all right—Vampi was in love; Yolo was in love; Atómiko was still a complete, indefensible idiot (said fondly); Nayeli’s mother was doing well and had recently screened a Godzilla film festival to great local acclaim.
“I am so tired,” Nayeli finally confessed.
“Don’t despair,” Irma told her. “You changed the world.”
“I did nothing, Tía.”
“Look,” Irma said. Nayeli heard her order Chava out of the room. Shuffling. Then: “Are you still there? Good. Look—you did something I could never do. You came here on a mission. Why do you think I allowed you to come? Eh? Why? Because you are the future. You had to be tested. And you passed.”
Nayeli said, “I am not strong like you.”
“Let me tell you something, Nayeli,” Irma replied. “And I will deny ever having said this. You are stronger than I’ll ever be. Yes, I am Irma! Yes, I am La Osa! Yes, I am the women’s bowling champion of Sinaloa! But I am only that person in my village. Do you see?”
Nayeli was silent.
“I am a coward, Nayeli. I can’t be a hero in the big world—it scares me. Exhausts me. I belong in Tres Camarones. They need Tía Irma to run things. But the rest of the world? Ay… Why do you think I needed you to be the warrior? Now, go get your father and kick his ass.”
She hung up.
In the dark, Tacho said, “Nayeli? I want to go home.”
She sat beside him and put the washcloth on his forehead.
“Tachito-Machito, mi flor,” she cooed. “What about Hollywood? What about Beberly Hills?”
He shook his head under her hand.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “People like us? We don’t marry Johnny Depp.”
She sat with him until he fell asleep.
Chapter Thirty-four
In the morning, Nayeli tucked Tacho in and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. She wore her running shoes and the big sweatshirt. High orange-and-black clouds scuttled toward Indiana. She tucked her postcard back into her pocket. She was utterly on her own.
She walked down to El Gallito and tapped on the window.
“Hey,” the guy inside said, “this is a drive-through. You’ll get run over.”
“Hola,” she said.
“Quiubo,” he replied, nodding once. “Want a taco?”
“I’m looking for my father,” she said.
“Do you live here?”
“No, I came from Sinaloa.”
“Ah.” He stirred a pot of beans. Made her a burrito with cheese.
“What do I owe you?” she asked as he handed it out to her.
“One smile, Sinaloa.”
She smiled like the sunrise.
“I am Nayeli.”
“What’s your jefito’s name?”
“Pepe Cervantes.”
“Don’t know him.”
“He came here a few years ago.”
“I probably feed him. But I don’t ask anybody their names. You know.”
A car pulled up on the other side of the shack.
“I got work,” he said. “Try the library.”
“The library?”
“It’s the big silver building downtown. They help everybody.”
“But… I’m, we’re…”
He laughed.
“This is Kankakee, morra! They like Mexicans here!”
She marched. Court Street was long and old. Behind her, the Mary-crest Lanes bowling alley: she idly imagined La Osa decimating opponents there. City Housing Authority. Youth for Christ City Life. Aunt Martha’s Youth Service Center. Trendz Beauty. King Middle School. She was shocked at how out of shape she was: her feet and legs hurt. Back home, she would have run this as a warm-up for a game.
“I am getting old,” she said out loud.
When she got downtown, she approached the big silver monolith with caution. She followed the sidewalk down a hill and went to the lower doors of the library. She had never entered such a beautiful building before. Come to think of it, she had never been in a public library, either. A small group of Mexican kids sat on the bench outside, murmuring and laughing. She nodded to them and stepped through the glass doors.
So many books!
She stood there, looking around. Tables with computers. Elevators. A huge desk with white people to her right. She felt stupid and rural. She started to walk back out but was embarrassed to walk past the Mexican kids again. She went back in and sat on a soft chair and looked at the brightly lit room.
One of the white men behind the big counter saw her and went to a slender white woman and whispered in her ear. She looked up at Nayeli. She had short brownish hair and wore glasses. Nayeli liked the big hoops in her ears. Expecting a frown, Nayeli ducked her head. But the woman smiled when she looked back up. Nayeli smiled. The woman nodded her head and went back to her task.
Nayeli searched all the faces. She didn’t recognize anybody. She wondered if she would
know her father now if she saw him. Had he changed?
She sat down at the computer tables and clicked on the Internet. She started trolling. She Googled Tres Camarones.
“Do you need help?” a voice said.
Nayeli looked up. It was the smiling woman. Her name tag said: MARY-JO.
“¿Habla español?” Nayeli asked.
Mary-Jo laughed and held her fingers in the air, forming a li’l pinch.
“¡Muy poco!” she said.
Nayeli laughed.
“I look for my father,” she said in English.
The young man from the desk walked by and said, “Miss Mary-Jo runs this city!” Mary-Jo waved him away. “You’re in good hands,” he called.
“Are you the… mayor?” Nayeli asked.
Mary-Jo laughed again, shook her head.
“My aunt is mayor,” Nayeli explained, “in my town.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sinaloa.”
Mary-Jo put a finger to her chin, thought.
“Come with me,” she said.
Nayeli matched her brisk pace as they went behind the desk. She felt self-conscious, like everybody was watching her. But of course no one even looked.
Mary-Jo tapped on a chair back with her fingertips. Nayeli sat.
“We have some Sinaloans in town, I think. Working in the greenhouses. But most of your paisanos come from Guanajuato.”
She grabbed a phone.
“Our sister city.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
Mary-Jo punched in some numbers.
“I’ll call the police.”
Nayeli started to jump up, but Mary-Jo took her wrist.
“Sit,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
She smiled into the phone.
“Hi. It’s me. Yeah, I always need something. Librarians never rest, didn’t you know that? Can you run over here for a sec? I’ll give you a cookie. Oh, good! Bye!” She smiled at Nayeli. “How about you?” she asked. “Would you like a cookie?”
Baffled, Nayeli accepted a vast sugar cookie and a pink napkin.
After a few minutes, a huge Mexican American detective walked in. He wore a suit, but Nayeli could see the cuffs on his belt. He had a badge on his jacket.
Mary-Jo said, “Nayeli’s looking for her dad. From Sinaloa.”