They spent several minutes watching the slow rise and fall of Dana’s chest. Rafael leaned over the child, the overnight bag still in hand, and inhaled the baby’s fragrance.
“So what brings you north?” asked Jim.
Rafael turned serious. “I have been back and forth to Saltillo to find justice for my mother and for Elena. I will not rest until the maquiladoras are stopped.”
“Maquiladoras, sir?” asked Jim.
“Factories. Assembly plants,” said Rafael. A short wave of his hand dismissed Jim from the conversation.
“But Mom never spent much time in Saltillo. How could the factories affect her?”
“Her DNA, of course.” Marta looked puzzled. “Hija, do you know that Saltillo was once called the ‘Athens of Mexico’? That our textiles and ceramics were the best in the world?”
“Dad, you’ve told me only fifty times.”
“Then I’ll tell you again.”
“I don’t get the connection between the malquiladoras and mom.”
“The government cannot see Saltillo’s beauty. The politicians counts pesos when adobe is replaced by steel. Mexico now depends on auto parts manufacturers and many of those are in Saltillo. The industrial wastes kill our citizens,” he said, momentarily conflating his native and adopted countries. “How else do the people become sick?”
“You’ve travelled to complain, how many times is it now? Five? Six?” asked Marta.
“And I will continue until they stop poisoning the water and the air.”
“I read that the manufacturers are replacing their old plants with clean installations. They even turn the discharge into drinkable water.”
“So they say. Evidently it is not convenient to publish the information that shows the damage that is already done. But it is convenient for U.S. manufacturers to dump their poisons in Mexico where this goes unreported. They must be stopped.”
“Promise me you won’t get into any more trouble. Please?”
“It will be worth it if I can stop the poison. It is killing the land and the people.”
“What happened after your other visits?” asked Jim.
“At first the officials pretended to listen to me. They dismissed me with kind words, then with threats. They called my warnings incoherent accusations. Incoherent! Do I look like a lunatic spouting nonsesnse? I tried to talk to the experts at the universities and was arrested for trespassing. The Universidad Autonóma de Coahuila has three campuses and 41 schools but not one professor would take this seriously.”
“You were arrested? You never told me that,” said Marta.
“Hija, it was nothing. The judge gave me a piece of paper and sent me away.”
“What did the paper say?”
“Here, read it for yourself. I carry this with me for extra motivation.” Rafael handed his daughter a document on official stationary. Marta’s eyes widened as she read.
“This is an injunction! You can’t go back. It says, ‘Further actions by Rafael Cruz may be regarded as acts of terrorism.’ Dad, this is serious. You can’t go.”
“No. I cannot go to the universities. But I can still seek justice. I even have an appointment with a government official. This time will be different. This time I will be heard.”
“How can you make them listen now? What’s going to be different?”
Rafael was breathing hard and said nothing at first. Then his tone softened and he touched Marta’s cheek with one cupped palm. “When your mother died, I was lost. I could do no more than to weep and to wander through life. But I have found something that will give meaning to her death.”
Marta turned away.
Jim asked, “Where are you coming from now, sir?”
“From home. Where else would I have been, muchacho?”
“Did you come here all the way from Los Angeles just to say hello?” asked Marta. “You could have taken Amtrak from Los Angeles to San Diego and crossed into Tijuana.”
Rafael leaned over Dana’s sleeping form and kissed the child.
“I wanted to see you and this marvelous child.”
Marta looked puzzled. “That’s quite a trip. Three thousand miles from Los Angeles to Boston and then half the way back again to the Texas border.” Rafael continued to nuzzle Dana’s sleeping form.
Jim said, “Well, sir, we’re glad you’re here. What’s new in your life?” he added, probing cautiously and watching his father-in-law’s expression and body language.
“What could be new except a grandchild!” Be careful with this one, Rafael thought, he looks soft but he sees deep. I trust Marta, but I will keep my own counsel.
Before the long bus ride east, Rafael decided to arm himself, convinced that agents of the maquiladoras were watching him, waiting for an opportunity to stop him. A search of his neighborhood produced a choice of three handguns: a Ruger .357, a Glock .32, and a .45 caliber Colt handgun. He chose the largest—the Colt pistol—a selection that would prove disastrous.
Marta broke the tension by announcing dinner. The family sat down to an impromptu meal of rice and beans with chunks of pork, and Marta’s lemon curd. Rafael kept his small bag clutched between his feet under the table. After dinner and coffee, Rafael prepared to leave.
“Hija, I am so happy to see you work so hard and to be so productive. And, you, muchacho, thank you for taking such good care of my daughter and my Dana.”
“Dad, are you leaving already?”
“Hija, I have to be in Saltillo in two days. The bus to McAllen will take most of that time. Then from Reynosa to Monterrey to Saltillo, more time still. I will visit again when I return and we will spend many days together.” Marta stifled a sob.
“And you, muchacho, you should keep authentic Mexican beer.” Rafael smiled without humor.
Then tears, embraces, and promises, and Rafael walked out of his daughter’s life.
He was tired and stiff when he reached his destination, McAllen, Texas, but he didn’t stop to stretch. He was eager to be rid of his unwanted companion, the annoying chatterbox that followed him off the bus and through the border crossing.
Rafael’s journey into the Mexican penal system started in an unreserved seat on a bus departing from South Station, Boston. He slept on and off, one arm looped through the handle of his travel bag. The bus was crowded by the time he reached Houston, less than six hours from McAllen and jail. He draped an arm protectively over the empty seat next to him. Passengers boarding in Houston looked inquisitively at the seat and then at Rafael. One glance at his hostile demeanor and the travellers moved farther back. Just as the bus inched away from the terminal, a tipsy California resident plopped down next to Rafael.
“Howdy, pardner! Name’s Bobby Jim Amendola, but everyone calls me B.J.”
Rafael grunted noncommittally.
Rafael would never be certain if bad luck or circumstance prompted his new companion to strike up a conversation. He wondered if capricious gods prompted the man, a salesman, to engage in the idle blarney of his trade. “How ya’ doing?” “Where ya’ headed?” “Come down here often? Me, I’m from California but I was in Houston for business.” The man pronounced it, bidness. “Figured I’d take the bus, see the sights. So, what’s your line of work?”
Rafael turned away. B.J. took no notice. A salesman, he was habituated to being rebuffed, and kept at his patter. At about the time Rafael was going to tell Señor Amendola to mind his own bidness, they arrived at the Anzalduas International Bridge in McAllen.
Customs officials paid scant attention to travellers into Mexico. There were no questions, no papers to produce and no inspections. Rafael was a strong man and the weight of the bag he’d carried from Los Angeles cost him no effort. It held a toothbrush and a sweatshirt wrapped around a box of ammunition and the ill-chosen Colt pistol.