Redemption's Warrior (19 page)

At the clothing store Christopher spots a four pocket shirt and a pair of chino pants. He walks to a store selling souvenirs and purchases sunglasses and a baseball hat. The elements of his disguise complete, he changes clothes in the nearby alley, rolling his prison garb in a bundle.

He has a new worry. If anyone finds and identifies these discarded prison clothes they will reveal to
El Jefe
his location along with his path of escape.
How can I make these clothes disappear forever
? He smells smoke from the incinerator of a restaurant. Happily it is unsupervised. He throws the clothes into the flames, one step closer to feeling free.

In more good fortune, he spots a barber shop. The first chair, an old fashion stool of leather cushions and handles surrounded by chrome, the barber pumps him high. He requests hair clipped short and beard and mustache shaved off. A clean face will be his best disguise. Looking in the mirror takes his breath away, not in a good way. His skin dark and leathery, he’d arrived in Mexico with youthful and full cheeks. A well nourish American filled with strength and vitality. Now his cheeks are hollow, lined with cracks. Along with his checks his composure cracks. Viewing his reflection, he doesn’t recognize this shriveled version of Christopher. Exposure to unrelenting island sun and wind has left him as brown as any native. Laughing, he thinks,
today I can pass for a migrant farm worker
.

In the directory of a nearby phone booth he locates the American consulate. Goal defined he takes off walking. The consulate housed in a neighborhood called the Golden Zone with wide streets lined with tall trees it feels like years since Christopher has seen such a beautiful neighborhood. Heavy graceful limbs shade the streets providing glimpses of the stately homes where the consuls reside. At the American consulate his hopes are dashed. All the air leaves his body with a whoosh. A
Sinola
State Police patrol car blocks the gated entrance.
El Jefe has put out the word
.
They’re expecting me
. He feels like a hunted animal. Pulling down his hat joining a group of tourists, he thinks,
On to plan B. I’ll take the ferry to La Paz then a bus to Tijuana…

Fat Luis studies the map table in the hastily prepared war room. A muddy red flush suffuses him. “Could the
gringo
have made it to Mazatlan?”

Fat Luis doesn’t want others to think he left Christopher alone with the fishermen. Luis did not take the time to learn their names. Risking an opinion he argues, “He may still be on the island. Take the jeep around one more time.”

In his heart, Luis knows Christopher has outsmarted them all. Last night he chided Christopher for seeking the power of Checo’s lead position. Christopher had something more powerful in mind. It makes Luis flush with shame to be outwitted by a prisoner. He’ll never speak of it out loud. Now first in command, looking at the map he nods, “One more time,” he says. “If any of you find him bring him back alive.”

• • •

While the
Baja
ferry loads cars and small trucks a dozen passengers wait behind a white fence, tickets in hand. Approaching the ticket office Christopher chokes when he spots his picture from the Tijuana Jail taped on the wall adjacent to the ticket booth. He strains to read the Spanish words.
Recomprensa. Reward for Federal escapee:
Momentarily confused Christopher thinks,
Wait.
He pauses, almost hyperventilating. Choking, he ducks into a public lavatory and then into a stall. He coughs. Coughing momentarily takes his mind off the shock of seeing his picture on a wanted poster.
I should have anticipated this search
.

Gathering himself he notices the blue dragonfly out of the corner of his eye. It reminds him, “a calming breath.”

Thankfully the picture does not look like me
. Grainy resolution, wrong camera setting makes for a poor reproduction.
At the barbershop I could not recognize myself. It may save my life.

Washing his hands in a drizzle of cold water he continues breathing and evaluating. Calmer he exits the lavatory and purchases his ferry passage. Standing in line waiting to board the ferry he feels
squeezed in, claustrophobic
! The growing press of people leaves him breathless. The heat and smell of unwashed bodies, at once distinct and cumulative are suffocating him. His heart hammers. Panic fuels his muscles. Sweat pops out along his forehead, a few short breaths from a panic attack.
Will I be recognized? Caught, tortured and enslaved
?

He’ll have to subdue this panic, the contradiction, free from prison but hunted. Volitionally, consciously he practices breathing. Twisting muscles slowly lengthen. Bystanders only see a man standing, lost in thought. In reality Christopher practices the breath of martial arts. He calms the rampaging elephant.

Now breathing he unclenches the large muscles along his thighs and buttocks. On a silent exhale he gently pries the muscles loose. Unclenching his jaw helps. He wiggles his toes. In spite of these improvements Christopher still stands in the strange landscape of paranoia. This world glitters with menace. On the one hand he feels inconsequential and invisible. On the other hand he feels brilliant with runaway fear.
Am I a flashing neon sign
? With a sigh Christopher realizes if he cannot calm his fears it will be a long trip to La Paz. Head down, one foot in front of the other, he boards the ferry, the first in line at the cafeteria.

He purchases two chicken tamales, a side of rice and beans, and a large soft drink. He craves the sugary drink. He feels as if he has survived a great battle. All his energy has been spent in the effort to make it this far. The ice cold drink replenishes him. He eats slowly. He doesn’t want to stand out as someone ravenous for food. It settles his stomach, expanding and calming. The blue dragonfly flies at eyelevel. He calls up Juanita’s words “Follow your dragonfly home!”

The ferry engines start up. The deep rumble vibrates through the bottoms of his feet. Finishing the soda something wound tight within him lets go. Inexplicably his fear transforms into excitement. The ferry pulls away from the dock. A breeze flows over his skin. His stomach full of food he purchased with money he made. The next stage of his journey home is underway.

He can envision his mother’s face glowing with the joy of his homecoming. He can see her clearly, every feature distinct. He even notices her wearing the Star of David given to her by her mother. Throughout his childhood she has worn this Star of David together with the risen cross given to her by his father as a wedding gift. He feels at one with his family, at one with his strengths. He feels
dinero
secure deep in his pockets. Curled up on a bench in the observation deck, the vibration of motors powering their way through the Pacific Ocean and then Sea of Cortez he falls into a much needed sleep.

Christopher bolts upright. Heart thundering in his chest he takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, well past midnight. Around him men, women and children curled up on benches are sound asleep. Stumbling he makes his way to the upper deck. Warm sea air combined with the ferry’s trajectory raises the hair along his arms.

The lights of La Paz flicker in the distance. The real light show is the stars. Every pinprick of light in the pebbly Milky Way stands out clear, defined. He recalls his dream quest to meet Star Woman with Juanita. Even when they were together their paths were distinct. Her dream journey took place not with him but in the part of herself she called ‘a light body.’ His quest was to call her back to their shared dream. To accomplish his mission he reached out to the four corners of existence. Her name filled him. A primordial scream, “Juanita!” pulled from the very center of life rolled out of him. How he wishes he could call her back to him again. In their dreaming Star Woman heard his plea. Appearing as a face filled with eons of stars she said, “When two hearts, in their innermost hearts, beat as one …”

“What does that mean for me now?” He whispers. He wants so badly to have Juanita back again. The last time he’d journeyed on these waters he’d been beaten. More importantly his life had been stolen. Tonight he is taking back his future. He’s slipping away from the slavery of his false imprisonment. He looks to the pebbly sky, “I am stealing back my freedom.”

Two blasts on the air horn signal their arrival in La Paz. The ferry eases into the slip dropping the loading ramp on the dock.  The pedestrian ramp lowers. Passengers quickly depart hurrying toward their errands. Hovering next to a man wearing drab wool coat is his blue dragonfly. Circling and twirling around the man’s head the dragonfly dances. Christopher approaches and asks directions to the bus stop. With a friendly smile the man replies, “Follow me
amigo
. I too am headed for the bus stop.”

His new guide has dark Indian skin. Festive clothes under the grey wool wrap reveal another persona then the wool coat. White Mexican cowboy boots and matching hat, a back pack, give Christopher the impression the man wears most of his wardrobe. He asks, “Are you heading north?”

“
Si amigo
. I go to work the almond groves… In California,” he adds in a whisper.

The many eyes of a peacock tail are dragging behind the man. They follow, layer upon layer of feathers, like the train of a fancy dress. Christopher has a feeling all of life is a celebration for this man. Curious he asks, “Do you have a working visa?”

“No.” Shaking his head, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched, drawing his coat more closely to his chest, the festivity gone. Reading the story his body tells Christopher hypothesizes
a man who does not like to deceive. He feels caught in the moment like he’s cheating.

Christopher gives him a firm pat on the back. He says, “I don’t have a visa either. My name is Christopher.”

The brown face brightens, feathers lift, hundreds of feathers iridescent blue and green sway together over his shoulders. He smiles and extends a hand, “I am Pepe.” Shaking Christopher’s hand vigorously he adds, “I use the same Coyote every year.”

Christopher is amused.
This man makes a party out of a single statement
.

As they leave the terminal Christopher sees another reward poster. “Again!!” His heart seems to stop then gallops away leaving him lightheaded and short of breath. He leans on a nearby trash can.

Confused his guide asks, “What? What did you say?”

Christopher forces himself to stand up straight and smile. “It’s nothing. I’m just glad to be off the boat.”

Thoughts race, heart pounding, blood rushing his world glitters in paranoia. The hammer of his pulse narrows his vision into a tunnel. He walks in a twilight world, a world where even the most benign landscape can turn deadly in the blink of an eye. From his experience on the streets of Tijuana he understands all too well the instantaneous potential of life as you know it snatched away.

Imprinted in his memory, driving down the road, hands pounding the steering wheel in time to music, alternating black and white leather, his new tuck and roll upholstery. He’s thinking about his birthday party. Blinking lights, a badge pressed to the window, herald a previously inconceivable future.

Thoughts of his Chevy still flood Christopher with indignation and rage. The barbershop mirror told the story of his life in prison. His body wears the injustices perpetrated on him like an ill-fitting suit. Hit hard in these first moments of freedom with his last moments of freedom.

Will I forever wear the body
La Luna
created? Will my body ever tell another story? A happier story
?

Lost in thought the two men walk quietly through La Paz. Lining the road facing the ocean are restaurants and bars. Half of the businesses are boarded up. Building exteriors are crumbling, a reflection of deferred maintenance in various stages of decay.

Christopher’s thinks
my world no longer rotates around a small patch of real estate. My future is not in the hands of cruel sadistic men. I choose my future.

They leave the paved road for a hard dirt street meandering into the hills above the bay. He’s relieved to see the bus station. But at the ticket window he sees
another damn
Recompensa
poster
!

His lips press into a hard line. He itches to tear it off the wall. A sour faced clerk gives Christopher a long look. His heart skips a beat. He puts his right hand to his chest and rubs a circular motion. Then he puts his left hand on his new friends shoulder. Looking the woman in the eyes he says, “I pay for my brother’s ticket and my ticket.”

The clerk takes the
dinero
and gives them their tickets. Her indifferent attention is on the next customer. His friend smiles with pleasure. “
Gracias amigo
. I only have money to pay the
Coyote
and get across the border. Now I will eat while I wait for the
Coyote
!”

“
De nada, mi amigo
. It’s my pleasure. Thank you for bringing me to the bus station.” Sitting in the shade, across the road from the bus station, Christopher and Pepe watch a large converted yellow school bus being fueled with diesel. A crudely stenciled, “
Baja Norte
” is painted over the faded demarcation, Phoenix Unified Schools.

A mechanic washes windows with a red rag. The driver arrives dressed in jeans, a faded long sleeve button down shirt and a green bus driver’s hat. He stows a large thermos and lunch bucket behind the driver’s chair. Passengers are crowded near the bus doors waiting to board.

Doors open and travelers collide making their way to seats. Christopher and Pepe walk to the bus and sit, one to a bench, with Pepe behind Christopher. The bus roars to life. Jerking between gears and belching smoke it agonizingly slow it pulls out of the bus terminal.

Looking around Christopher guesses by reading his fellow traveler’s demeanor and clothing most are seeking work in the picking season in California. The air is interspersed with ribbons of worry and rays of hope.

Bouncing north along the paved highway, at sixty miles per hour, passengers feel every pot hole. Christopher thinks
this suspension was shot long before the bus’s incarnation as the
Baja Norte.