Chasing the Moon

By Carolyn K. Boehlke

Nadia Alvarez, a fifteen-year-old Mexican immigrant, travels from a remote and poverty-stricken village in southern Mexico with her family to the United States. They sneak illegally into the country through a drain pipe that connects Sonora, Mexico, to Arizona. As the family enters the country, the Border Patrol is waiting for them. They are captured—all except Nadia, who has managed to remain hidden in the bottom of the drain pipe. Nadia, assuming the identity of her brother, is now alone in an unknown country and torn whether she should allow herself to be caught and reunited with her family or continue on in America and live her parents’ dream of a better life. Nadia makes her way across the country to Minnesota, living in downtown Minneapolis and working as a laundry girl in a hotel. Chasing the Moon creates a love triangle between Nadia, her home and family in Mexico, and her new “better” life in America. This is a unique and unbiased examination of immigration and what it means to search for “a better life.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Jun 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780878399246

Carolyn K. Boehlke

Carolyn K. Boehlke was born and raised in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. St. Olaf College brought her to Minnesota, where she graduated with bachelor's degrees in English and Women's Studies, and she later earned a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from Hamline University. She is the author of Chasing the Moon, and she currently lives in Minneapolis with her husband and children.

Book preview

understand

Part I

Chapter One

The cold night air seemed strangely calm in the absence of the screaming sirens. I imagined the stars emerged from hiding when the search lights clicked off. The cricket’s song crescendoed without the buzz of the lights and the crackle of the megaphone. I tucked my knees under my chin and wrapped my arms around them. Where I crouched, my feet were cold, as stale water lapped against my ankles. When I shifted, an echo sounded like an army moving. So I didn’t stir, even when a rat ran past, squawking his annoyance at my intrusion into his home, his claws splashing in the water at my feet when he scampered across my toes.

My back began to ache, fingers of pain clawing through my hips. They were waiting for me. I had fallen and was small enough to be taken for garbage at the bottom of the drain pipe when the flood lights swept through. But they would know I wasn’t with the others. They would know I was here, hiding. I cringed as my stomach grumbled and cramped with pangs of hunger. Did the dogs waiting outside hear that? I could hear the muffled scrape of their claws in the dirt, their noses digging deeper to find me. Was it dogs or more rats?

Sewage and garbage collected around my bare feet and something slimy crawled up my leg. I batted it away before remembering my vow to remain still. The water splashed as whatever it was fell from where it had attached itself to my leg. I could feel a warm trickle of blood and I shivered. The ooze of blood tickled and my chewed fingernails scratched my leg, smearing the blood down my shin. The slap of my hand against my skin echoed off the concrete walls. I froze, waiting.

There was no sound. No howl of a dog betrayed my presence. No search lights flooded my cave, blinding me into submission. No sirens deafened me and alerted the officials that there was one more. There was silence. Another rat scampered past me, his nails scratching, his long teeth gnawing something in his mouth. Where were they? Were they waiting for me to come out? They must have known I was here.

"La Migra!" someone had shouted. It could have been my Uncle Tito, but the voice was too high and pinched, too frantic to be his. But the call had come from in front of me, and only Uncle Tito and Mateo were up there. I had lost my shoes weeks ago, and the soles of my feet had toughened into black leather, but I had still been picking my way carefully through the midnight blackness of the tunnel. When the shout went up, the screaming echoed off of the walls. Someone shoved me from behind as everyone started to run.

I tried to run. But I was smaller, maybe weaker, than the rest—my feet couldn’t keep up. I was tired and drained. Not even fear could make me run with the others. They were rushing past me, their collective heaving breath shallow and fast as they pushed their way in the blackness, not even knowing I was there, or maybe just not caring.

Again someone shoved against my back. My feet had slipped on the oily ground, and I landed on my hands and knees. I could feel the raw scrapes on the palms of my hands and the open gashes on my knees as I struggled to stand in the water and garbage. The sounds of their splashing footsteps became fainter and fainter. I scrabbled to stand, crawling and falling along the floor of the drain pipe. Mamá, I yelled, my voice ricocheting like a bullet in the sudden stillness.

Nadia, I thought I heard her yell back, but it could have just been an echo.

In the distance I could hear the sirens, coming closer, growing louder, until their screeching screams covered the end of the tunnel like a gate. A light startled me as it passed by the opening. I had been closer to the end than I thought. Only a hundred more paces. The light swung as though on a string across the mouth of the tunnel. It would be turning to search inside any second. Covered by the howling and barking of the dogs, I fell to the ground, my face hovering just over the murky, putrid water. Curling myself into a ball, I waited for the nose of a dog to nudge my arm, growl in my face, and pull me from hiding.

I waited. The light swung inside the tunnel and the garbage around me was in one second visible, the next second gone. The rats scampered over my body, screeching as they tried to run from the light as my family had. Their sharp claws had caught in my hair, and I held my breath not to scream. The nails of the dogs scraped against the concrete bottom of the drain. They sniffed quickly, their feet splashing in the water as they ran toward me. The light swung past me again. And again. Then, a whistle. The dogs ran the other way, leaving me crouched and hidden as part of the garbage.

I didn’t know how long it had been now since the sirens faded. My feet were numb, no longer a part of my body. There was a dim light at the mouth of the tunnel and I knew morning would be arriving soon. Daylight. I could be seen in daylight. But I couldn’t stay here. They would come back here. If not for me, then for another like me.

My muscles ached and tingled as I started to move. The garbage rustled around me. I paused a moment. Still, there was silence. Slowly I stood, holding my arms out in front of me while I fought for balance. Carefully, I stepped forward. My feet, the sensation of circulation and life slowly prickling back into them, knew how to blindly search for broken glass. My hand skimmed across the rough concrete of the wall, guiding me and giving me balance.

The fuzzy gray light before me expanded as though breathing. The outside world opened up to me as I stepped out. At the edge of the drain pipe I paused. In the shadowy haziness of early morning, my eyes quickly adjusted to the light. Green. Like a green bowl, a field sloped down from where I stood. Just like Uncle Tito’s sheep pasture where Mateo and Benjamín played fútbol. But there were no sheep here. There were no boys playing games here. There were only stretches of green grass, splayed out like those pictures Anita showed me from the art book she had found last year.

I shivered in my damp clothes. The stench of the bottom of the trench was already fading, though I would carry it with me on my clothes. My legs trembled with weakness and collapsed under me. I landed just outside of the mouth of the tunnel, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. What do I do now? I began to finger the blades of grass that tickled my bare legs.

When we get to America, Mamá had said, we’ll get jobs. We’ll have a house to live in. You’ll go to school. You’ll see. Life’ll be better there.

I glanced around, wondering which way Mexico was. Were they already back there? My heart hammered harder against my aching ribs. I should have kept yelling. Why did I hide? Loneliness stretched before me, as vast as this foreign world. I leaned my head back against the end of the drain pipe and wondered how long it would take them to find me. I imagined Mamá’s sweet voice in my ear, You are a woman now, she had said, though I felt no different than the little girl I was when we left. She had meant to scold me for complaining about my short hair, my dirty clothes, my swollen feet. But instead her words haunted me for the rest of our journey. A reminder to me that none of us were the same as when we left.

My throat felt raw and swollen as I swallowed. What would Mamá do? What would Anita do? My loneliness was heavy. America is our dream, Papá had said. We can’t dwell on what might have been, or what has been left behind. We must take our opportunities with both hands and run. I swallowed again. I could hear Papá’s voice shouting in my ear, Run! Did he really mean that should we be separated, we should go on? My narrow shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Certainly he didn’t mean that should everyone else be caught, the survivor should venture into an unknown world alone. Again, I heard his voice in my ear, Run!

My muscles were too weak to move. I rested my back against the edge of the drain pipe as the sky continued to lighten more and more with every minute. I knew they would be here soon. Should I wait for them? How easy it would be just to rest here and allow them to take me as they took the others. They would take me to my family. Together we could try again. I allowed my body to relax, waiting for them to come for me. But again, my father’s voice yelled in my ear, Nadia, run! He would want me to stay, to hide, to make America mine. He had promised me a better life in America. He would be ashamed if I let it get away. The sky had lightened to a warm gray, and I knew they would find me soon. I couldn’t stay here. But where could I go? I counted to one hundred, savoring the soft soil that wanted to cradle me into sleep. At one hundred, I stood, my knees aching, my skin stinging. Across the field, there were trees. Maybe I could hide there. As I ran across the grass, the pain in my body squeezing the tears from my eyes, I wondered, How is this life better?

* * *

It was dark when I woke. Quickly my eyes adjusted to the gloom. I dared not move. How did I manage to stay hidden? The mellow cry of a cow and the sweet and harsh stench of dairy filled my head, and I was immediately dizzy. I closed my eyes again, hoping to ward off the airy feeling in my brain. The velvet wetness of a nose prodded my chin, and I opened my eyes to the dim curiosity in the dark eyes of a cow.

I didn’t know how long I slept. On the other side of the grove of trees, which was a much sparser cover than I had thought from a distance, I had seen a farm. My exhaustion had clouded my brain like a drug, and I hardly remembered stealing across the field to the imagined safety of the barn. My neck was stiff from sleeping curled against a wooden wall. I could feel the lumbering, nervous movements of the cow whose home I invaded. Was it still the same night? I wondered. Was it the next night? Or was it daylight beyond the walls of this stall? My stomach growled loudly, and the nervous cow mooed again as I stirred, as though startled to see me alive.

Well, aren’t you the chatty one, today? I heard a voice say beyond the stall. The cow moved to the door, and in the rustle of her hooves in the hay, I scrambled to the darkest corner. You’re never so talkative, the voice said, closer. I knew he stood at the door of her stall, but I dared not look up from where I hid my face in my lap. His voice was deep and rough. He spoke in Spanish and for a moment I wondered if it had all been a mistake, and I was still in Mexico. Come on, then, he said and I heard the creak of the stall door as the cow was led out to be milked. As he walked away with her, over the stench of manure, I briefly caught a hint of cigarettes like Uncle Tito used to smoke.

I raised my head and saw that the stall door stood open and my hiding place was no longer dark and safe. I was exposed. I would certainly be found when the cow was returned to her stall. Quickly I rose, praying that the sound of my movement would be covered by the rustle of the other animals. As I peeked my head around the edge of the stall door, it was dark inside but the door to the barn stood open and daylight filtered inside. Should I make a run for it? Where would I go? In the daylight I was truly vulnerable. Beside the door, I spied a ladder. I could hear a voice at the other end of the barn. I didn’t have much time. A pang of hunger stabbed through my abdomen, and I was dizzy, leaning against the door. For a moment, I was too tired to move. My fatigue again flirted with despair. Maybe I should stay here and wait to be found.

My mother’s voice spoke through my head. Nadia, you will have such a happy life in America. You’re our family’s hope, she said. As though pushed by an invisible hand from behind, I bolted from the stall and without looking around, scrambled up the ladder into a loft filled with bales of hay. I wouldn’t be able to stay here long, but I knew it was safer than the stall.

Over the edge of the loft’s half wall, the stalls were lined below. Only moments passed before the cow was returned to where I just left. A man in dirty jeans, a stained tee-shirt, and scuffed cowboy boots led her by a rope. A large belly of beer like Uncle Tito’s rested on the waistband of his jeans. His greasy, graying hair was standing wild at all angles, and I imagined he rolled out of bed in the morning and threw on the hat he carried in his hand. As he led the cow back into the stall, the back of his hand wiped the sweat and dirt from his brow. It was early morning, but the air in the barn was close and heavy. For being so talkative this morning, you sure are starting to run low, he said to the cow as he closed her into her home. Taking a pull on the cigarette stub that balanced between his lips, he tugged the cowboy hat onto his soaked head and walked to the next cow’s stall. Gently rubbing her nose, he said, Come on, girl. Your turn.

All morning I watched the man make his way down the line of cows waiting impatiently to be milked. Occasionally he barked at them to quiet their incessant lowing cries. I’m getting to you, he yelled as he shuffled down the line, his shirt now dripping with sweat. I watched for as long as I could, trying to ensure that he wouldn’t be coming up into the loft. Eventually, my fatigue conquered my will power and behind a bale of hay, I drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Well, a voice startled me from my sleep. What have we here?"

I scrambled backwards as though to find a shadow that would conceal me. He was young and a smug smile stretched his lips. I suddenly realized my fear was an amusement to him, and I sat up straight, knowing I could not escape.

Straight through the drainpipe, I see, he said. He nodded his head toward the stains on my clothes and the foul stench that probably lured him up to the loft. His knees cracked as he squatted in front of me to get a closer look. What do you think I should do with you?

I stared at him, knowing that he was toying with my fear, but also knowing that he controlled my future. He could quickly call the Border Patrol, and I would immediately be sent back. Maybe he’d already called. As he watched me, he pulled his cowboy hat from his sweaty head, and I recognized a family resemblance between him and the man milking the cows below. He might be that man forty or fifty years from now.

Not going to say anything in your defense, huh? he asked. Well, kid, he said and stood, his knees cracking again. Walking the length of the loft and turning back to me, he said, It seems I have two choices here. I can call the authorities and have you sent back through the drainpipe, which from the look on your face is your biggest fear. Or … He paused and stepped closer. I could give you a job. My face must have betrayed my astonishment because he laughed again.

Listen, kid, he said, looking down to where I huddled. Do you want to go back to Mexico? A part of me wanted to scream, Yes! I already sorely missed my mother. But she would never forgive me if I lost this opportunity she had dreamed of since she was a child. Slowly I shook my head. All right then, he said and stepped back from me. Let’s get you cleaned up because you smell like you died a week ago.

I followed him down the ladder from the loft to the door of the barn. I paused in the shadow of the door. Come on, he said stepping into the blinding sunlight and his voice sounded like the man coaxing the cows from their stalls. I trailed behind him across a small pasture, wishing I could shrink into the ground, fearing the eyes that I knew could be watching me.

He walked quickly, his strides long and measured. I scrambled to keep up. He took the stairs up to the house two at a time and held the screen door open for me to enter the dark house. I paused while my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The screen door slammed behind us like a gunshot, and I jumped. Come on, he said again and his hand was firm against my back, pushing me forward.

The sunlight streamed through a window at the end of the hall, and as I approached, the room opened into a kitchen. A stout woman in jeans and a head kerchief stood at the kitchen sink. Breakfast is almost ready, she said over her shoulder.

We’ve got company, he said behind me, his firm hand against my back as though to keep me from bolting.

She turned, her hands dripping sudsy water onto the floor. Another one, Tomás? she said, her voice betraying her exasperation. This is the third one this month.

I know, he said. But this one was gutsy enough to break into the barn loft. That has to be worth something.

Yea, that’s worth something, she snapped, turning back to the sink. My sanity. She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes scanned me from my greasy dark hair to my shoeless feet. I don’t know how he’s going to be much good, she said. He’s so scrawny. But get him cleaned up and be down for breakfast in fifteen minutes.

I was frozen to the floor. He. She called me he. I had told my mother it wouldn’t work, that no one would believe it, and I had cried when she cut off my long dark curls. But she was sure I could pass for a boy and was convinced I would be safer as a boy if I was caught. My hair had grown out some since we started our journey, but it still must have been short enough to be deceiving. Mateo’s clothes and starvation must have been adequate to conceal any revelations of the contours of my body.

Come on, he said again and led me from the room. I’ll show you where you can get cleaned up, and I’ll find some clean clothes for you.

He directed me to a small bathroom at the end of the hall. There’s water in the well in the back. You’ll have to get it yourself while I look for clothes. I stood in the cramped bathroom for a moment. There was a large metal tub leaning against the wall in the corner. The sink attached to the wall was stained brown. Anxious to feel the water gush from the pipes, I quickly turned the spigot. Something pounded in the pipe behind the wall, but nothing splashed into the sink. Through the small window, there was a well in the middle of a dirt field—a more modest version of the one our village had shared. I stared at it for a moment and remembered standing in line with Anita before dinnertime, my empty pail banging against my naked brown legs as we waited.

As I stepped out the back door, the chickens in the coop behind the house started squawking and fluttering at me to go in and feed them. I could feel eyes on my back from the house, so I quickly drew cool water up from the dark well and filled two waiting buckets. Without looking up from my feet, now wet with sloshed water, I hurried back into the house. On the floor beside the tub a pile of clean clothes waited for me.

I could hear their voices down the hall and quickly closed the bathroom door. My filthy clothes fell into a puddle at my feet. This had been Mateo’s favorite fútbol shirt when he could still fit into it. I tried not to look in the hazy mirror over the useless sink as I stepped into the tub of freezing water. Through the corner of my eye, the fuzzy reflection of a young girl reflected back to me, but I told myself that wasn’t me. I still needed to think of myself only as a boy. I splashed the cold water against my skin and watched goose bumps emerge where the dirt flaked off until I was submerged in a muddy sludge. I watched the tinged water drip from my legs as I stepped carefully from the tub.

I quickly dried my skin with a coarse towel and from my filthy pile of clothes, I pulled out the length of fabric my mother had used to bind my adolescent breasts. It was stained brown and felt damp with weeks of sweat, but I tied it tightly around my back, flattening my chest as best I could. I pulled the ends tight until I felt the ache of my compressed body that I had become accustomed to. Its familiarity was a welcome comfort, like a ghostly hug from my absent mother. I blinked the prick of tears away and quickly dressed in the clothes that had been left for me. They were even baggier on me than Mateo’s had been. As I cinched the belt tighter around my thin waist to keep the pants up, I wondered how many other lost immigrants like me had stood in this dingy bathroom and changed into these same clothes. I tugged the shirt low to cover the bulky belt and for the first time, purposely looked in the mirror. I pretended that I could only see Mateo looking back. He always slicked his hair away from his face. I combed my fingers through my hair until it was pulled back, but this style only accentuated my delicate, feminine features. I shook my head and my hair fell forward. Tiny droplets of water slithered down the strands, sprayed the mirror, and trickled down the inside of my collar. Better to keep it looking shaggy and hanging in my face. It would need to be cut before too long, however, if I was to keep up this charade.

After pouring out the filthy water outside the door and replacing the small tin tub, I walked cautiously down the hall to the kitchen. There was an aroma of foreign food that I could not recognize. My stomach growled again and cramped as I thought of the sweet fried bread Mamá used to make for our birthdays and special occasions when she could scrounge up the ingredients. I stepped into the kitchen to see all three seated around the table. The young man hardly looked up from his breakfast as he scooped the food into his mouth. The woman quickly rose to greet me, and the older man just stared.

Have a seat, she said briskly, her tone still cold and unwelcoming. Coffee? she asked.

I nodded and sat beside the young man. A platter of steaming food waited in front of me, but now that I was sitting, I didn’t have the strength in my arms to scoop it onto my plate. A surge of dizziness made me waver slightly in the chair as I stared at the food. Here you are, son, she said and placed a hot cup of black coffee in front of my plate. She watched me for a moment before saying, There’s eggs and some bacon. Do you want toast? Tomás finished it all but I can make more if you like. I shook my head and reached for the coffee, surprised to see my hands shaking. What’s your name? she asked.

Raoul, I was supposed to tell her. My mother had coached me as my dark curls had fallen around my feet. I was to be Raoul, age ten. No one needs to know more than that, my mother said. I had looked into the sliver of a mirror that my father used for shaving and told myself, I am Raoul. I am ten years old. But in that foggy mirror, I could not see a boy in my dark eyes. I could only see myself. Nadia, age fourteen. Nadia, counting the weeks until my fifteenth birthday. Nadia, who watched my mother diligently sew my beautiful white dress for my quinceañera party when I would become a woman. My shoulders had slumped at the thought of returning to ten again. We had practiced together, I am Raoul. I am ten years old. I am Raoul. I am ten years old.

The woman stared at me as though wondering why her question was so difficult for me to answer. For that brief moment, I couldn’t find the name in my head. It had vanished with my family. I opened my mouth to speak but suddenly my exhaustion erased my thoughts. She cocked her head with curiosity, and the man looked up from his plate at me. I quickly said, Mateo.

She nodded and said, Well, Mateo. Her tone told me she knew I was lying. It must not have been the first time, because she nodded slightly and sat down across from me. Welcome to America. Have some eggs.

* * *

Tomás ran the ranch for his grandfather. I was not the first stray immigrant taken in by the family. The drainpipe at the edge of the property was a wellspring of cheap, hard-working, desperate labor. But most were too nervous working so close to the border and didn’t stay long. Tomás explained to me as I walked with him back out to the barn after breakfast that I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted, but while I was here, I needed to work hard or he would kick me off his property. His words came to me through a cloud of hazy exhaustion, and I could only nod my acknowledgement and agreement.

He put me to work cleaning out the stalls. The smell made me want to vomit, but when he asked earlier, I had lied and told him that I was used to farm work. Every shovel scoop of manure made me dizzy and nauseated, and the thin muscles of my arms burned with pain. But I gritted my teeth and piled it higher on the wheelbarrow while Tomás stood to watch.

You’ll do fine, he said after a moment and was gone.

The shovel clattered to my feet, and my rubbery arms fell to my sides. I leaned against the door jamb as my stomach churned. My long empty stomach was arguing with the eggs, and it suddenly heaved my breakfast out on the pile of manure at my feet. I wiped my mouth and nose on the sleeve of my shirt and leaned back against the wall. My skin felt clammy and cold, but my stomach was finally restful, and the dizziness passed.

I leaned for a moment, waiting to regain my strength. Slowly I bent over to pick up the shovel. All morning, I heaved the heavy manure into a wheelbarrow that I could hardly lift and took it around back of the barn to a huge compost pile, swarming with flies.

As I swept out the barn area that I had just cleared of manure, I heard footsteps behind me, and I turned, broom in hand. You’re doing well, the older man said and nodded to the clean floor. I’m José, he said simply. My wife is María. I suppose Tomás has told you all about us already. I shook my head. He shrugged. He looked much older when I was face to face with him than he did when I had peered over the edge of the loft at him. His face was weathered and crinkly, the wrinkles standing out as white lines on his dark skin. His hands were permanently soiled from years of hard work. The smile he gave me was warm and kind. This is my farm, he said proudly before his voice dropped. "Was