The Iguana Tree. Michel Stone

doesn’t look like this place,” Héctor said.

      “Let’s see,” Miguel said, running a finger along the foreign newsprint a moment before, “Ha! Our new home. This says South Carolina and North Carolina here.”

      Héctor stared at Miguel. “And that is where we are heading? That is not so good.”

      Miguel laughed, tossing the paper back to the floor at the base of the trashcan. “My cousin Pablo has said nothing about this storm. You know how newspapers do; they make shit up.”

      “No, they don’t,” Héctor said, studying Miguel’s face.

      Slight lines ran from the corners of Miguel’s eyes to his temples always, giving him a fixed look of mischief, like the faces of wayward boys in church when the priest looked away.

      Miguel shrugged and glanced at the clock on the distant wall.

      “Your cousin must be a good man to drive this far for us,” Héctor said, following Miguel’s gaze and wondering how much longer they must wait for Pablo to arrive here for them.

      “Sure, he is my blood, isn’t he? But I have not seen him in years. He went to America when I was a boy. We have spoken, of course, but he has never returned to Mexico.”

      “And his wife?” Héctor asked.

      “I know nothing of her except he met her here, and she, too, is from our country.”

      He pulled his shirt tight across his chest. “This manufactured air chills me. I am not used to it.”

      The coyote had brought them to the bus station hours earlier. The idea appealed to Héctor because so many people milled around this place, coming and going. The station seemed a safe spot to wait for Pablo. The two had spent the day eating crackers from the vending machine, reading the arrivals and departures board, and napping on benches.

      “I don’t much like the cold in here either,” Héctor said, standing. “I need to move my legs. Too much stillness the past few days, you know?”

      Miguel stretched out on the bench. “Lying down feels good, too,” he said, closing his eyes.

      Héctor stepped to the water fountain and then made his way around a corner to the men’s room, nodding a greeting to a withered old man slowly sweeping the floor there. Moments later as Héctor rounded the soda machine, he stopped, unsure whether to proceed or to run. An official wearing a uniform and a gun strapped to his hip, stood over Miguel. The officer reached down, tapped Miguel on the knee.

      This was the end; they would be back in Mexico in an instant. Miguel sat up so slowly, too slowly, and Héctor cringed at his friend’s ignorance. Did he not understand the stranger was a lawman? With a weapon? At once Héctor realized his own foolishness, standing motionless like a dead tree in the middle of this place, staring at Miguel and the official. He turned with a cough and revisited the water fountain, pretending to drink as the water splashed off his lips into the bowl. When he had bent over the fountain as long as he could bear the wait, he glanced toward Miguel’s bench. The official had joined Miguel on the bench. Héctor retreated to the men’s room where the withered janitor remained, now bagging trash and humming.

      Héctor felt foolish returning so soon to the toilet, but the man nodded at Héctor as if he’d not seen him there only minutes earlier. Héctor went into a stall, locking the door behind him. He would count. When he reached one hundred—no, two hundred—he would emerge and check on Miguel. But what if Miguel needed him now? How could Héctor possibly help Miguel? Héctor must count, wait.

      When he reached two hundred, the bathroom was silent, and he knew the old janitor had left. Héctor counted again, this time to fifty, indecisive and desperate for more time, believing the officer surely remained with Miguel.

      But a new panic set in. What if the officer had hauled Miguel someplace? Héctor would not be able to find him. And what would he do if he could find Miguel? No, if Miguel were gone, Héctor would have to proceed to South Carolina without him. But Héctor did not know Pablo. How could they identify one another when Pablo arrived? Would he agree to take Héctor after Héctor had let Miguel get caught? But Miguel’s capture was not Héctor’s fault. Sweat rolled down Héctor’s chest despite the cold air; he had to emerge from this stall, go to Miguel.

      He stopped at the water fountain again and took a slight sip before turning toward the bench.

      To his surprise, Miguel remained, and the officer had vanished. Now Miguel stood laughing and chatting with another man. Héctor stopped and watched as the two nodded, smiling, patting one another on the back.

      “Isadore,” Miguel shouted, waving Héctor to them. “Pablo,” he said to the man, “This is the fellow I told you about. Isadore. Isadore, my cousin, Pablo.”

      Confused and weak in the belly, Héctor shook Pablo’s hand.

      “You men ready to roll?” Pablo said, pumping Héctor’s hand, beaming a wide grin.

      He resembled Miguel in features, but his belly was rounder, softer, and Héctor imagined Pablo’s having a wife made the difference there.

      “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Miguel said, a hint of urgency in his voice.

      When they were safely in the car, Miguel’s smile faded and he closed his eyes. “Shit, Héctor. You will not believe what happened to me when you went for your little walk. Jesus,” he said, shaking his head.

      “Who was that man? A lawman?” Héctor said, leaning toward the front seat from the back where he sat, his belly settling now as the distance between themselves and the bus station grew.

      Pablo stared at the road but said, “You boys have got to be careful. Especially in Texas, man. Doubly so near the border. This place is crawling with folks like you: people here without the proper papers. Don’t let your guard down.” Then he began to laugh, a family trait perhaps, laughing when no one else knew the joke.

      Miguel began to laugh, too.

      “What?” Héctor said.

      Miguel turned to face Héctor. “We got lucky when that officer approached the bench where I sat, I smiled at him and motioned for him to sit if he’d like,” Miguel said.

      “You are crazy. I have suspected this all along, but now I know. Your cousin is crazy, Pablo.”

      “So,” Miguel continued, “He says to me in Spanish, ‘How’s everything going, friend?’ and I say, ‘Life is okay, except for that big storm in my home state. So much damage there.’”

      Héctor looked at Pablo. “Are you this smooth under pressure, Pablo?”

      Pablo ran a hand through his hair and snorted. “I wish so.”

      “Go on,” Héctor said, punching Miguel in the shoulder.

      “So, he says to me, ‘Oh yes, you must be from Florida,’ and I say, ‘No, never been to Florida. I am from South Carolina, a beautiful place. I work on a crew for a sailboat, but I left to get away from this storm. Heading back today.’”

      Miguel tapped the seat beside Pablo. “That is when Pablo arrived at the bus station. I could see him across the place looking for me. The officer says, ‘Do you have identification and a bus ticket?’ and I say, ‘Oh yes, sure, I have identification, but no ticket. I am meeting my cousin here.’ Then I shout at Pablo, ‘Hey Pablo, it’s me, Juan, over here.’ I say Juan because that is the name on my new identification. Pablo is quick to understand because he has the great intelligence of all the men in my family, hey, Pablo?”

      Pablo said nothing, but shook his head, grinning, and slapped Miguel on the back.

      “So Pablo walks up, and I embrace him and say, ‘Pablo, this officer and I were talking about the recent storm back home,’ and I fish my identification from my pocket and pass it to the man as we speak.”

      Pablo glanced back at Héctor. “I said to the officer,