caterwaul:
to utter long wailing sounds.
I didn’t go back to the fields. I couldn’t see the point. Instead, I chased after the van and watched it shrink and disappear down the road.
I wondered if they’d be thrown in jail or just sent back to Mexico. They hadn’t even collected their pay for the half day’s work. Neither, for that matter, had I.
The sun was still high. I figured I had a few hours before I’d have to find a safe place to sleep. My shoes were already worn to the treads. If they were tires, they’d have popped and sent me skidding off the road.
I wasn’t hitching. I was nothing. I wanted to be nothing. But only a few minutes after I started out, a truck pulled over, like magic, and waited on the side of the road in front of me. A low mournful sound that reflected my feelings came from it.
Sheep. The truck was full of them. I could see their fluffy backs through the slats. People say that sheep go, “Baaa,” but it’s much more plaintive than that. The beginning letter is an M, not a B. “Maaa,” they moan, calling for their mothers.
“You need a ride?” the driver yelled from the window. There were two children and a woman squeezed in beside him. The woman gave me a dirty look.
I nodded.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“He don’t talk!” the girl sneered.
As impolite as she was, she was right.
“He’s dumb,” the boy said. “A dummy.”
“This is the hottest June on record.” The driver ignored his rude kids. “And it’s going to be even hotter in Texas.”
Texas, I thought. South. But it was also east. I nodded.
“You’ll have to get in with the sheep. We don’t have no more room in here. If you can handle that, you’re on your way.”
Riding with sheep wasn’t as bad as I’d have thought. They smelled bad and made a racket, but they kept pretty much to themselves. Besides, the slats added a breeze and a place for me to pee when I had to go.
The sheep were not as polite. They just went where they stood. It made the ride a game of dodgeball. Still, I was better off than my Mexican friends. The van hadn’t had any windows.
We drove for a long time. The mountainous richness of Colorado gave way to nondescript highway, then endless desert and cactus. Texas, I thought. The biggest state. Home of cowboys, steak, concealed weapons, and the president my mom hated more than anyone on earth. It was not a place that attracted me.
Once it got dark, we pulled off the highway, and I watched the family go into a diner. They didn’t ask me to join them; they didn’t even check on me. To them I guess I was just one more sheep.
When I woke up, it was light. That kept happening. Dark and light. The truck was stopped. I was curled up next to a sheep, my head in its fluff. My stomach was growling. My hands were stinging again. I felt like I was about eighty years old.
The driver knocked on the slats. “We’re heading home,” he shouted. “You should wait here for your next ride.”
I gave the sheep a few good-bye pats. I hoped they wouldn’t end up on somebody’s table.
The truck rattled off. I waved at the family as they drove off, but I was pretty sure none of them looked back at me.