The Iguana Tree. Michel Stone

now, in silence. Muffled voices rose just beyond the compartment where they lay. Perhaps daylight shown now, though this was impossible to know. A knocking sound began at Héctor’s head then moved to his feet then under him, and he wondered what could possibly be happening outside. Perhaps this ride was a trick, perhaps they were at the border at a checkpoint. What would that be like? The patrol must be checking this delivery truck. He heard the sound of the doors opening and muted noises as the men rummaged above. He dared not whisper, though he longed to ask his compadres what they thought was happening. He imagined border patrol checking the cargo, looking for drugs in the boxes of dolls and toy maracas.

      When the truck’s engine roared, the sound startled Héctor and emotions again welled in him. He knew not if he should be relieved. Had they passed an inspection? Were they now rolling onto American soil? Were the toys packed with cocaine? Was the truck being confiscated, impounded, sent to be demolished with Héctor and the men underneath never to be acknowledged again? Were the coyotes, right this moment, in the back of a police car, keeping silent about the men in the belly of their truck, in hopes of avoiding further punishment? The truck moved fast now, and Héctor knew they were on a highway. For the first time on the journey, someone spoke.

      “I think we are across, men.” The voice was faceless, nameless, but it recognized the bond among these strangers who had prayed together in the darkness.

      The men, like Héctor, seemed eager to believe the words to be true. Another said, “Then soon we shall drink water, breath fresh air.”

      A third said, “Yes, you fellows stink,” and Héctor recognized the voice as Miguel’s.

      The few who spoke now seemed optimistic, as if any moment the truck would stop and a coyote would pop open the hole in the bottom, help them out, and say, “Welcome to America.” But that did not happen, and for hours more the truck rolled on. It stopped once again, but only briefly, and when the noise and motion resumed, someone said, “Maybe we had to fill up with fuel.”

      Another man vomited after a few hours and the stench permeated the small space, leading to further retching among the men. Héctor’s clothes were soaked through with perspiration. The underside of the truck—the floor on which Héctor and the men lay—had reached an insufferable temperature, assuring Héctor the roads they traveled were hot, and the sun shone outside.

      Then a man far away from Héctor, perhaps the first one to have crawled into the box, began ranting, speaking nonsense, begging to get out, banging his fists, his feet, his head on metal. This was the kind of behavior Héctor had feared, either from himself or from another, the behavior of a man seized by panic. The cramped space allowed no room for such movement and the effect was like a wave rolling across the men, each being shoved and forced to move when no place existed to go. The man got louder and the sounds of his own screams incited him into such a frenzy one of the others yelled, “Someone knock him out!”

      Someone else shouted, “I cannot. I cannot get a fist to him.”

      Héctor knew then they would die. The man screamed for his mother and for a woman, Esperanza, and uttered gibberish Héctor could not understand. Héctor fought the natural reflex to clench his hands into fists, to tighten his body into a mode for fighting, for protection, because there would be no protecting himself in any way other than remaining prone and cramped. He could move nowhere. Finally the shouts stopped as if the man had exhausted himself. Had the coyotes heard the screams? He could not possibly know. So much was impossible to know and all a man could do was realize his fate was in the hands of God. That knowledge was only briefly comforting, because then Héctor would consider that it was not God driving this truck, but the coyote, and maybe God had turned his back on men such as these.

      The truck slowed and pulled to a stop. The men collectively held their breaths, and Héctor felt sure their prayers were as his: that the panicked man would not resume his fit.

      Someone dared to speak, barely a whisper. “We must remain silent, fellows. We have come far. Keep your faith.”

      Héctor recognized the voice as the one who’d recommended punching the ranting man earlier, and he considered this man to be their faceless leader.

      There they waited, and waited, and waited. They remained longer here, still in silence, than they had spent riding. Again new doubts filled Héctor’s heart. Had they been abandoned? Were they deep into America now, or had they gone the other direction? Maybe they were back in the warehouse; maybe something had gone terribly wrong. For hours the men lay in their sealed compartment. They could not guess if daylight or darkness were beyond the walls of their metal box. Someone began snoring softly, and Héctor thought what a blessing sleep would be now. Sleep was like sunshine and fresh air, something beautiful and unattainable.

      4

      THE COYOTES reopened the hole in the bottom of the truck. Not until Héctor took his first breath beyond the confines of the secret compartment did he realize just how thick, how putrid, the air inside had become. A new coyote hustled them from the truck, which was once again in a warehouse. This one was larger, a garage of some sort. Two dump trucks sat in the rear of the building and mechanic’s tools filled the shelves and walls. Héctor saw generators, tires, and compressors. He wondered why this place would not be a toy warehouse, too. Where would the toys within the truck go? Not for the first time Héctor felt as a child: innocent and curious and uncertain. He inhaled deeply over and over again as he watched his fellow pollos climb out of the truck. He assumed this was American air he breathed, but he could not be certain. Nor could he be certain if he should feel immense relief, or the dread he’d become accustomed to.

      As the last man disembarked, the new coyote turned to them and said, “Bienvenidos a Estados Unidos de América. Welcome to America.”

      Héctor smiled for the first time in memory. The other men smiled, too, though no one cheered, none of them spoke. They were indeed pollos, and Héctor wondered if this feeling would ever completely subside. His new position as an illegal American struck him, that from this moment forward his fate would be determined by this status he’d created for himself. He would always have that fear and knowledge that someone somewhere was more powerful than he: both coyotes threatening his family and norteamericanos bent on sending illegals back to Mexico. Perhaps a mixture of fear and joy would always dwell within him.

      The coyote led the men into a small office within the warehouse, pointing out a water fountain and a restroom for their use. Héctor fell in line behind others waiting for a drink. Never had water tasted and felt so refreshing and necessary. Héctor believed he could stand before the fountain and exhaust its supply. He splashed it on his face and the back of his neck and drank another sip before relinquishing his spot and moving into the office where the others gathered.

      When all the men were present within the office, another smuggler spoke to them. This one, young and hard-faced, held a file box. Héctor marveled at how efficient this system ran, how each coyote had a role and knew it well. The coyotes barely spoke to one another, as if they had done this procedure a thousand times. The vastness of their system impressed Héctor and he wondered if America held pockets of Mexicans living together, like little communities, little Mexican villages. Or did illegal immigrants keep their distance from one another, not wanting to gather, afraid to call attention to themselves? Did only the big American government discourage illegal immigrants, or did the gringos despise them, too?

      The young coyote said, “Here I have identifications for you all. We will move fast. I will call out destinations, and you raise your hand when you hear yours. These identification cards are American driver’s licenses, issued from various states. When I say the state you wish to go, you will move over here, and we will find you an identification card that most resembles you. You will then study it. Memorize it. Find a partner and test him on the facts. This will be your new identity, and if you slip up, even slightly, your asses will be back in Mexico. You will want to have something better made when you get where you are going.”

      He began calling states’ names. Some sounded familiar to Héctor. He glanced at Miguel and listened carefully for South Carolina. This is where we part, where our destinies diverge, he thought, looking about the room