The Iguana Tree. Michel Stone

had dreamed of it for so long, he could not feel certain he really saw it now.

      “Your parched insides curse your mouth for singeing them with each hot breath you take,” the coyote continued. “Slowly you realize you will not survive. That the desert is going to win, only it is in no hurry. Then your prayers change, friend, and you no longer pray to the Virgin for water, but for a tree to hang yourself or a rattlesnake to strike your ankle. The trees are few, but the rattlesnakes, they are plentiful,” he said, a rising pleasure in his voice when he spoke of rattlesnakes.

      He slowed his truck to a stop, and pointed to the desert beyond the six-foot-tall metal sheet that separated the men from America. “A fool’s graveyard.”

      He began driving again, turning the truck around, heading in the direction from which they had just come. His tone remained the same when he said, “You shall not suffer such a fate, friend. You will reach El Norte. Your bones will not find their final resting place there,” and he raised his chin toward the desert.

      Héctor said nothing. He watched the chickens along the border. Most had nothing with them except for a woven sack and a water jug. He saw children, some as young as five and six, crouched near their parents, watching the desert as if it were the ultimate prize. A lump formed in Héctor’s throat. He had not cried in a long time, and he would not do so now in this coyote’s presence. He felt like a traitor to his fellow countrymen when he prayed that the border patrol would catch them before they walked far into their journey. God deliver you. Two men slipped through the fence and disappeared.

      Within minutes Héctor and the coyote arrived at a small, one-room shack made of corrugated tin. Héctor followed the coyote inside. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness of the interior. A man sat on the floor in the corner smoking a cigarette, his back against the wall. The room contained no furniture, the floor littered with newspaper, bottles, and cigarette butts. The unmistakable stench of urine permeated the place.

      The smuggler didn’t acknowledge the man in the corner. He said to Héctor, “You will wait here until we cross,” and he walked out, locking the door behind him.

      Héctor didn’t know if the man in the corner was a pollo or a coyote. The man sucked one last drag off his cigarette, then snuffed it out on the concrete floor.

      “How’s it going?” the man said, exhaling smoke with his words.

      Héctor nodded a silent greeting, then shoved his hands into his pockets to still them.

      Suddenly the stranger burst into laughter. Héctor’s fingernails dug into his palm as he made a fist, unsure if his companion were a lunatic or if Héctor were just missing something terribly amusing. He stared at the floor, not wanting to look at the man in the corner. Finally the laughter subsided enough for Héctor’s companion to speak.

      “I see why they call us pollos, amigo. You look scared shitless, just like a baby chick the hen has left alone in the yard. Ah, but take no offense,” he said, lighting another cigarette and offering the pack to Héctor. “I am sure I looked like you when I arrived here. I am Miguel.”

      Héctor took a cigarette and accepted Miguel’s offer to light it. “I am Héctor,” he said, still unsure of the stranger’s sanity. “How long have you been here?” Héctor asked, blowing smoke away from his new acquaintance.

      “Four days,” Miguel answered, flicking the match across the room toward a green plastic bucket that smelled like a makeshift toilet. “I may die of cancer from these before we go. Though they are good to help with the waiting. I do not know how long we will be here. Perhaps the coyote was waiting for you to arrive. Maybe now we will go.”

      Héctor looked about the sparse room, attempted to calculate the many hours of waiting represented by the cigarette butts surrounding him. He wondered about the fate of those who had waited before him, the only hint of their presence here the squashed remains of their smokes and the scent of their urine.

      “I am going to South Carolina,” Miguel continued. “Where are you heading, Héctor?”

      Miguel was a small, lean man, maybe a head shorter than Héctor. His coal black hair was cropped close to his round, dark head, and his broad nose and wide forehead revealed his Indian heritage.

      “I have not decided. I have no destination other than America,” Héctor said. “I’ll see where work takes me.”

      “A man needs a plan, Héctor. Come with me to South Carolina. My cousin has a house and a good job as a foreman on a tomato farm. He will find us work.”

      “Perhaps I shall join you, if work is available there. Where do you come from?” Héctor asked.

      “My people are from the mountains, the Tarahumara.”

      Héctor had heard of the Tarahumara Indians, but had not known any in Puerto Isadore.

      He wondered if they were all like Miguel, in manner and in looks.

      Miguel continued when Héctor remained silent. “Most of my people remain in the Sierra Madres forever, preferring not to mix with others. I am an outcast, I suppose.” He chuckled when he said this and sucked on his cigarette as if his survival depended on the smoke sinking deep into his lungs.

      “I have never met one of your people,” Héctor said. “But we are all Mexicans. Your people prefer to stay in the mountains. My people stay by the sea in Oaxaca State, in Puerto Isadore. People are comfortable with what they know, I think.” Héctor had not realized how much he missed conversation.

      “So, Héctor, you and I, we are not comfortable men then. We are leaving what we know,” Miguel said.

      Héctor nodded, running both hands through his hair, letting his cigarette dangle from his lips.

      The sun descended outside the lone, small window on the western side of the shack, casting shadows across the wall and floor. The men ate nothing, for they had no food. They talked until Héctor could no longer see Miguel’s face.

      “My people are athletes. We are very strong runners for great distances. When my tribe plays rarajipari, I am the best in my community,” Miguel said.

      “I do not know of this rarajipari,” Héctor said.

      “You are missing out, Héctor. I will tell you about it. I am not keeping you from something, am I, amigo?” Miguel said, and Héctor imagined Miguel’s smile, though it was lost in the darkness.

      “We have teams, you see, and we play this game in the mountains, running along the slopes, kicking a wooden ball for great distances. We wear huaraches on our feet and the matches last for days. My teammates called me a mountain goat. I could go all day.”

      Héctor said, “I am not much at running up mountains.”

      Miguel seemed to be turned away from Héctor now, his voice falling distant.

      “These cigarettes. I am probably not good at running the slopes any more, either.”

      Héctor heard Miguel lie down, rustling in his corner, then grow silent, except for his breathing. Their conversation for this day was over. Héctor stretched out on the hard concrete, closed his eyes and thought of mountain goats running wild and free along green slopes. How pleasant to live as a goat with all the berries and vegetation his family could ever want to eat growing where they lived and played, with no worries about the future, with no thought of what may lie beyond their lush, green slope, and no concern with trying to cross difficult obstacles to keep the family fed.

      When sleep came, Héctor dreamed not of contented goats, but of a withered corpse swinging in the hot wind.

      ONCE EACH DAY the door opened and a coyote delivered sandwiches or fruit with drinking water. During the thirteenth night, Héctor awoke to someone kicking his boot.

      “Get up. Get up! Let’s move. Quickly now!” a man barked, his voice unfamiliar.

      Then Héctor heard Miguel say, “I am awake, mister.”