My Given Name

Chapter 1

 

     The heat makes it hard to breath, or maybe it’s the tape over my mouth.

     The flimsy metal walls do nothing to prevent the Honduran sun from baking me in this stifling room. Sweat rolls down my back and pools at the base of the chair that has been my prison for hours. My thoughts swirl in the stench of unwashed bodies, unwashed clothes, and urine, and the room spins. Why did I follow my brothers to Honduras? Papa doesn’t even know I’m here.

     I inhale short gasps of air, and the acrid heat singes my nose hairs. Chairs sit empty beside me. The younger ones have all been taken away, in singles or pairs, twisting and screaming through the tape. I can still hear their cries, smell their fear. Or perhaps it is my own. I am the only one left.

     Help me, Lord. Save me.

    The two men return to the room and the tall man spits at my feet. “Waste of money, Tomas. Too old. No one wants a child over twelve.” I scream through the tape that I am seventeen, but the words are lost.

     The short one hums as he reaches for my cheek. “But he’s so beautiful. Let’s take some more pictures.” He rubs his hand up the side of my face as I try to pull away, try not to tip the chair over this time.

     The tall man scowls at Tomas and slaps my face. He zooms the camera in on my watery eyes, then pans to my red cheek, my shackled feet, and then to my hands tied behind the chair. “I’ll give him another hour. If no one takes him, Tomas, kill him.”

     As the tall man strides from the room, the short one rubs my cheek again. “But I don’t want to kill you,” he says as he looks into my eyes. “You’re too pretty.” Bile sours my stomach, but I force myself to hold still. It’s better than death.

     Tomas returns hours later with a pock-faced man who looks to be about thirty. I have soiled myself. Urine soaks my pants and drips into my socks. They took my shoes, my favorite shoes. Custom-made leather loafers from Brazil, a gift from Papa.

     The man’s eyes rest on my trousers as he scans me. He doesn’t comment. He lifts my elbows, slipping my bound hands over the back of the chair. Blood rushes to my head and my legs wobble. He holds me steady, then leads me out of the room, my wet pants cold against my inner thighs.

     When we reach the door, Tomas leans in close to my ear. “I will miss you, handsome boy.” The man holding me by the elbow scrunches up his face and shakes his head. A good sign.

     Once out of the room, the man introduces himself as Emilio, but he doesn’t ask my name. He hasn’t removed the tape from my mouth. Will he hit me? Touch me? Whatever he wants to do, I can’t stop him.

     My eyes blur and the walls fade. Instead of the heat, my skin tingles from icy winds. Alpacas push against me, thick with their winter coats. Slate gray mountains fill the horizon. The alpacas want to graze and struggle against me when I examine them. I nestle my head into their wooly necks and tell them it’s all right.

I lead the big male to the breeding shed. He doesn’t want to stop eating and curls his lips at me. We walk through the verdant fields of the valley toward the shed, and he leans his neck into my body and lets me lead him.

      The car door opens and the heat returns. Emilio leads me to a semi-truck. The door is up. I see flickers of movement inside the dark, cavernous space. Small sounds of rustling tickle my ears. Emilio faces me and rips the tape off my mouth, the sting causing my eyes to water once again. He turns me and frees my hands from behind my back.

     “Ride in the truck.” He hands me a pager with a little screen. “If the air goes out, hit one and send to let me know.” Why does he need me to do this? But it is a purpose, a reason for him to keep me alive. It could be worse. He does not hit me. Or touch me. I take the pager, look it over, see the one button, and the send button. I look back at Emilio and nod.

     He motions up into the truck, and I climb in.

     People huddle near each other at the far end. A small step delineates their space. I might not have noticed it at all if I had been wearing shoes. All but two of the men and all the women and children sit on the truck floor. Packaged crackers and water bottles crowd around their feet.

Emilio looks at each of the people gathered there, then nods. “We will be in Laredo in three days. No talking when the truck is not moving.”

     Laredo? Three days? I look around. No one else seems concerned about this. Which Laredo? Probably not the one in my country, in Peru. Laredo, Mexico? Laredo, Texas? I am still in La Ceiba, Honduras; How far can we get in three days?

     Emilio backs out and whistles. Another man jumps in the truck with a ladder and a drill. They lift a sheet of metal off the floor and towards our space. The whine of the drill starts, and I watch as the wall pulls tight to the sides of the truck and encloses us in darkness. A child whimpers behind me. I reach out and press my hand against the new wall. It doesn’t budge. I sit and lean against it.

     The standing men stumble over legs and backpacks and water bottles to join me leaning against the new wall. They are darker blotches in a dark space, and I reach out my hand, so they won’t sit on me. I can hear the others breathing, rapid intakes of air. Who did I see before the darkness descended? I picture them each, twelve others, thirteen including myself. Too many for this space. Thirteen too many.

     A low rumble starts, and cool air brushes against my face. If the air goes out, I am to hit one and send. Because if the air goes out, we will suffocate. We will die. I clutch the little pager in my hand.

Three days is a long time to sit. A long time without a meal, without a toilet, without a bed. Can I make it? Do I have a choice? The man next to me leans against me. The rustle of a package turns my head. I strain my eyes to make out the shape of a mother and child. The crackle of a plastic water bottle echoes against the walls. The salty scent of urine drifts in the air.

     A cell phone lights up a corner where a mother sits with her three daughters. She fusses over them, runs her fingers through their hair, rubs their backs, and smiles into their eyes. The girls lean against her. She wraps her arms around them and pulls them close. She touches her phone, and we sit in darkness.

     A mother. I don’t remember mine. Papa said I was three and cried for days, that I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t coming back. Instead of my mother’s face, I see Maria in the kitchen as she cooked for us. The aroma of soup stock, sizzling chicken, and sauteed onions momentarily overcomes the stench of the truck.

     Light bursts forth from the two young men across from me. They are about my age and sit close together, brothers by the looks of it. They nudge each other and grin as they stare at the phone. They lean against each other and whisper, sigh and share their crackers, then let their phone go dark.

     Do I look like my brothers? Branson, maybe, my mother’s only other child. I don’t look like Louisa’s boys, my father’s other sons. I don’t act like them either. Heat rises to my face and my breath comes faster. How could they have done this?

     I stare at the shape in the corner, trying to make my eyes see the person I know is there. Suddenly a phone brings light to the truck, and we are staring at each other. His face is leather, his arms tanned and scarred. Worn boots jut from thick work pants. He stares at my socks for a long time before taking in my linen pants and cotton shirt. When he reaches my face, his eyebrows lift before he tips his battered hat over his eyes, lowering his head.

     Darkness encases us again, even darker after the light. When I shut my eyes, all I see is my brothers. Santiago and Javier come up behind me in the hotel where I found them. I was relieved they were okay and concerned they had gone to the island without alerting Papa.

     Please, someone turn on their phone and take these visions from me.

     Santiago throws his arm over my shoulder. “Well, looks like our baby brother found us. Do you think he saw us in one of his dreams?” His lips are curls and his eyes are black. Javier stands close to my other side as they walk me to the elevator. When the door shuts, Santiago punches me in the stomach.

     “Ease up, Santiago. You know he will tell Papa about this, like he always does.”

     “Maybe we won’t give him the chance.”

     I open my eyes and blink in the darkness. The pager sits heavy in my hand. A purpose. Let Emilio know if the air goes out. Keep those of us concealed here alive.

     After the wall was up, they loaded the truck - footsteps and voices and the metal screech of wheels on the truck floor. The noises become muffled as the truck filled. How long would it take them to unload it? If the air did go out, would Emilio have to unload the truck by himself? He would have to drive somewhere first. It could be hours.

     Lord, help me.

     The scrapes on my hands amplify the coolness of the air, scrapes from Javier ripping the watch from my wrist, scapes from the cords that held me bound to a chair. I touch the tender skin and see Javier’s smirk as he yanked on the watch. “Not so special now, are you?”

     Papa didn’t give any of them a diamond encrusted watch, just me, his favorite son. Touching that watch reminded me of my father’s love. Now, all I remember is the hatred in my brothers’ eyes. I concentrate on the sensation of the air instead. If I can feel the cool air, we are okay. If I can’t, I will press one and send. As I focus on my wrist, the rhythmic rumble of the tires, the hum of the air compressor, and the sway of the truck on the paved roads lulls me into sleep.