Читать книгу Fleeing the Past - Christopher LaGrone - Страница 11

LAYNE SHEPPARD FOUND HIMSELF walking into rooms and struggling to remember the purpose of the trip. It had been too long since the long-term plan he had devised showed promise. The possibility that it might succeed was surreal and was affecting his concentration. He entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, pulled a can of beer from its plastic six-pack rings, then put the remaining four cans back and closed the door. He tapped the top of the can with his fingernail and moved to look back toward Fabiola. He stared blankly, daydreaming about the future . . . now that his plan might actually work. The television illuminated the darkness in the living room, and he turned off the kitchen light to enhance the ambiance. He liked the movie-theater feel with her. Looking over the couch at the television, he squinted and gritted his teeth slightly as he cracked the top to the can, trying to make as little noise as possible. Foam filled the rim and he quickly slurped the fragrant bubbles before they overflowed. Fabiola’s tiny apartment was cozy in the evening. This was his favorite part of the day, when nothing was required of him.

She didn’t react to him opening another beer; it was only his second since they had been home after work. Lying on the couch, she was too focused on the presidential debate to acknowledge what he was doing. Layne observed her staring at the politicians on the television screen while he continued to strategize; she couldn’t see him watching her. He knew a conversation was overdue, but he wasn’t going to initiate one unless he had no choice—that was, if the dream became reality.

His attention was gradually overtaken by the growing intensity of the standoff between the candidates. They looked prepared and polished. They stood with assertive posture, their hands resting on their podiums. Their suits were striking, tailored to perfection. They were going back and forth about illegal immigration, and they appeared to care sincerely about their differing positions on the issue.

Layne said, “Is it like this in Argentina, where they say they are gonna do all kinds of things and then do the complete opposite when they get elected?” Then he took a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, it’s pretty much the same,” Fabiola answered without turning to look at him.

He enjoyed hearing her speak, her accent entertaining to listen to. “Do you understand everything they’re saying?” Layne asked.

“For the most part. There are some words I don’t know.” Her eyes were still trained on the politicians behind their podiums; she was captivated. Layne decided to let her watch for a moment before trying again for conversation. But he quickly lost patience. He couldn’t listen to any discussion involving illegal immigration without voicing his opinion.

“I wish they would just round up all of the illegals and send them all down there to South America by where you’re from,” Layne stated with a grin, “so that it takes them longer to find their way all the way back up here again.”

Fabiola laughed a little. “That’s never going to happen.”

“Then they should build a wall from San Diego all the way to the Gulf of Mexico that the wetbacks can’t get over, and guard it with turret machine guns,” Layne pressed.

“Yeah, right.” Fabiola was trying to pay attention.

Layne walked over to sit on the couch and Fabiola curled into a fetal position to make room for him. He grabbed her feet and pulled them over his lap, then retrieved a coaster and sat his beer on the cheap coffee table next to her Yerba Mate bulb. He began pulling her socks off her tiny feet. She protested, but he ignored her and began rubbing them while she resumed her attention to the candidates sparring. He enjoyed their warmth.

The candidates looked like puppets, the puppeteer below the stage squaring each hand off against the other. When it was the Texas senator’s turn to respond, he retaliated to a slight from his opponent. The senator looked at his opposition as he began, then faced the audience. “The United States shares a twelve-hundred-mile border with Mexico, and it’s no secret that we have an enormous number of illegals coming into this country every day. Let’s be honest, the federal government has failed to secure our borders. Migrants are risking illegal entry because there’s a magnet attracting them, and that magnet is jobs—plain and simple. I’m being realistic. I don’t believe we can prevent illegals from coming into this country by use of force. I think the only way we can stop them is by removing the magnet that attracts them. If I’m elected President, I will see to it that we penalize employers who knowingly hire illegals, with a $5,000 fine and thirty days in jail for the first offense. And a $50,000 fine and a year in jail for the second offense.”

The audience clapped vigorously, and the Texas senator waited for the applause to fade before he continued. He faced his opponent again and said, “And you lose all credibility in my book because you hired illegals in your home, and you knew about it for six months before you did anything about it. The fact that you stand here and talk like you’re tough on illegal immigration is astounding to me.” The governor of Nevada shook his head and looked at his notes, fighting the urge to defend himself until the moderator called upon him. His accuser looked straight at him and added, “And you wouldn’t have done anything about it if the press hadn’t become aware of it.”

The television flashed and lit up the darkness in the room each time the camera angle changed. Layne withheld his comments until the highlights were over. Nevada’s chief executive smiled and paused for a second before he responded. “To the best of my knowledge, I don’t think I’ve ever hired an illegal in my life. So, I’m anxious to hear about your findings, because I think you’ve received bad information. As governor of Nevada, I have taken the initiative of empowering our state police to enforce immigration laws. When you were governor of Texas you were against building a fence. In fact, you put in place an additional magnet by offering $150,000 in college tuition credits to illegals. If anyone is a hypocrite in regards to illegal immigration . . . it’s you, sir.”

The other half of the audience clapped and cheered.

“It would be nice if they would follow through on fixing this mess,” Layne commented, “but as soon as one of them is in office they will do the complete opposite of what they said they would do.”

Fabiola didn’t respond, so he gripped her big toe with his thumb and forefinger and pulled, resulting in a satisfying hollow pop. Fabiola pulled her foot away.

“No me hagas mal!” she said, slightly angry.

Layne laughed and reached for her feet and pulled them back into his control to examine her light blue toenail polish. While she was trying to listen to the debate, he told her, “I said, ‘no me hagas mal’ to a Mexican guy at work the other day because you say that. He laughed and told some other Mexicans we work with, and they were mimicking me. They said if you want to tell someone ‘don’t hurt me’ you say ‘no hazlo!’”

Layne goaded her on. “What do people in Argentina think about Mexico?”

“We just think they’re uneducated and they listen to stupid music. We never really think about Mexico,” she said.

Layne added, “The problem is that they come over here and have anchor babies and multiply, then they become generational welfare recipients. They should let the women in if they’re forced to take birth control pills while they’re here, and I swear I wouldn’t mind seeing them.”

“Mexicans don’t take birth control; I’ve never met a Mexican girl in my life who is on birth control,” Fabiola said.

“Really?”

“Of course not. They say it’s because they’re Catholic. It’s not Catholic to take birth control, but it’s okay to take people’s tax money that had nothing to do with them being pregnant?” Fabiola said angrily. “It ticks me off because they make it harder for people like me to get a visa. I waited in line, and Mexicans just run across the border whenever they want to.”

“If I make it into the Border Patrol, I’m gonna kick some butt,” Layne spouted. “I’m tired of these cheaters coming here and making themselves at home—waving Mexican flags. They left Mexico because they couldn’t earn a living there, but they’re still proud of it? It makes no sense. And all the lousy construction workers—there’s so many of them that they’re not even trying to keep a low profile anymore. Every time I get gas, one of them is filling up his truck loaded with landscaping equipment.”

He didn’t mean to bring up his application to the Border Patrol; it had come out by accident during his rant. Fabiola became quiet. The last time he brought it up things became awkward until it blew over. At first the application didn’t matter to her because it seemed like such a long shot. But he had passed the written exam, and his first interview with a background investigator was approaching.

“When is your interview?” Fabiola asked.

“Two weeks from tomorrow,” Layne said briefly, regretting that he had brought it up.

Fabiola was quiet for a moment again.

He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but the timing was wrong; it would be too obvious. So he said, “It’s not likely that I’m gonna get it, Babe. I never thought I would even get this far. It’s so hard to become a federal agent. I’ve done some bad stuff when I was younger, and I have to get a Secret Security clearance. These background investigators can find out everything there is to know about you.”

Fabiola waited to respond again, then said, “Why are you even going through all this then if you don’t think you’re going to get the job?”

He struggled to think of a misleading reason, but all he could think to say was more truth. “Because my friend Chad from junior college knows this guy in Texas named Matt who made it all the way to the Border Patrol Academy, and he knows what to say to get through the hiring process.”

Fabiola listened carefully.

Layne continued because she didn’t comment. “Chad gave me his number and I’ve been talking to him on the phone.” He had never met Matt in person, but Chad had vouched for him.

“So, you’re going to lie to the investigator?” Fabiola asked.

“I’m not really gonna lie. I’m just gonna withhold information, like an attorney.”

“As long as you don’t involve me in anything.”

“Matt said that the background investigator will probably want to interview you, too,” Layne said, and cringed, unsure of what her reaction would be.

Fabiola sat up. “What? When?”

Layne became defensive. “I don’t know; he just said they might.”

“I don’t want to talk to any immigration people,” Fabiola said, in slight distress.

“He’s not immigration. He’s a background investigator, like an FBI Agent,” Layne explained.

“Layne!”

“You don’t have anything to hide, right?”

“Well, I was late filing some things last year, but I’m fine. I just don’t want to talk to those people unless I have no choice.”

“Don’t worry,” Layne said to try and calm her, but he sounded feeble after realizing his misstep. She was close to crying, and the situation wouldn’t allow for him to pretend he didn’t know why. If he were hired, he would have to go to the Border Patrol Academy in New Mexico for four months. If he graduated, he would be living somewhere near the border of Mexico. Her visa restricted her to the state of Colorado. He scrambled within for a way to soft-pedal the developments; it was imperative that he preserve his living arrangement with her. If he was forced to move, he might be stuck with six months to go on a lease when the call came to report to the Academy.

Layne remained silent while he weighed his options, eyes fixed on the television. Out of time, he had no alternative but to appease her. “Do you think you can get your visa changed so that you can come to Arizona with me, in the event that I make it? And be able to work there? I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Fabiola’s eyes smiled but her lips remained pursed. “I guess I could talk to my sponsor and see.”

He could tell by the way her posture had changed that she was pleased. He knew what she was thinking: If he was planning to bring her with him to Arizona it probably meant he intended to propose to her—federal employee or not.

The tension blew over and they resumed watching the debate. The governor from Nevada was retaliating to a jab from his accuser about amnesty and the E-Verify system. Layne commented in order to distract her from any questions about their future.

“No good wetbacks,” was all he could think of to say to change the subject.

“Why do you call them wetbacks?”

“That’s what they used to call illegals in Texas a long time ago, because the border in Texas is the Rio Grande River. So, they would be wet after they swam across.”

Fabiola laughed, uncurled her body and stood up to walk to the kitchen. She was wearing soccer shorts and an extra-large t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her legs were tan and smooth; she had removed her eye shadow and mascara when she changed out of her work clothes. Her sandy-blond hair was pulled back into a messy bun with bobby pins so that a few highlighted strands were dangling from the bunch in the back. He had been fascinated by her appearance since the day he met her. Before meeting her, he had thought that Hispanic people from south of the United States were invariably dark with black hair. Everything about her was foreign and exotic. The rhythm in her Argentine accent sounded like Italian to him and seemed to contradict her blue eyes. He often found himself staring when she was looking the other way.

From the couch he could hear the refrigerator door open. He realized it was only Tuesday and the second night this week he had brought home beer. His hangover from the weekend still lingered, prolonged by the beer he had tried to cure it with the night before. The remaining cans of Coors Original in the refrigerator were all that he had available to drink in the apartment. Four beers would be sufficient to take the edge off his discomfort, but six would eliminate the symptoms completely. But if she opened the refrigerator and saw that all the cans were gone it would mean a whole day of dirty looks.

He heard her close the refrigerator and then open a drawer. She still hadn’t said anything. Perhaps it was because of the conversation they’d just had. If she only knew the breadth of what he had in the works. The truth was that he had been methodically carrying out his plan for over a year before his friend Kurt introduced them to one another during a summer backyard house party.

Fabiola left the kitchen light on and came back into the living room with a fork and a bowl of something with noodles. She sat down on the couch and leaned against the armrest with her legs bent to her side as she began eating. He pretended to be absorbed in the debate. Under no circumstances could he allow himself to reveal the scope of what he was involved in.

After the attack on the World Trade Center, the President had created a hiring influx by demanding that Homeland Security double the amount of Border Patrol Agents on the southern border. An ever-increasing influx of illegals, and the rumors of large caravans coming through Mexico from other Central American countries, sustained the urgency. The hiring surge was also a response to concerns that terrorist organizations like Al-Qaeda were planning to sneak a weapon of mass destruction across the border, and that the Mexican drug cartels were sending tons of marijuana and other—more lethal—illegal drugs.

The Administration’s ambitious quota left DHS with no choice but to make modifications to the screening process in order to hire enough applicants within the allotted time frame. Most significant to the changes was the omission of the daunted polygraph examination, the barrier that dissuaded most people from applying who were otherwise qualified. When Layne learned that the lie detector test had been withdrawn it was his green light to begin work on the blueprint he had laid out. That meant he wouldn’t have to answer uncomfortable questions about his past—in particular, his dismissal from two college baseball programs and his shaky foray into minor league ball.

Not even his parents knew the entirety of his mission. He told people that he wanted the personal security of federal employment—a GL-11 Federal Agent earned $80,000 a year—but there were many dimensions to what he was after. He wanted to be taken care of—he knew that federal employees had excellent benefits, and unlike much of the private sector, there was bureaucracy that protected them from being fired. Among the most rewarding spoils would be an irrevocable sense of self-respect, a psychological watermark he would always be able to reference that would keep his mental health stable during doldrums. Deep inside he knew that the true test would be preventing himself from falling victim to his own weaknesses. He had spent the past seven years in search of a way to recapture the self-concept of his youth—the high of being the star player on a state championship team in high school, of being drafted by a major league team, of showing all those kids who made fun of him when he was younger. It was also a way to put his past failures behind him for good, to make his mom and dad, especially his dad, proud after disappointing them so often. The Border Patrol offered a way to attain all that was missing, with one daring endeavor.

After researching the details of the hiring influx he had returned to college for a semester to study in Mexico, primarily to learn Spanish. He foresaw that being a white male with the ability to read, write, and speak Spanish would ensure that he could handle the academic demands of the Academy, which would allow him to allocate the whole of his study time toward classes other than foreign language. The rest of the classes at the Academy wouldn’t stand in his way. He had been exposed to firearms at an early age and was an exceptional marksman. Matt had warned him that Physical Training would be torturous, and that it was responsible for the majority of trainees who dropped out. But Layne had been a college athlete, and he was certain that he could handle whatever they threw at him. Long distance running would be difficult, but allowing anything physical to stop him would be a sin. It would be close, but according to his calculations he could survive training and graduate to move on to Field Training at a station on the border.

His eyes remained fixed on the television screen, but his mind was busy envisioning his future: A house, a new truck, and a gorgeous wife preparing dinner for him. The phase of his plan that involved finding a Spanish-speaking girlfriend had fallen into place fortuitously. But the true hurdles still lay ahead—the first one being the interview with the background investigator in two weeks. Matt told him that if he simply omitted certain details about his past, the investigator would have no way of discovering what he needed to hide. Erasing facets of his past from his own consciousness was one more part of the final goal. After passing the written exam, he had resolved to clean up his act so as to fit into the role of the new life he was seeking. He had begun exercising and doing his best to avoid people and places that had been problematic.

Layne glanced at Fabiola. She had never witnessed his behavior when he was at his worst. She forked noodles and looked back at him watching her. She grinned—content, judging by the manner in which she chewed.

The debate broke for a series of commercials and she commented, “I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. I have to get one of the units ready to rent, and it’s disgusting. Those people aren’t getting their deposit back.”

“Uh-huh,” Layne replied, but he remained withdrawn. His cycle of thoughts moved on to the stage where he imagined what it would be like at the Academy and, if he could make it through, what the border would be like. He vowed to himself that he would become a new person—reborn through military-like discipline. It was his last chance. He was twenty-seven; there was no time left for failure. By any societal standard, he was behind. He had been too embarrassed to even consider appearing at his ten-year high school reunion. He should have had a wife, kids, and a good job by now.

Fabiola set her bowl on the table and looked at him. “You’re quiet tonight. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing, just thinking about who I’m gonna vote for,” Layne said. And as he said it, he dreamt about one day being able to tell people the truth. Whatever wrongs he had to commit in order to get there would have to be one last string of white lies to serve as a means to an end and put his life back on track.