No More Deaths
I.
He was tired. The kind of tired where his brain projected mirages onto his retina — images of water and a hug and food, always that one step away; a step pre-meditated, debated and discussed a thousand times. (This was probably some sort of pre-historic survival tactic, hidden deep within his genome, unlocked by the privations of the last couple of months and primed by a short life-time spent at the edge of calamity.) But there is tiredness that’s shared — made easier by exchanged encouragement and a hand to pull you along. And then there is exhaustion compounded by loneliness. His companions had melted away over the last ninety days: two turned back, another, tired of rations, had lapped eagerly at a muddy pond (he’d become an early warning to the others). One had wandered off into the sunset, silently meeting fate, straight-backed until he blended into the horizon. That left Papa and him. Alone, with the supplies left by the long-gone coyote and vague directions to follow the light in the distance. And then it was Papa’s turn to vanish. A whispered conversation in the chilly night. Explanations, apologies, blessings, tears, instructions, recrimination, all blunted to a dull ache by morning. Perhaps if he survived and lived another thirty years he might have a story of brave desertion, of his father leaving him rations and going back in order to give his son a chance.
But for now the truth stabs at him — his Papa was a coward, a deserter and he left him alone.
It’s a moonlit night and he’s huddled in his blanket staring up at the stars. His lips are chapped and bleeding but the metallic taste of blood is a comfort, he’s still alive. He drifts in and out of consciousness, fading into a memory of his mother the night before they left. She’s telling him a story, about a brave young man walking north to paradise. The priest tells them that paradise’s gates open when the virtuous, they who go to church and don’t drink and don’t hit their wives and sisters, die. But according to Mama’s story, paradise is closer, within walking distance. She tells him about how the courageous boy makes the jaguars and the scorpions his friends and how they show him all the secret springs and the delicious fruit trees. He doesn't know then why she’s crying through the story or why she repeatedly makes him promise to not drink water from ponds and eat white berries and to walk on like the boy in the story. Towards the end, voice trembling, she tells him of how the boy’s friends cannot help him and he has no water. And then she tells him that, impressed by the boy’s courage, even the angels stoop to help him. The young man finds bottles of crystal clear water and food, ambrosia, in bright packages of all colours and directions to a new home.
It’s still dark when his eyes open and he misses Mama’s voice so much. He looks around at the strange cacti circling him. They have names now, companions to replace those he’s lost. The metallic smell is gone, but his feet are still bleeding in his shredded shoes. His arms are wrapped around his stomach, it hurts more than when the bullies in school punched him down there. He tries to make a sound but his throat hurts and he imagines his cactus friends are telepathic instead. He’s telling them about the puppy he found one day in the fields and how it licked his face and how it tickled. A smile slowly creeps onto his face at the memory. But then he remembers his promise and starts walking.
It’s almost over now, he’s crawling forward, moving for the sake of moving. His water supply was over days ago and he broke his promise and ate the berries and drank the pond-water. His stomach is aflame now and everything looks like it did when he last peeked through Papa’s glasses. The sky is full of pretty colours and he’s sure he can see the puppy waving at him through the clouds. The colours are on the ground now, in front of his eyes as he goes to sleep. His eyes open again, they are a pale cerulean, like a water-coloured sky. He remembers the story with the coloured food and reaches forward. It’s true! his Mama was right! There is a bottle of water here and a can of something. He musters energy from somewhere and picks up the bottle, so light for his adrenaline fuelled arms, and opens his mouth to the rim. It’s dry. Heart breaking, he peeks through the mouth of the bottle and sees a sliver of blue sky.
II.
He tugs on his uniform, he’s late and he’s hungover. The fan above creaks as it valiantly battles the heat. Sweat already dripping down his face, he gets out of the shack and into his Jeep. He’s already mad as he gets to his patrol post. His ex-wife’s sent him a reminder for her alimony check and threatens to stop him from seeing the kids. How dare she, he rages silently. He grabs an apple from the basket at his desk and chews into it and curses. It’s rotten and smells. The day goes downhill from there, meetings with the boss and listening to more castigation about failing targets. He can’t wait to get out to the desert and get away from it all. A couple of hours of quiet is what he needs. He’s partnered up with the talkative guy from out of town. They head out, looks like it’s all quiet at the front today. They stop for a smoke about halfway through their course. It’s hot but it’s nice to be out here, silence fills the air, the out-of-towner quiet for once. The letter floats back to the front of his head and he kicks the ground. The kids are all he has and she could take them away too. It wasn’t even him who cheated on their marriage, she decided to fuck the gardener. His heart’s beating faster now and his fists are clenched. Scenes from that night storm across his eyes: finding them in bed, the fucker speaking to her in Spanish, having to hide the sight from his kids. He could be teaching his son how to shoot right now, teaching him to drive, giving him a first sip of beer, and that woman would take that all away. The betrayal is still jarring after all these months. He’s stomping the cigarette into the dirt when something catches his eye.
It’s those annoying college kids again, coming here with bleeding hearts to save law-breakers. He goes closer and sees the bottle of water and the can of beans. He looks around but the kids have probably moved on now. Well, it isn’t deterrence if the fuckers have a welcome package waiting for them. He pulls out his knife and gets to work. First the can, easy, cut off the top, it’ll probably feed a bobcat or something. The bottle’s next. He considers carving a smiley face at the bottom but sticks to the regulation quick slash. The water’s gone in a trice, a microriver among the mesquite trees. Job done, he walks back to the Jeep. He suddenly feels better, less listless, his sense of purpose back.
AN: This was inspired by a true story, related to me by a friend, about No Más Muertes or No More Deaths, a humanitarian group that works to prevent deaths at the border. My friend and his colleagues would go out to trails in the desert and place water bottles and food at strategic locations where they could be found by roaming migrants. A number of times they would come across seemingly intact bottles, placed by them only days ago, only to find that they had holes in the bottom made by the Border Patrol. To take away the bottle would be one thing but to leave it there? To show starving people hope so tantalisingly close-by and then snatch it away. If that isn’t wanton cruelty…
