Whom The River Separates

In the offing, the river and the sky melded together, and the branches of the trees that swayed with the tide seemed to stand motionless in the dark clusters of muddy water. “Keep quiet,” the coyote whispered in Spanish “If they hear us, we are done.” As they swiftly made their way along the bank of the Rio Grande, the dry forest turned to grass and from grass to weeds and dirt. 

Nearing the shore, the man began to see the discarded items of the many who passed before him; shattered beer bottles, dusted t-shirts, half-eaten candy bars, stiff diapers, dirt-buried bead necklaces, and polaroids of young children. When the man looked up and shined his flashlight at a tree, his gut twisted: a grey teddy bear was nailed to the Palmera’s bark—“For a child lost,” the coyote hushed to the man.   

Across the river, hairballs of razor wire with a tiny opening lined the shores, protecting the same pale shrub. The coyote nudged him to move along: “This way” — through a hole in the bush and onto a mud bluff. “Be silent at all times, and turn your flashlight off. This land is watched. Cross the Rio, over the buoys, to the Texas bank, and walk straight till you arrive at the water tower,” the coyote murmured, then turned around, vanishing into the shadows of the trees. 

The man crept into the water. The cold stung, his toes curled, and his arm tensed as he stepped in the slosh, lowering with each lunge until his father’s wooden cross floated. He jumped, and an abrupt sound came from behind him: a clang of rummaging glass and cans. He turned around, facing a dim shine that pointed toward him; like a Hemingway character, a white-bearded man held a flashlight. “You, in the water, be careful. Be careful,” he called, returning his flashlight to a pile of trash that he began sorting. 

Blotted out by the night, he trudged straight ahead. Each pace grew heavy — the mud grabbed his ankles. “Cross the Rio, to the Texas bank. Walk straight to the white water tower,” he thought; “Cross the Rio.” As he inched forward from the darkness, a neon orange from the giant softball-like buoys emerged. He grabbed a hold of the buoys, raising his neck out of the water, clutching his cross, and diving under to the other side. 

Gasping for his breath, he jumped out of the water and rested upon the buoy’s plastic side. Except for his faint pants, there was no sound in the night as he leaned there. Yet, the ripples from his splash turned into small swishes; soon, the water vibrated at the muted throb of an engine. Brighter and brighter gloomy yellow lights that swayed left and right down the river slowly augmented. 

Run. The man plunged back into the water, flopping his arms against the river’s surface. Brighter: the lights in the distance gleamed. Faster: the man waded in the darkness. Louder: the boat’s rev hummed. Larger: the name “UVALDE” on a white water tower appeared in the distance. 

As the tower enlarged, a swath of sounds amplified from his right: frantic splashing, muffled coughs, and a wailing cry. Illuminated by the backdrop of searchlights, a woman’s mouth peeked out, and a baby’s head bobbled above the water. She gargled in Spanish, “Señor, help us! My son and I cannot swim.” The speed boat whose black hull read ICE neared. “Please señor, help!” He had paid the coyote five thousand dollars. He had waited at the Ciudad de Canatlan, Mexico, for six months. He had walked five hundred miles. “Please señor!” He looked at the mother, the drowning boy. The boat. 

The man pushed forward, through the river, and onto the shore, forcing himself through the bundles of razor wire. He ran until the engulfing lights behind him dissipated into the night. “UVALDE” drew close, but he urged to see the woman and child still floating in the river. He walked back to the shore: he saw darkness, nothing more. He wanted to search for them, but his journey was almost over. Turning around, the man once more faced the white tower.

He walked.