-- Borders --
On some sections of the US-Mexico border there are walls and fences. Sometimes ditches too. Often there is razor wire, and sometimes there is blood where migrants decided to sacrifice their own bodies in order to cross into Texas. The blood dries on and looks like rust until it is scoured away by blowing sand. Cloth lasts longer, caught on the barbs. It fades and weathers until it becomes the color of bone. Eventually, it too is worn to nothing by the climate. It is dry, with rain coming infrequently as falling stars; less impressive perhaps, but more useful to the ranchers on the north side who pay taxes to San Antonio in return for border guards and more fences. In the end, it is the possessions that last the longest: silver jewelry calling on the intervention of an obscure saint. A bottle. Sometimes a watch. They fall more heavily on the northern side of the fence. Once the border is crossed, no one wants to wait around to look for lost knickknacks, no matter how precious.
Isabella knows this from experience. When she came over the fence in her mother's arms three years ago, she dropped Carlie in the sand. She cried out to stop, stop I dropped Carlie, but her mother quickly hushed her and ran on. After a few moments her mother put her down and they moved together in the moonlight hand in hand. But her other hand felt empty without Carlie's soft nylon arm held tight in her palm, and although she ran quietly she was crying. By the time they reached a place to sit and rest her face was streaked with dirt where her tears had pasted the dust to her skin.
There was lots of hushing to be done and lots of moving. Her mother was scared beyond reason and scared people have no time for complaints about dollies, even dollies whose eyes close when they laid down to sleep and whose mouths fit tightly around a pale blue pacifier. There was time only for hushing and being hushed. Being hushed was very important to Isabella's mother. Not being quiet could ruin everything. Some people wanted to send Isabella and her mother back to Mexico, so it is important to stay quiet for many reasons. Her mother was jumpy. For a while she was scared even of airplanes that flew overhead, taking off and landing on long thin runways. Her mother warned her never to tell anyone about coming into Texas over the fence and running across the dusty ground at night.
Quiet became Isabella, it turned out. Her newfound patience and aloofness made her seem like the model child she wished to be because that is what her mother wanted. I love you just the way you are, don't ever change, her mother said, you are my little treasure. You are all I have and all I need. But this is a lot for a little girl to handle at six years old, all the weights of the world on one side of the scale and only a dark eyed, dark haired child on the other to balance them out. She had to do it alone, without even Carlie to help out. It was a great responsibility and Isabella felt it was her duty to mold herself carefully in order to balance as much of the world as possible for her mother who came home tired from her job at night and then had only a few hours to cook and clean and relax and hold her little treasure until it was Isabella who must remind about bedtime.
The demand is great for a little girl of six, and not much less for a slightly bigger girl of nine, which is how old Isabella is now. Nine years old and almost nine and a half, reading books from the grown-up section of the library where her quite as a mouse demeanor is prized almost as much as it is at home. The librarian thinks she is a remarkable child. At that age to be reading Brontë (both of them even) and so mature, it makes your heart go pitter patter, it does. For her part, Isabella thinks that the librarian is just about the wisest person alive. She tells her which books are good for a girl her age and which books are better for boys (although Isabella has read some of those too, when she is alone and the opportunity presented itself.) The librarian is an old lady who smiles warmly when Isabella sits in the big chairs to read her books, although she has a library card and could take them home if she wanted to. She gave Isabella a bookmark with a rainbow on it to mark her page when she puts the books away each night.
Isabella's mother tells her to go to the library after school instead of going straight home where she would be all alone. So Isabella goes there every day but Sunday when instead she goes to church with her mother and sits and sings in Spanish songs about Mary Mother of Us All and Jesus Loves His Little Children. The church is warm and white and smells like candles. She loves how the roof hangs above them and how all the saints have halos of light radiating from their heads, but she likes it best because her mother is there with her the whole time. They sit together and sometimes afterwards they go out to eat and Isabella gets crispy tortillas and cheese and eggs and black beans layered together beautifully and orange juice cold and pulpy in the glass and sometimes apple pie which she is only too happy to share.
But during the week and on Saturdays when her mother works. Isabella goes to the library and reads Wuthering Heights and wonders why Heathcliff is so rude and aloof all the time. In the library Isabella is safe. It is the next best thing to her mother's warm arms wrapped around her tight. On the walls are old flags, faded so that the red white and blue looks dusty gray. In the books she reads she makes friends who have secrets like she does. They too are burdened with stories they can not tell, and Isabella laps them up with relish and feels less afraid knowing that her situation is not entirely unique.
How are you today my dearie? asks the librarian, Mrs. Ritter, as she smiles down her red lips at Isabella. Very good, thank you, replies Isabella and she lets the old woman smile at her a bit longer. Such a good little girl, thinks the woman, so quiet and shy like she's afraid to talk. And always dressed so shabbily. Such a pity, such a pity.
It is in the library one day that Isabella meets Michael. She is sitting in the big brown chair that is her favorite, transfixed by hauntings and ghosts, when she realizes the tan chair across from her is occupied by a boy her own age, with a book of similar size. She glances at him and his sandy hair and wishes that he would leave her alone with her book. He is too solid and too real to share this sanctuary with.
The next day is Saturday and he is not there, but then on Monday, after a Sunday spent in church and restaurant and a brief trip to the swing set in the park (because her mother loves the feel of flying at the moment the swing reaches the top of its arc and sometimes even jumps from the highest point to soar for a moment before crashing into the soft stones beneath) he is back again. His pattern is much like hers: five days a week after school, but she remains alone on Saturdays.
She knows his name is Michael because that's what Mrs. Ritter calls him. Good afternoon Michael, she chirps softly, how's your father today? He's good, Michael replies and turns back to his book. He reads the books that the librarian recommends, the boy books with espionage and international crises and nuclear annihilation behind every page. As Isabella and Michael sit reading they grow as familiar as quiet children do. They say hello and good-bye and keep careful track of the information betrayed by Mrs. Ritter. Michael's mother is a Friend of the Library. His father is a councilman and may soon be a judge. His grandparents live in California on a ranch. Less is said about Isabella. There is less to say. She is quiet and smart and wears old clothes, although this is never said. Instead it lurks behind Mrs. Vanderhouse's eyes like one of the dangerous submarines in one of Michael's books. Michael proves to be as quiet as Isabella, and gradually he becomes part of the library, the scenery of books and shelves and old tables that embrace her as she reads.
Then one day disaster strikes. The library is closed. Isabella arrives one afternoon, straight from school to find the windows dark and the door tightly locked. A sign hangs on the inside of the glass. Library Closed. We regret any inconvenience. Beneath the sign sits Michael. He holds a book in his hand, but it isn't open. Instead, he simply slouches against the door, seeming lost and a little afraid.
Lost and a little afraid describes Isabella's feelings exactly. Where is she to go now that the safety of her soft brown chair is wrested away? What can she do? Why in the world would the library, that monolith of consistency, whisper quiet, shhhhh, cool in the summer be closed without warning? They're cataloguing the books, explains Michael quietly. The city has invested in an expensive computer network to keep better track of the innumerable volumes, but they need the day to turn the system on and get it up and running. In the mean time, the soft enclosure of the library is off limits.
Isabella considers her options. She could sit here and read on the steps to wait for her mother, but it is hot and uncomfortable. She could try to walk home, but it is a long way and, again, hot and sticky. She could take the bus if she had some money, but she hasn't. She considers again, screws up her courage and asks, what are you going to do? I don't know, Michael replies. No one is at home and my parents are too busy to come and pick me up.
They sit for a while and quietly debate the situation. Neither of them had realized how much they took for granted in the library: soft chairs, available toilets, a water fountain a few steps away. Paradise on Earth. Eventually, they decide to walk back to the school and, if it is open, to read there for a few hours until they can return and meet their mothers who will pick them up in car and bus respectively.
The two begin to walk slowly down the cement gray sidewalk away from the library. The sidewalk is hard under foot and stuck on gum dots the surface like stains of crushed mosquitos. Cars whoosh by, coughing out exhaust and stink. Big shiny cars sometimes, and sometimes rusty old ones, but mostly four door sedans, unremarkable. They are neither new nor old, a rainbow of respectable colors, midnight blue and dirty white and an ugly maroonish red. Each is as forgettable as any other, special only from the seats inside. They speed back and forth, separated by the thick yellow line down the middle of the road. They walk for a quarter mile. Michael walks nearer to the street, a perfect gentleman. Isabella keeps up her end of the stilted conversation. Neither of them walk on sidewalk cracks.
When they reach the school, a soccer game is in progress. They stop for just a moment and watch. I can't play soccer, Michael says, I wish I could, but I'm just not good. I wish I was. Isabella notes this carefully, the first confession of friendship, casual intimacy of absolution and understanding. I can't play either, she says. But most of the boys can; I'm the only one who can't. Isabella considers this for a moment. It is true, of course. In school all the boys in her class play soccer almost every day, for a boy not to participate is unthinkable. I think it's stupid, she says firmly. She doesn't really, but it seems to be the thing that her mother would like for her to say. Avoid confrontation, play it safe. Michael doesn't say anything, but seems comforted by her words. She likes that.
As they walk, they cut across the playing field, large and dusty, patches of grass clinging tightly to the hard ground. They curve across, near the lines that divide in-bounds from out, spray painted on the grass and hard packed dirt. As they approach, they begin to talk a little about their other things. School mostly. Neither says much, but both are distracted just enough to miss the soccer ball kicked hard across the field. The ball moves in an elegant arc through the air, carving the path of a rainbow in the wind. First it rises softly, flying upward and slowing, bathing in the cool air. Then, just as it seems that it might stay up forever, it begins to drop. Faster and faster and faster. It tumbles violently to the ground.
Look out! She hears the yell just in time to glance up and see the red and white patches as they smack her across the face. She falls to the ground in shock. Michael stands for just a second and then scurries over to her. Are you OK? The boys playing are running across the field towards them. Are you all right? Are you OK? She holds her eye. For a moment it doesn't really hurt, just a slight sting around her left eye and down her nose. Jesus, you're bleeding. They're right: the blood starts to flow from her nose, softly and red. She can feel the tears in her eyes. But she gets up anyway, and tries to dry her face with her shirt. The blood mixes with the tears stains it pink.
Are you OK? Yes, I'm fine. It really hit you right in the face. That must have hurt. Not too much, she lies. Michael watches as she holds her nose tightly and waits for it to dry. He would never think to do that. The sight of any blood at all makes him uncomfortable and to see his own makes him sick. After a while the boys go away, taking their ball with them to continue playing, unhurt and unhurried by the casual accident of American sport. Isabella sits down for a minute, she feels stupid and excluded and wishes more than anything for her mother to hold her. She does not like being the center of attention, the freak, the one who is different, bloodstained and dazed. At least the boys have left.
Michael stands by silently until Isabella is ready to go. When they reach the school door, it is locked and closed. They begin to walk back to the library again, unsure of where to seek refuge from the obviously dangerous world. Michael begins to talk about his family. His older sister is in high school and is always driving around in her car, but would never give him a ride. His father works a lot and Michael hated when he had to go to official functions. His mother is member to loads of boring societies for the preservation of old buildings, old documents, old furniture, Texas history and just about everything else.
Isabella is ashamed to say that her mother cleans houses, but Michael just says, I wish my mom had a job like that. Isabella tells about how she was born in Mexico and has aunts there that she doesn't remember, except as bearers of candy and occasionally toys. She doesn't talk about coming into the United States and Michael doesn't ask. Isabella knows that her mother would not like it that she told him even this much, but it feels good to talk and Michael seems to understand a little.
When they get down town, Michael says they should stop for ice cream. Isabella has no money, so Michael gets both of them a cone. Isabella uses the napkin to clean up as much of the blood as she can.
When Isabella's mother sees her she runs and hugs Isabella and calls her treasure, my little treasure, what happened? The girl explains and tells her mother about the library and the ice cream and her mother says quietly that she will have to treat Michael next time, although he protests gallantly. Isabella waves at Michael when she climbs on the bus in front of the library and he waves back. At home Isabella's mother washes the bloody clothes and gives her ice wrapped in towel to hold against her face where the skin has already turned purple with bruise. They do not mention Michael again.
The next day, the two children meet again in the library, this time safely inside in the grasp of the familiar and comfortable chairs. Both children balance their books squarely on their laps as they were accustomed to do and read quietly under the dull hush of air conditioners. My goodness, exclaims Mrs. Ritter, what happened to your face? Are you all right? I got hit by a soccer ball, but I'm fine. The librarian's eyes look at Isabella, at her mottled face and her sore nose. Then she looks in the girl's eyes, just for a second and says, well, I hope you are. Please tell me if anything is wrong. Anything. She lingers a second before walking away. Isabella looks at Michael who shrugs and they both return to their books.
Later, the children leave the library early to get more ice cream, even though Isabella still has no money. Isabella is happy, though, even though she wishes she could do something that could repay the favor of ice cream on two hot spring days in a row. She thinks and thinks and thinks, but comes up with nothing. But the ice cream is good, and it feels nice to have a friend. She feels like a character in the books she reads, alone in scary world, isolated and afraid and carrying a secret. But it is much better when there is someone to talk to a little bit, someone with whom secrets seem safe. It is better to be alone with someone else, although Michael is quieter today and does not talk about his family.
When her mother comes, Isabella says nothing about the ice cream. It is the first lie she has ever told her mother, and even if it is only a lie of omission. She feels a little strange about it. She wants to share the treat with her mother, if not in real life than at least in words. She wants to talk about the flavor and the fun and how the man behind the counter called her sweetie and gave her an extra scoop for free, but she worries that her mother would not like it. She worries that her mother would feel betrayed that Isabella has allowed someone else to penetrate the world that they share. She sits next to her mother and holds her hand tightly all the way home. Suddenly she thinks of Carlie, her dolly lost in the desert and wishes that she could be here now, riding the bus on the hot asphalt road watching the yellow line whizz past and seeing cars come over the brow of the low hills.
They get off the bus together, and Isabella can feel that her mother is tired from work Together they climbed the stairs to their small apartment. When they arrive she feels her mother's hand tighten. She looks and the door to the apartment is open. As they stand frozen on the step, a man in a suit appears from down the hall and walks to the door. Are you Maria Carlos? he asks. Yes, her mother replies. She grasps her daughter's hand tightly, as is if Isabella is a precious treasure that must be retained at all costs.
I was worried about Isabella, Mrs. Ritter would say. I was worried about what was happening to that poor girl. She always wore dirty clothes and never wanted to talk about her family. It seemed to me her mother had told her not to, had threatened her, and she was very scared. Mrs. Ritter would say this confidently if she were to be asked. When she came in with bruises I said enough is enough. Isabella has so much potential and I won't sit by and watch some cruel woman destroy that for her. I called the police and I gave them the address that Isabella had written down on the library card. And I would do it again. That girl deserves a good home. All children deserve a good home. It is such a shame. Some women are not fit to be mothers.
On some sections of the US-Mexico border there are walls and fences and razor wire. On others, there is nothing but a shallow stream. It dries in the summer and the mud hardens like rock, baked under the heat of the sun. It is to the north that the real danger lies. Crossing from Mexico is easy, but there are other worries to be dealt with besides just getting out. There are policemen with guns and enforcers who are more subtle. The thick black line on the map does not get left behind in the stream bed. It bends around you like the surface of water and pinches closed when you are a few dozen feet into your first united state. It goes with you everywhere, surrounding everything you do. Borders are harder to cross then stream beds are.