CHAPTER 38
Stand straight. Be polite. Try not to attract too much attention.
Holding three books tightly to his chest, Santiago waits while Señor Dante convinces Herrera that Santiago does have permission to leave the big area with him.
“I have a letter from the board of directors saying that I can delegate one of the teen boys to join me for the story time.” Señor Dante shows the guard a letter. “I did this with Pablo a couple of days ago; today’s Santiago’s turn.”
“I don’t care about the letter. I’m saying we’re short staffed. I’m on my own at the moment, and there’s no spare guard to escort you two.”
“With all due respect, Señor Herrera,” Señor Dante says in Spanish with a slight edge to his voice. “What kind of trouble do you think he’s going to get into in the hallway? Neither of us can leave through the windowed door without getting buzzed through.”
“García’s a criminal.” Herrera spits on the floor. “You can’t expect me to trust him.”
The muscles around Santiago’s mouth twitch. A criminal? This guard should be locked up for his criminal treatment of them—kicking them and calling them names any chance he gets. Though he can’t remember, Santiago’s willing to bet Herrera was the one who kicked him in the back when he had hypothermia. But Santiago says nothing. Nothing to upset Herrera more and keep Santiago from reading to the kids.
But Señor Dante is not a “criminal”; even as their former teacher he has power. “Santiago is a refugee, not a criminal. And I’d advise you stop treating him and the others as such. Now, are you going to let us through, or do I need to contact your supervisor?”
Herrera’s jaw clenches. Tall and skinny like Santiago, Señor Dante is no match for Herrera, whose pimples don’t hide the fact that he’s been in fights before. But unlike Santiago, Señor Dante doesn’t falter under the threat.
The guard finally relents, scanning the pass around his neck to let them through the door.
“Thank you,” Señor Dante says courteously while Herrera scowls.
And as a final blow, Señor Dante places a hand on Santiago’s shoulder, fully violating the “no touching” rule, and guides him through the door. Part of Santiago cheers for Señor Dante. The other part wants to warn his compañeros to stay clear of Herrera today.
The hallway leads past several closed doors. At one point Santiago sees the windowed door that goes to the intake room, then to the office, and finally to freedom, if he could get through the gates before they shut on him again. So close.
They come across one person in the hallways: a tall, gringa-looking woman in a nice green-and-gold pantsuit that definitely isn’t part of a guard’s uniform.
“Señora Mariño.” The teacher greets the woman in Spanish with the traditional kiss on the cheek. “Still making deliveries?”
“Sadly, yes,” she says with a sigh, holding up two baby bottles full of milk. “I’m hoping this is the last day.”
“Good luck.”
As soon as she disappears into a room, Santiago asks, “What’s that about?”
Señor Dante takes his time answering but doesn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. “She’s an immigration lawyer. Every day for the last week she’s been delivering breast milk from her client to her client’s baby.”
“They took a baby away from her mother?”
“Everyone is separated.”
Like him and Alegría. Like Pablo, the boy who wanted to check on his brother.
Señor Dante stops walking and glances around to make sure they’re alone in the hallway. “Most of your compañeros were traveling alone, trying to escape violent drug gangs, political conflicts, or extreme poverty in their country; a lot have had to rely on no one but themselves.”
Gangs? Politics? Yeah, Guanaco, his Salvadoran friend, mentioned something like that. But most of the boys don’t talk about their past. Not that he hangs out with them to know. Sometimes, when Chismoso’s bored, he fills everyone in on arrival gossip—some boys get caught while trying to cross the border or very close to it; a few, like Santiago, are rescued from the desert; others come from different facilities, where they were housed in massive cages or tents. But a lot of the boys seem to come to the center because they turn themselves in at the border, in hopes of asylum.
The hallway remains empty, and Señor Dante continues in a lower voice. “But most of these younger kids we’re going to see were traveling with their parents, adults who shielded them from the horrors you well know. They get here, and suddenly they’re alone. They don’t know why, and they think they’ll never see their family again. No one takes care of them, and they feel like no one cares about them. That’s why this reading program is so important. To show we care.”
Santiago clenches the books tighter to his chest. It must have been horrible for Alegría. She wouldn’t have understood. Just like he hadn’t when Mami got taken away. “Why do they separate us?”
“Because they can.”
The little-kid area looks the same as the one for the older boys—one main room with doors to one side and access to the bathrooms. Like the older kids, they have no toys.
The main difference is the noise. Two kids scream nonstop. Several huddle against the walls crying hysterically. One boy stops banging his head against the door because they enter. And only some of the ten- or eleven-year-old boys (but no adults) do anything to console them.
“I can’t do this.” Santiago’s voice croaks. It’s too much. It’s one thing for Santiago to feel this pain—he’s used to it; he knows how to live through it. But these boys, some as young as three, away from their parents, being in this prison… It’s not right. They shouldn’t have to endure this.
Señor Dante grabs his hand. “I know—it’s heartrending. But for a half hour, as you said, you can help them forget and give them comfort they haven’t felt since their arrival.”
Santiago strokes the back of his book, the one Mami read to him. When Mami died, she left memories. Those memories still offer Santiago comfort all these years later. If anything, these boys need happy memories and comfort. Darn Señor Dante for always being right.
“Está bien. I’ll stay.”
More than fifty boys, ranging from three to eleven years old, notice the arrivals. They rush toward Señor Dante and Santiago in gray blurs.
“Walk!” one guard shouts.
“Stop it!” Another claps his hands in a poor attempt to maintain authority.
A third guard—they have three apparently, though could use several more—grabs one of the running boys by the arm and lifts him off the ground, hissing at him to stop being a pain in the behind. Except he doesn’t say “behind.” Whatever these guards are trained for, childcare isn’t it.
Señor Dante places one finger on his lips, raises the other hand in the air, and makes a V (or bunny ears) with his fingers. He waits patiently, and within five seconds the crowded room falls quiet as the boys sit on the hard floor. Even the two screamers and a couple of the criers cease their outbursts.
“Buenos días, chicos,” Señor Dante calls out.
“Buenos días, Señor Dante,” they respond, twitching and waiting in their spots.
“The other day we had Pablo, and today my friend Santiago will read to you. He also lives here in the center with you guys.” Señor Dante gestures toward him.
Santiago waves while the youngsters gawk at him like he’s a movie star. Heat rises up from the back of his neck. How embarrassing.
The kids divide into two groups: Santiago will read picture books to the younger kids in one area of their main room and Señor Dante a novel to the older ones.
Miraculously, they remain quiet, waiting. Santiago takes a deep breath.
He fumbles over the words in the first two pages of La princesa y el viento even though he knows the story by heart. The kids still stare at him. All thirty-some. He turns the book around and hides behind the cover while showing the boys the illustrations.
“Is this a girl’s book?” a four-year-old asks.
Santiago shakes his head. Maybe Llorón would listen now. “It’s a people’s book. Everyone can read it.”
The boy crawls closer. Santiago reads the next page perfectly. The boy continues to come closer and tries to climb into Santiago’s lap. Two others lean against his shoulder to get a better look at the pictures. Immediately, a guard is at their side.
“Get to the back,” the guard yells. “No touching.”
Santiago bites his lip. What he would give to have Alegría or his little cousins sitting on his lap during story time. How he misses that.
He rises to his knees and holds the book out so even the castigated boys in the back can see the illustrations and feel the story’s invisible embrace. From memory he recites the princess’s admonishment to the wind for scattering her villagers: “There’s no place you can send us where we won’t belong.”
He doesn’t know the other books by heart but makes sure to stop and point out illustration features for everyone to see. The lap climber somehow wiggles his way back to the front of the group through the course of three books.
“Again, again!” the boys call out when Santiago finishes the last book.
Santiago smiles and hugs the books to his chest. Comfort and escapism. He can do this. “I’ll be back—I promise.”