“Bright and early.”
Bert cleared his throat and fished his keys from his pocket. “Have you talked to Reba?”
Riki propped his feet up on the desk. “I’ll probably call later.”
“ ’Cause I could drive by for you. Check, since she’s by herself.” He scratched his stubbly jaw with a large, square-headed key.
It was a considerate gesture, but Bert didn’t know the Reba he did. “That’s how she likes it.”
“Right.” Bert paused. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. Carol and I can put you up until you find a new place.”
“Thanks, Bert. I appreciate the offer.”
Bert mimed a tip of his cap and left.
A handful of officers milled in and out, but the station was still too quiet. Riki turned on his desk radio. A catchy pop tune bounced over the airwaves. He hummed along while surfing Internet destinations. It was his kind of travel. He visited the vineyards of Northern California, the bayous of Louisiana, lobster boats in Maine, the White House and Lincoln Memorial, the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains, and the oceans on either end; moving from place to place in the click of a button without his body leaving the comfort of his chair.
Riki was a homesteader by nature and had only been north as far as Santa Fe and east to San Antonio. That was partly what drew him to Reba. She was from “beyond.” She’d walked into his life with the world on her shoulders, and through her, he’d hoped he could see everything he ever wanted without stepping outside his door. It wasn’t that he was afraid of leaving so much as it seemed more natural to stay where he felt he belonged—with the people he belonged to.
His parents had imbued this sense in him. While brave in their endeavors to cross the Rio Grande and become US citizens, they never let Riki forget exactly who he was: the son of Mexican immigrants, set apart by culture and tradition, race and religion.
Even in Riki’s father’s final days when tuberculosis crippled his body and tired his spirit, he’d turn on CNN and watch as broadcasters, politicians, and common men debated immigration laws.
“They’re stealing American jobs from real Americans,” one protester said to the camera.
“Stay on your side!” yelled another.
“See, mi hijo, see,” his father said before his breath would turn to coughing. “You must be cautious. Only trust your own people.”
It pained Riki that on his deathbed, his father still regarded himself and his family as aliens in a foreign land. Riki had been determined to prove him wrong when he’d applied for a CBP job. He’d show his father how American he was by working to protect his fellow citizens; then no man could call into question his national allegiance, no matter his racial profile or ancestral line. He was a devoted countryman of the United States of America, a loyal resident of El Paso, Texas, and he was content to stay right where he was, or so he’d thought. But coming up on his third full year as a CBP officer, he’d seen enough to know that behind the glitzy carnival show were callused men pulling puppet strings. These were more than borderlines, sides of the fence, American versus Mexican. These were people, closer to him in Mexico than any of the politicians dictating edicts from the US Capitol thousands of miles away.
He pulled up the tourism pages for Washington, D.C., and its sister suburbs in Virginia. Nothing but names. Reba never spoke of where she came from except in isolated uncensored moments. Once when a rare storm swept over the city in waves of angry rain, she’d stared out the window, briefly transported across the miles, and said, “Virginia’s weather was like this. Sunny and clear one day, thunder and lightning the next. I used to cry when it rained.” She’d hugged her arms tight to her chest, and he could clearly imagine what she’d looked like as a child.
“It’s just one storm,” he’d comforted.
“Yes, but it reminds me that they’ll still come.”
That was the first time he felt it—that sense of secret insecurity and distance. It worried him. He loved her. So in an effort to prove his fidelity and her sanctuary with him, he’d proposed. But the impending union only seemed to make the distance between them expand, filling up their house like a balloon ready to burst and leaving little room for him. He wanted to be with Reba for the rest of his life, but what should have been devotion manifested as resentment on both their parts. He imagined her again in the steamy tub, cheeks and nipples flushed, drinking wine like she’d won the lottery, and his ring, dangling in the suds.
A smiling blond family in a garden of tulips stared back at him from the computer screen with the tagline: Virginia Is for Lovers. He sucked his teeth.
“Señor,” a woman’s voice called from the detainment room. A series of knocks followed.
“Yes.” Riki got up and opened the door. “What can I do for you?”
“Puedo tener una manta mas para mi hija?” said the woman.
He’d moved a small TV into the detainment room. The children watched an episode of The Simpsons. The girl, cuddled beside her brother, sat up at Riki’s voice and pulled the green blanket from the boy’s back. He groaned and yanked hard, whipping the blanket completely from her. She said nothing but gave a swift kick to his spine.
“Ay! Mamá,” cried the boy. “Ella me pateó.”
The woman shushed the children. “Lo siento, señor.”
“They’re fine,” said Riki. “I’ll get an extra one.”
He went to the storage room and dug through the stacks until he found a soft, pink flannel. When he returned, the children were chasing each other round the room. The girl ran, dragging the green blanket behind as her brother followed, growling and snarling like a wild pig. He soon caught her, turned her over, and snouted her stomach to squeals and laughter. The woman sat quietly on the cot; her face furrowed with silent trouble.
“Here you go.” Riki set the pink blanket beside her.
She ran her hand over. “Gracias.”
The girl asked her brother to be a pig again and away they went.
“Niños paren,” the woman instructed.
“No, they can play,” said Riki.
He was glad to see their spirits lifted from earlier. They’d remained mute and shamed for much of their stay, but they were children, not criminals.
He took a seat beside the woman; the cot springs bowing low under his weight. “Where are you from? Qué pueblo?”
“Barreales, Juárez,” she replied, keeping her gaze to the floor.
Riki nodded. He knew it. A poor neighborhood at the far east of Juárez. “You have familia there?”
“Están muertos.” She shifted uneasily.
“I’m sorry.” He scratched his neck. “My family’s gone, too.”
With each breath, her body rose and fell heavily like a woman ten times her age. “Usted tiene niños?” she asked and lifted her face to him, eyes wide as cups of coffee.
“No.” He couldn’t even get Reba to wear his ring, never mind bear his children. “I’m not married.” The words singed the tip of his tongue.
In a bout of giggles, the girl ran to the woman and buried her face in her lap. The boy snarled and snouted, then quieted when he saw Riki.
Bart Simpson cried “¡Ay, caramba!” from the television.
“Are you hungry?” asked Riki.
The boy leaned against his mother’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes.
They’d devoured their prepackaged lunches: turkey and American cheese sandwiches on white bread; Doritos and chocolate chip cookies. The American brownbag special. Not a crumb was left behind. But it was dinnertime now, and he knew they could use something warm.
“I got Taco Cabana.” It might not be homemade, but it was the best he could offer. “Tacos?” he said to the children.