Part 12 (2/2)
She plucked out four packets, two white and two purple, then handed him the money. The little boy thanked her and ran off.
Don Fidencio shook his head. ”I never would have bought from that boy.”
”I know,” Socorro replied, ”but you got your Chiclets anyway.” She pulled open his s.h.i.+rt pocket and deposited the four packets.
Don Celestino helped him get to his feet before grabbing the plastic bag and his pouch. They were halfway to the terminal when Socorro stopped to look back.
”Your walker, Don Fidencio.”
His brother rushed over to get it for him.
”Leave it,” the old man said. ”I can make my way without it.” He continued to hobble along, his body leaning forward as if the walker were still in front of him.
”And if you fall?” Don Celestino moved the frame toward him.
”How's that going to happen, sitting inside a bus station?” he said. ”You two are worse than those women at the prison. I could walk fine before they left me with this thing.”
”What if you use the walker just for now and later I go buy you a new cane?” Socorro said.
”And where are you going to find a cane?”
”Anywhere, on the street or at the mercado, then you can have a brand-new one.”
The old man considered the girl's words.
”Then I can use just the cane and no more walker?”
”Yes, just the cane, no more with the walker,” Don Celestino said.
”And how do I know you won't make me use it again later?”
”We can give it to somebody or throw it away if you want.”
The old man leaned his weight back on the walker. ”This better not be a lie,” he said, ”just to fool an old man.”
Don Celestino held open the gla.s.s door, and his brother shuffled down the narrow hallway. A large gla.s.sed-in bulletin board covered the section of the wall that travelers were most likely to see upon arriving at this northern border. Pus.h.i.+ng the walker in a straight line required too much of the old man's attention for him to read any of the notices or catch a glimpse of the black-and-white photos of dead bodies strewn across the scrubland, one revealing only her face inside the unzipped body bag. Up ahead he could make out a sign directing them to their next stop, INMIGRACIoN INMIGRACIoN.
A digital clock was blinking in one corner of the small, dark office. Through a missing section of the blinds, Don Celestino could make out the desk and chair where somebody should have been sitting.
”The security guard says they have different hours every day,” Socorro said as she walked up. ”That we need to wait a few minutes, but if they left for lunch, it could also be later this afternoon.”
”And our papers to travel?”
Socorro answered with only a shrug.
Don Fidencio used the walker to steady himself as he stood up from one of the plastic chairs in the terminal. ”I can just imagine if when I was still working we had opened the post office only when we felt like it.”
”Where are you going?” his brother asked.
”I need to go make water, or do I need to ask your permission?” He pushed the walker ahead of him, taking one heavy step after another, as though he had one more acre to plow before the sun went down.
Don Celestino caught up with him as he was parking the walker to one side of the stairs. ”You're going to kill yourself going up there.”
”And tell me what choice I have,” Don Fidencio answered, then pointed back in the direction of the corded-off elevator. ”You want me to have an accident?”
He took a deep breath and, with his brother at his side, started climbing. There were eight steps between the ground floor and the first landing, and from there the staircase turned right and there was no telling how many more steps there were to the second floor. In between, a framed portrait of the Virgen de Guadalupe, adorned with a cl.u.s.ter of flickering candles and a display of plastic flowers set on a metal shelf, hung from the wall just above the landing. Below the shelf, a rusty padlock secured the collection box. Normally people about to travel to a nearby ranchito or as far away as Tuxtla Gutierrez would stop to ask the Virgen for providence on their journey, to keep their ailing mother alive until they were able to arrive, to keep the bus driver awake and alert, to keep any bandits from trying to stop the bus in the middle of the night, or just to keep the porters from searching through their modest packages for any valuables. But Don Fidencio asked her only to provide him with enough strength to make it up the remaining three steps to the landing, then the next flight, all of this without losing his balance and toppling backward down the steps, particularly because he could see himself getting entangled with his guide, who would most likely land on top of him, and then for sure he would crack open his old melon.
”That wasn't so bad,” Don Celestino said as they reached the landing.
The old man looked at him and then up at the Virgen's compa.s.sionate eyes. If he hadn't already asked her for so much, he would beg her to find something else for his brother to do; if he was going to fall, he preferred to do this unaccompanied. Instead, he leaned against the railing with both hands and tried to gather the strength he needed for the remaining eight steps.
After more than a minute of standing there and people having to step around them, Don Celestino grabbed him by the elbow. ”Ready?”
The old man yanked his arm away, again counted the steps leading to the second floor, and began climbing. He took the first three steps without thinking about them too much, simply lifting his right leg, pulling up his weaker leg to the same step, then repeating. His brother followed closely behind, ready to help should he need it. This time Don Fidencio kept his head down and focused on the motion of his legs and feet. He gripped the railing tighter when a young boy chased his sister up the stairs and they both brushed up against him. It was only a matter of time before he fell over: if his legs didn't give out on him, it would be on account of these people allowing their children to run loose like farm animals.
When they reached the second floor, Don Fidencio pushed open the gla.s.s door and then paused. He looked at his brother, standing next to him now. He knew there had to be a reason they had climbed all the way up the stairs. The girl, they had left downstairs, with the walker and the plastic bag full of medicines. The concession stand was downstairs. The guards were downstairs. The immigration office with no immigration officer was downstairs. He remembered it was urgent, whatever it was that had forced him up here. Why else risk his life climbing the stairs? A young man with white jeans and matching cowboy boots was walking toward him. He flapped his hands, then patted them dry on the sides of his jeans.
”And now what are you waiting for?” Don Celestino asked.
”I was just catching my breath.”
”You want me to go the rest of the way with you?”
”So I can use the toilet?” he said. ”No, I can go alone.”
”Are you sure?” He was still holding him by the arm.
”For what, you want to take it out for me?”
His brother released him, and the old man continued down the hall. If he knew anything about his body, the urge to relieve himself would return momentarily; it always did. That merciless pecan or peach seed, whatever it was, would see to it.
A middle-aged woman wearing a green smock sat on a bar stool just behind the turnstile that led into the men's and women's restrooms. Her dark bangs hung in an uneven line that reached almost low enough to hide her furrowed brow. From her expression, it seemed something bitter had lodged itself between her molars. On the turnstile sat a cigar box where she kept her large bills, some of which stuck out along the edges. In front of the box stood a set of tiny columns made up of centavos and a few smaller pesos that a sly hand would be less likely to want to make off with. Hanging from the turnstile, a cardboard sign announced the DOS PESOS DOS PESOS entry fee. entry fee.
”Buenos dias,” Don Fidencio said.
”Buenas tardes,” the woman corrected him.
He glanced at his watch and smiled at her.
”You wanted to use the services?”
”Only to freshen up a little before the long bus ride.”
She tapped on the cardboard sign.
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