The Only Road (2 page)

He'd never been brave like his cousin.

“Here,” Mamá's voice said softly. Jaime looked up from his crumpled spot on the floor. Mamá had put the coffee on the stove and cleaned herself up. Her eyes were still red, but now she just looked tired, and old. She offered him sweet and milky
café con leche
. Like it would help.

Still, he held the cup, wrapping his hands around the ceramic mug as if it were a cold day instead of a suffocating one. He took a deep breath; after all, he'd been with Miguel that day when Pulguita had made his “offer.”

“Will I be next?”

His parents didn't look at him. Mamá started crying again and Papá shook his head. Jaime got his answer.

“I don't want to die. But I don't want to kill people either. What can I do?” he asked the coffee cup in his hands, like a fortune-telling
bruja
might do with tea leaves. Neither the coffee, nor his parents, answered him.

There was nothing he could do. No one escaped the Alphas.

That evening, family and friends
poured into Miguel's home. Still, there were many who couldn't make it—Tío Pedro Manuel and his family didn't have the money to pay for the bus fare; Tía Lourdes and her family didn't know yet, the only phone in their village was out of order.

Everyone brought food—bags of rice, beans of every color, ground corn for tortillas and tamales, whole chickens and sides of pork, plantains to fry, sugar to make desserts, rum to drink away the sorrow. An outdoor patio connected the individual structures of Miguel's house—kitchen, two separate sleeping areas, and the bathroom, but everyone wandered between the patio and kitchen, talking, eating, reminiscing.

Tomorrow, at the burial, there'd be grieving. Tonight,
however, was the time to celebrate Miguel's life.

In the middle of the patio, surrounded by flowers, candles, and incense, stood the wooden coffin. The lid lay on top but could be slid open to reveal the head and chest for those who wanted to say good-bye. Jaime forced himself to, then wished he hadn't. Miguel looked . . . not like Miguel. The beatings he had received had left his face distorted. No amount of makeup could change his shattered nose or the swelling over his left eye. Even with his eyes and mouth closed, no one would say he looked like he was sleeping.

Jaime didn't think anyone should have been allowed to see him like that, but it was a tradition that helped
la familia
accept that he was gone.

The police in the village had called Miguel's death an unfortunate
accidente
. Of course they would say that. Money meant more than morals and justice to the force; whoever paid most had the power, and the Alphas could pay a lot. It also didn't help that the police chief's drug habit funded many of the gang's operations.

Jaime removed his sketchbook from its perpetual nook underneath his arm and pressed it against his head so he couldn't see, wouldn't have to remember Miguel like that.
Why Miguel? Why did being brave have to end so badly? What was the point of being good if it turned out bad?

With a sigh he turned to a blank page and drafted the
three-dimensional outline of the coffin. He avoided the disfigured face and focused on the other details: Miguel in his best church clothes with his hands clasped over his chest, and his prized possessions—a disassembled clock, minute screwdriver kit, and his horseshoe magnet—laid out beside him.

For Miguel's face he drew the features he remembered, the ones he had seen only this morning: a smile that went up higher on the right than the left; eyes so dark it made the white around them glow; the shaggy black hair in need of a cut. That was the real Miguel, not the beaten-up body left behind. The real Miguel was the one on his way to Heaven.

A hand on his shoulder caused Jaime to jump. It was Ángela, Miguel's fifteen-year-old sister.

Her eyes glanced down at his drawing, and he held the book out for her. She took it, her fingers hovering over the face as if trying to caress her brother's cheek. She nodded slightly before returning the book. Jaime didn't need words to know she was pleased he'd chosen to celebrate the real Miguel.

•  •  •

The next morning's procession was somber. It didn't help that Miguel's mamá, Tía Rosario, was banned from going with the rest of the family to her son's burial.

“I have to go.
Mi hijo
, he needs me. Please, you must!”
she shouted. She pounded her brother's chest as he barred the door. For that very reason, she had to stay behind. It was bad luck to cry or make a scene at a child's funeral. The spirit would then get confused, thinking he needed to stay on earth, instead of making his ascent straight into God's arms, where he belonged. Mamá stayed with her sister at the house, partly to keep Tía company, partly because Miguel had been like her son too.

Jaime's papá and
tíos
carried the coffin on their shoulders toward the cemetery through the unpaved village streets, where houses had once been painted white but now stood dark gray with crud and grime. Ángela clung to Jaime's arm and together they walked after the coffin. Even with all the family around him, Jaime felt alone, as if a part of him were missing. It must have been worse for Ángela. She hadn't said a word since she had heard the news.

It should have been my funeral
, Jaime thought. Between the two of them, Miguel should have been the one to live.

Jaime sniffed hard. He couldn't cry. He mustn't. The fate of Miguel's spirit depended on it. Next to Jaime, with her eyes squeezed tight, Ángela let him guide her through the quiet streets. For his cousins, living and not, he had to be strong.

At the cemetery Padre Lorenzo said words Jaime only heard in bits: “chosen by God,” “at peace,” “loved by all.”
None of them even began to describe Miguel—he was so much more.

The coffin was lowered into the grave. Along with the rest of the family, Jaime and Ángela each kissed a handful of dirt before throwing it into the hole. Then holy water was sprinkled on top to keep evil spirits away.

Only it didn't work to keep away the Alphas.

A group of gang members stood on top of the hill overlooking the cemetery. Jaime could just make out Pulguita's scrawny frame in the front line. He wanted to run up there and punch every one of them until they felt the same pain in their hearts he was feeling, and the same pain Miguel endured while they hit him.

Tío Daniel must have felt as Jaime did. When the priest said the last prayer, Tío Daniel's balding head jerked up to the hill, his nose twitching as if he could smell the Alphas' foul scent. He sprinted halfway up before Papá and two other uncles caught and restrained him.

“My son!” Tío Daniel shouted as he fought against the arms holding him back. “Give me back my son!”

The men half lifted, half dragged the resisting Tío Daniel back to the churchyard. The Alphas watched the men's retreat like sinister statues guarding a crypt. Not one of them moved. Except their eyes.

A violent shiver coursed through Jaime's body. They were watching him.

Next to him, Ángela jerked and quivered. Jaime knew she could feel the Alphas' eyes on her, too.

•  •  •

They were right. The Alphas had been watching them.

The next evening, Papá had just come home from work at the chocolate plantation and Mamá was ironing when the front door burst open. Tía Rosario leaned against the cinder-block wall, dark hair covering her face, and gasped to catch her breath.

“Come. Quick. All of you.” And then she dashed away.

Mamá unplugged the iron as Papá pulled on his shoes. Panic shot through Jaime as he and his parents ran down to Tía's house.
Why is God punishing us?

It normally took ten minutes to walk there. Today, because they were running, even Mamá with her limp, it took four. But it felt like forty.

A breath he didn't know he was holding escaped his lips at the sight of Ángela. Nothing had happened to her. Yet. He knew from the hopeless look on her face the “yet” was still to come. She stood in the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, next to the boxy television with her back slumped against the wall. Jaime inhaled deeply to catch his breath and calm down. He reached for his cousin and held her hand like she had held his at the funeral. Had it really only been yesterday?

Rosita, Miguel and Ángela's older sister, sat at the table
nursing her baby, Quico. Abuela, their grandmother who lived with Jaime's cousins, had been rolling tortillas but now stood tossing a ball of
masa
from one gnarled hand to the other. Tío Daniel sat in another chair looking as empty and hopeless as Ángela. At least everyone was still alive.

A few minutes later Tía Rosario returned with Padre Lorenzo, the same priest who'd facilitated Miguel's burial.

Tía took a deep breath amd tied her hair back. Jaime noticed her hands shaking. “Ángela, the letter.”

Ángela pulled a wadded-up piece of graph paper from her jeans pocket. Jaime stopped himself from exclaiming; Miguel always took graph paper with its little boxes to school. He could guess the letter's author.

Tía took it from her daughter, smoothing out the crumpled mess, and read it through the tears streaming down her face. “ ‘
Querida Ángela,
We're sorry for your loss, as your brother's death is our loss too. To make up for it, we'd like to extend our invitation to have you join us instead. We'll give you six days to mourn your brother, then please report to Parque de San José before school. We'd like your help in delivering a gift to a friend. Your cousin can help too. Sincerely yours, The Alphas.' ”

The tone of false politeness burned Jaime almost as much as the final line did. In his head the words rang in Pulguita's voice, not that the little flea had the brains to speak so eloquently.
Your cousin can help too
. That was him.
Other than a couple infants and toddlers in the family, he was Ángela's only cousin who lived around here. His life of being in the shadows was officially over. He had been recruited.

Soon he and Ángela would be the ones pushing drugs outside school; he could just imagine what that “gift” was that required delivering. The Alphas would force both of them to take part in beatings, and killings. But with Ángela it would be worse. If the gang members thought she was pretty enough, she'd become one of the gang leaders' girlfriends, whether she wanted to or not. If she wasn't, one of the junior members would get her instead. The thought of Ángela being Pulguita's girlfriend made his stomach turn.

“Forget it.” Papá crossed his arms across his chest. “We're not sacrificing our children on a gang's whim. What do they want with us? We've raised good Catholics, not some
malcriado
heathens.”

Jaime's and Ángela's eyes met. The Alphas didn't need a reason. They had taken over the whole region because they had the money and power to do what they wanted. Miguel's murder reminded everyone of that.

“Padre.” Mamá turned to the priest, her hands outstretched in front of her as if reaching out for God. “Couldn't you talk with them? Make them see the light? Encourage them to repent?”

Padre Lorenzo shook his head. “I have tried, my child.
And while they dare not penetrate the sacred walls of the church, they prey on the weak and insecure of my congregation. I don't see how I can get through to them. Last week they convinced one of my altar boys that they held more opportunities than a life serving God.”

Jaime felt ill. There was only one solution, and it was simple. He'd go see Pulguita tomorrow. The little flea lived with his uncle near the dump. They could “talk,” for old times' sake. And at the end of the visit Pulguita would see that the Alphas had no use for Ángela; that he, Jaime, would be the better option.

Except
, as he thought about it,
it wouldn't work
. They already wanted him. Why would they accept his deal of gaining only one new member when they already had their eyes on both of them? The Alphas didn't work deals like that; they always got what they wanted. He knew it, the whole village knew it, and there was nothing he could do about it. He never felt so helpless. And guilty.

“You'll have to pay them, of course,” Abuela said as she whacked a ball of corn
masa
against the counter like she was killing an insect. “Buy the children's safety—”

“
¡No!
” Tío Daniel got to his feet. For a second it looked like he would attack someone, but then he sat back down, the bald patch on his head shiny with sweat. In a low growl he continued, “I refuse to pay the scum who killed my son. It'd be like a reward. No, we'll keep
Ángela and Jaime safe some other way.”

Ángela raised her eyes from the floor. Jaime could feel her gaze on him as if she were analyzing the possibilities. He almost let out a sigh of relief. She knew what to do; she would take care of things.