Redemption's Warrior (2 page)

Ignoring him the two men continue strategizing. “With this Chevy, Tuck and roll has paid its dues. Weed and a car… We’ll have to get rid of the
gringo
.”

“Lose him on
Islas Tres Marias. El Jefe
will take him with no paperwork.”

Rubbing his belly the cop nods. “Okay. He’s young and strong.
El Jefe
will use his muscle. He’ll owe us a favor and he can get rid of him.”

Christopher hears a lighter, smells the cigarette, the Chevy’s car door slams. The Glasspack Cherry Bomb mufflers rumble. Christopher feels the power vibrate in his gut. His Chevy pulls out. Christopher bends over in pain.  The cop looks at him through the rear view mirror, “
Gringo
,” he smiles.

The Buick pulls into traffic. The cop knows hijacking Christopher’s car hurts more than the whack of his partner’s baton. His laughter fills the air with black bubbles. Christopher strains to spot his car. Vanished.

Tijuana Jail stinks of hopelessness. Christopher is pushed and shoved down a narrow hallway. Hands reach through bars pulling on his clothes leaving grimy smudges. A cell door slides open. He’s shoved inside. The force of the thrust so violent he crashes into the opposite wall. Rubbing his neck he yells, “I’m adding this to my list of complaints for the American Consulate.”

His answer is the sound of the cell door sliding shut with a metal clank. Cell mates shuffle to the end furthest from Christopher. He drops to the floor heedless of the grime. Envisioning flashes of the party, he can see friends arriving and laughter building. The back yard brimming with hanging lights, the barbeque stoked and smoking. His Dad smiling, a beer in one hand while turning the sizzling meat. His Mom starting to look at the clock wonders when he will arrive. The scene crushes him. He hopes, he prays, they enjoy a good meal before worry of his whereabouts sets in.

Looking back he can see telling no one of his errand was a mistake. He’d been proud taking a trip over the border. Wanting to prove himself, he made a rookie error. Now his parents will pay the price for his choice.

Trying not to think what might be on the floor and walls he leans back against the bumpy surface. Grime layered with despair coats his skin and clothes. The stench clinging to his head blooms into a pounding headache.

He longs to run free pounding down the street. In the twilight he would sprint the endless blocks until he reached the beach. Tearing off clothes, rubbing himself with crusty sand, he’d rub and rub until every pore was purified. Only then would he enter the cool water, the ocean with its own wilderness, dangers and freedoms.

But he cannot flee. He’s stuck in this smelly dungeon imagining his mother and father looking at each other, scared out of their minds. Wondering, has their only son has disappeared on his eighteenth birthday? He closes his eyes, seared with the images.

Night in the Tijuana Jail is noisy with whispered confessions, mumbled prayers, shouts and threats, cries of pain. As the cell door slides open Christopher feels the reverberation in his gut. He knows they have come for him. He was never arrested. There is no record of charges against him or documentation taking him into custody. Too late he finds freedoms and due process in the United States do not exist in Mexico. There is no phone call allotted him.  In the periphery of his sight, awash in florescent blue the little dragonfly darts around him. Fear has made his mouth dry as dust. His skin pulses with each beat of his heart. Four guards escort him, front back and sides.

Outside, hidden in shadows created by floodlights, a waiting van is parked. Not dawn yet. He guesses the time just before three in the morning. In a surge of vivid clarity, lodged between one heartbeat and the next, Christopher realizes trapped in the van he’ll have no authority over his future. This is his moment to escape. He will never see his car again but he’ll be alive, home.

Leveraging his body between captors on each side, he swings his feet off the ground pushing. He lands a solid kick to the back of the jailor leading the way. The man stumbles crashing into the exterior wall. The guards on each side of him tighten their grip. He breaks one with an upper cut followed by an elbow to the chin. Stomping on the foot of the second guard with his now free hands he pulls the guard toward him. Christopher crashes his knee into the man’s groin.

The guard trailing behind races forward. Christopher steps aside and pushes. The man face plants landing on his belly skidding to a stop. A quick assessment before sprinting finds the first guard regaining his balance. Face a mask of contorted rage he slams a nightstick into Christopher’s gut. A second strike crashes down on Christopher’s head. The angle breaks open his eyebrow, cutting flesh to the bone. Blood pouring down his face obscures his vision.

Christopher falls to the ground. Curled tight against the kicks, inches from the ground, he sees the blue dragonfly spiraling down a faded version of its florescent self.

R
ebellious, Juanita pushes back long strands of hair. Her father chugs into the Mazatlan harbor while she scrubs the boat’s galley. Throwing the water overboard, exhaustion clouds her view. Auras of the
putas
preparing to disembark waver in front of her.

Not soon enough she will be back in the little room off the kitchen at the home of
La Currendera
. Since her mother’s death she lives and apprentices to the local healer. Her childhood home is now darkened by her father’s drunken binges.

Juanita ties the bow and stern lines to the dock. Jose carefully counts out the money due to each
puta
. Too young to be called woman they trudge toward the bus stop with weary steps, already tired of the world and its demands.

Jose loves his daughter, yet he lives the life of a reckless bachelor, late nights, crazy parties, morning hangovers. After his wife’s passing Jose numbed his grief with alcohol and woman. Countless days and nights of drinking has become all he knows. A world twisted by grief, and soothed with distilled agave.

He cannot bear to reach out to his daughter. It could shatter him.

Last week Juanita came to him. Pale, twisting her fingers, she said, “Papa may I have Mama’s gold cross? I feel so lonely. If I could wear Mama’s cross it would help me feel closer to her and to you.”

At the time he was annoyed. Glaring at her, his head hammering with the beat of his heart, the effect of his morning tequila had already faded. The pounding headache, cottonmouth and nausea fuel his words. He’d spoken more sharply than intended. He cringes remembering.

“No. It would not be proper for you to wear your mother’s cross. The cross belongs to me. How can you be lonely when you live with
La Currandera
?”

His coldness takes Juanita’s breath away.

She can remember years when her father’s eyes sparkled like the sun over the ocean. Now his eyes are tinged with yellow. His voice burned dry by tequila, is a parched crackle. The years vibrant with happiness are a forgotten memory.

Juanita tries once more to reach across her loneliness. “Papa,” she says “When I’m with you it feels like you are not here. Your spirit has gone wandering since Mama died. I do not see happiness in your eyes. I miss you. Come back to me Papa. I need you.”

For Jose, buried in the ghosts of the past stained golden by tequila, his thoughts are murky and wet. He can only shake his head and ask, “How are your studies with
La Currandera
? When will you be able to charge for your services?”

Before she can answer he shakes his head doubtfully, “Will any man want you?” Still wagging his head he asks “Will they want you, after you are called
La Currandera
? Who will want to marry the apprentice to the healer?”

For the first time in their conversation Jose lifts his eyes to Juanita’s face. He says, “A strange world you’ve chosen.”

Juanita wants to shout, “You talk about my strange world? Your world revolves around prostitution. You poison yourself with tequila. What would Mama say if she could see you now?”

Instead she turns away. Her father’s question lingers, “Will any man want you?”

• • •

At
La Currandera’s
Juanita learns her belly is filled with miles of sensors. They are her antennae to truth. Her teacher explains, “The belly is the home of wisdom. In the gut lives your truth. To live an authentic life you must unite your mind and heart with your belly.”

She smiles at Juanita’s confusion. Shifting the conversation she says, “What are your dreams? What acts will pull your dreams from the invisible into visible reality?” She smiles and runs a warm hand across Juanita’s shoulders. She says, “My teacher had a saying. ‘If your dreams will not grow corn in everyday life then find a new dream.’ A quaint way of saying; when you marry dreams and acts, if they are not productive in the world, if they do not benefit you and others, you must re-evaluate your priorities and goals.”

Juanita is completely confused. They started talking about the belly, wisdom, connecting the belly with mind and heart. In the blink of an eye they are talking about dreams. She shakes her head. “How can you tell if your dreams are worthwhile?”

La Currandera
shrugs. “What does it matter?”

Juanita’s eyes widen in distress. “Didn’t you just say dreams must grow corn?”

Stirring the pot on the stove
La Currandera
quietly chants a prayer. Finished she claps her hands. Looking at Juanita she inquires, “Have you finished chores?”

Juanita giggles. “Since I have come to live with you people ask me what you teach. They think my time filled with visions and magic. I tell them ‘no’ I clean the floor and find ways to make life run smoothly.”

“Yes,”
La Currandera
continues to stir the pot of herbs and water that will become a tonic for vitality. She says, “True power is your ability to create goodness, beauty in your life and for others. Go forward with faith in a greater goodness, Juanita. Dreams, acts, faith in goodness these are the words of power that will sculpt your life. In this way all dreams are variations of the one dream of wellness and beauty.”

Walking in the gardens Juanita repeats to herself, “Words of power: with words of power I shape my dreams.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I dream of a life shared with a loving husband and children. I dream of becoming a healer. My acts, that match my dreams, will form my future.”

Beyond the flower garden where
La Currandera
sits with visitors Juanita stands among the vegetables and herbs.
Food as medicine filled with healing power
. Pulling weeds from soil wet with the afternoon rain, she plants in her mind and heart, the one dream with infinite variations of beauty.

A small pile of weeds grows by her side. Juanita shifts her weight. Facing a new direction she continues pulling and shaking. The dirt flies free from the roots. She tosses the weed to the pile.

La Currandera
does not approve of her father’s demand Juanita crew his boat weekends. She cannot come between Juanita and her father’s authority. Instead she teaches Juanita to cloak herself in prayers and power. Each time Juanita prepares to leave
La Currandera
she takes her on the journey to gather her power animal for added protection.

Tugging on a weed Juanita says “I rest in a greater good. My acts are the seeds of my dream. The seeds sprout. The Great Spirit decides the color of each flower. What does
La Currandera
call it? A greater good, united with the Great Spirit, known as Beneficence.”

Later Juanita finishes the chores of the day. She sighs, “Beneficence. I love the word, Beneficence.” Humming while mopping
La Currendera’s
kitchen floor, the words play over and over;
dreams, acts, faith in Beneficence
.

As she works her words of power become a magical elixir. They flow down her throat, coating the miles of intestinal sensors. They soothe and strengthen her. She will no longer be defined by her father’s rejection or her mother’s death. She chants,
dreams, acts, Faith in Beneficence
.

A
wakening in the van Christopher’s head throbs. With each rattling breath he feels jagged edges of broken ribs grinding.
Where am I? Where is my car?
The questions circle over and over in a never ending loop. He has no idea how long he floats in this world of confusion and pain unable to hold onto reality. When the van bounces, jarring his injuries, pain drags his awareness into the rusty compartment separated from the drivers section by a metal wall. He breathes shallowly to minimize the pain.
How did I get here? Where is my car?

The van bounces to a stop at a gas station. The driver helps Christopher to a toilet. Blood mixes in his urine. Slowly opening the bathroom door, through swollen eyes he watches the driver purchase two sodas. If he could breathe he’d make a dash for it. He swallows his frustration. Instead of handing the bottle that could be broken into a weapon the man maneuvers the glass to the side of Christopher’s swollen mouth. He tips the liquid down Christopher’s throat. The orange pop fizzes. Christopher greedily drinks. Back in the van, as his eyes adjust he makes out the shadow of a man huddled in the corner. They sit in silence, evaluating each other in the darkness. Christopher says, “
Habla
English?

“Yes
amigo,
” the voice heavy with weariness, “My name is Daniel.” He coughs. “You are better now. You do not keep asking for your car.”

“Where are we going Daniel?”

“They say only the worst go to
La Luna
,” Daniel whispers. “But I know better. What did you do?”

“What do you mean? We’re going to,
La Luna
, the moon?”

“
La Luna
is the name inmates have given to the federal prison
Islas Tres Marias
. But we might as well be going to the moon. I escaped for a few days. No one has ever really escaped to find freedom from
Islas Tres Marias.”
Jangling his cuffs Daniel continues, “What did you do
mi amigo
? An American sent to
La Luna
, has never happened before. You’ll be the only
gringo
on the island.”