Ariana’s Determination

The beat-up, squat white rectangle of a bus slowed as it neared the north end of the village. The sun, risen only a half-hour earlier, reflected in gold and silver flecks off the plume of dust it kicked up. As it moved south, the shadow stretched away across the desert, warping into arroyos and momentarily darkening creosote, prickly pear and chollas.

Inside the bus, halfway along the aisle on the left, Ariana Grayson was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved pink shirt. The shirt was tucked into her jeans behind a narrow brown belt, the sleeves rolled to her mid-forearms. On her feet were comfortable white Nikes.

Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. When she let it down, it came to just above her shoulder blades.

She smiled tentatively and glanced around at the other passengers. And immediately felt a bit self-conscious.

Most of the other women on the bus were wearing dresses. Some with shoes, most with sandals. Only the men and one or two women, maybe, wore jeans or faded dungarees and shoes or boots.

Almost every seat was filled too, usually with two passengers on either side of the aisle. When she boarded in Nogales, she hadn’t noticed. She’d plopped her bag into the window seat, then seated herself next to it on the aisle. But none of the other passengers seemed to care.

Across the aisle was a plump, short woman in a faded, flowery dress. Her face was round and full, her upper lip covered with fine black hair. A worn straw hat sat on her head.

She was thirty-five? Maybe forty? It was difficult to tell.

Her black hair was streaked with grey, but of course, that was no indicator of age. Perhaps she’d had a difficult life. Save a few stray strands, the woman’s hair was pulled back along the side of her head into a small bun. It  lay beneath the brim of her hat on the back of her head.

On her lap she held a small cage with a live chicken inside. It rested on a straw nest. The woman didn’t return Ariana’s smile, or even notice. She was looking straight ahead, her eyes lifeless, apparently as bored as the chicken.

Next to her, a man slept. His body was angled away into the corner formed by the back of the seat and the inside wall of the bus. His thin brown face was graced with a long, thick, drooping moustache beneath a hawk-like nose. Conversely, there was almost no sign of hair on his right cheek and jawbone. The skin there was shiny and smooth.

Beads of sweat lay on his deeply lined forehead beneath his tangled black hair. He was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved light-blue sweat-stained shirt. A straw hat similar to the woman’s lay on his lap, his hands on the brim to either side of the crown.

Behind them, an obviously older woman in a dark grey dress sat next to the aisle. Her head was bowed beneath a full head of silver hair. It too was pulled back and gathered into a bun. Her fingers worked rhythmically as a pair of small knitting needles clacked together. On her lap lay what appeared to be a large white doily. The string fed regularly over the arm rest to her left.

So Ariana wasn’t the only passenger who was taking up two seats.

As the bus lurched over an irregularity in the dirt road, she turned back to the front.

In front of her were two young men, judging from their thick black hair and their unlined necks. One was wearing a light-blue shirt, the other a slate-grey. Neither wore a hat or cap. Maybe wearing headgear was an age thing down here. They seemed almost to be dancing, their shoulders and heads moving slightly in sync with the jostling bus.

Past them, slightly to the right, a large, ancient-looking wooden building came into view. It had been whitewashed at one time, but the wood showed through the faded paint.

She gripped the arm rest for balance and straightened in her seat. They were coming to their first town. Oh, it was all so exciting! 

2

A tentative smile on her face, Ariana put her hands on the back of the seat ahead of her and leaned forward.

The faded sign above the wide door of the barn-like structure was broken a little right from center. The two halves hung away from each other in an oddly formed chevron.

She focused, tried to remember her Spanish.

It seemed to read—something, Blacksmith Shop and—something else. There was a corral several yards to one side of the building. Livery Stable. It must be the old blacksmith shop and livery stable.

As the bus continued, she turned to the right in her seat, an eager smile on her face, to look through the window. In a reflex action, she reached with her left palm to wipe dust from the window.

The window leapt beneath her hand as the bus lurched.

She gripped the arm rest more tightly and reached again to wipe at the window. 

It did no good. Most of the dust was on the outside.

Still, she peered out as best she could, turning her head slightly to watch as the livery stable receded. The village, whatever it was named, was the first stop in what she was sure would prove to be an exciting journey.

Her parents had driven from Albuquerque to Nogales to see her off. They’d enjoyed an amiable breakfast with her at her hotel, during which they implored her, a final time, not to go. There were drug cartels in Mexico, they said. And gun runners. And people smugglers. And who knows, maybe even slave traders. Any of those would be more than happy to take advantage of a fresh-eyed 23 year old girl.

“But I am not a girl,” she insisted over a tight smile. With her chin jutted slightly toward her father, she said, “I am a woman.”

Her mother smiled the slightest bit. With pride, Ariana liked to think.

She was a woman, after all. And she was young and unencumbered. And her people had a history in Mexico and she longed to witness her ghosts first hand. Surely they must understand.

They didn’t.

But they drove her to the bus station. There, first her mother then her father blessed her with hugs and a kiss on the forehead.

Then with her father’s left arm draped protectively around her mother’s shoulders, they each raised a hand to bid her a safe journey.

Her last memory of them was her father’s fingers gently flexing on her mother’s left shoulder.

In wake of that memory, she glanced at the seat to her right. Her bag was there, her only companion. Over a tan, light-canvas base it was covered in happy, scrolling green vines and pretty pastel flowers in gentle shades. Inside were two skirts, two more pair of jeans and three button-up blouses similar to the pink one she was wearing.

There were also a few t-shirts in various colors and a pair of white leather thong sandals, as well as underwear, a few tubes of Chapstick, and some other incidentals.

The silver zipper raced along the length of the bag on a black strip and ducked into a corner over the top edge. The handles of the bag were comfortable rolled leather, one on either side of the zipper.

The livery stable some distance behind them, the bus slowed further as it pulled into town.

3

Excited, Ariana peered through the windows on her side of the bus. She wanted desperately to see what was on the other side of the street as well, but she chose not to stare past the passengers across the aisle. It might be considered rude.

Most of the buildings she could see from her side of the bus were of whitewashed, thick-walled adobe. Some even had sod or thatched roofs, but most were of wood planks. A few were covered with sheets of corrugated steel.

She had expected to see neat, covered boardwalks in front of the buildings. That’s what she most often saw in the movies filmed in these small villages. Neat boardwalks with thick cedar-post uprights every so often supporting a wooden roof covered with thatch or maybe thin wooden shingles. Perhaps even a covered boardwalk stretching from one block to the next through town.

The boardwalks were there, but they were open to sun and wind and rain. Well, if it ever rained. And they were worn, the wood splintered in places.

Still, even as early as it was, people, mostly men, were already out and about. They were gathered in small groups on corners or walking along the boardwalks. Most were dressed in the same way the people on the bus were dressed.

Most of the men wore jeans and western hats and snap-front or button-down shirts, and some wore the low-crown, rounded straw hats like those of the woman and man across the aisle. She didn’t see a traditional sombrero among them.  The few women were in dresses, either entering or exiting shops.

Most of the pedestrians glanced up or looked around as the bus eased by, perhaps as curious about the passengers as Ariana was about them.

She looked beyond the faces, from one building to the next.

But the shops! Almost every building had a glass window.

And almost every window was lettered with tattered, partial words in tired, faded paint.

There was a carniceria—a butcher shop. A white counter was partially visible inside, leading away from the front of the store.

There was a panadería—a bakery—and next door, a tortilleria, for the flat, unleavened bread so many favored.

Through one shop window, she caught sight of genuine leather belts and a display of silver buckles. There as a stack of brightly colored bandannas to one side, to filter the ever-present dust from the air.

Through another window, seemingly ancient, worn tables were stacked high with everything from leather boots to sombreros to western hats, serapes, blankets and rugs.

Through another, tables held folded jeans and shirts. On a display in that window there were also various sculpted clay pots and bowls.

On stands in a display through another window were guitars and mandolins.

In the glass cases in another were billfolds and checkbook covers and turquoise-and-silver necklaces, bracelets and earrings.

It was overwhelming.

She had originally planned to pass through the first several villages. But she should stay here at least one night. This village deserved exploration.

As if the driver read her mind, finally the old bus groaned to a shuddering stop at the only major intersection. On the corner on Ariana’s side of the bus was the first building she’d seen without a large window. The faded letters above the heavy arched doorway read Cantina. Across the street ahead of her was a hotel. And across the main street was the only freshly whitewashed building in town: the church.

After the dust cloud wafted past the front of the bus, the driver worked a lever to his right and the folding door squealed open.

4

Ariana picked up her bag and stood.

She looked around and waited, but none of the passengers behind her stirred.

When she looked to the front again, the two young men seated directly ahead of her were in the aisle and moving toward the front of the bus.

They had boarded immediately after she boarded in Nogales. Odd that they were getting off in the same small town.

The first man stopped and said something to the driver. Over the sound of the bus idling, she couldn’t quite make out what he said.

As she turned her head to smile again at the woman across the aisle with the chicken on her lap, in her periphery she thought the man talking with the driver gestured toward her.

It was probably nothing.

Beyond the woman with the chicken, the man was still scrunched in the corner, asleep.

The woman continued to stare straight ahead.

Ariana felt her own head cant slightly as she wondered whether she had said or done something to offend the woman, but she couldn’t remember any possible infraction.

Still smiling, she turned back to the front and sidestepped out into the aisle.

The driver, who was still seated, quickly turned his head back to the front.

The first young man was going down the steps of the bus.

Then the second young man stopped to talk with him.

Ariana looked at the driver. Was he looking at me?

But surely not. There was no reason.

The driver was wearing light khaki trousers that had been sharply creased at one time, a matching shirt without a tie, and a khaki, leather-brimmed visored cap.

As she made her way toward the front of the bus, the driver gestured and said something to the young man. Again, she couldn’t quite make it out.

The young man nodded and said, “Gracias, y veremos.”

Well, she knew what gracias meant.

The man turned away to start down the steps of the bus.

The driver, still sitting sideways in his seat, shifted his gaze toward her for a second.

His eyes seemed sad. At least she thought so.

But as she approached, he nodded, then grinned and said, “I think you are the only other one getting off here. I was just telling the young man, the bus will leave again in one half-hour.” He wagged his hand side to side in the air. “Give or take.”

As she had thought, it was nothing.

She smiled. “Thank you. I mean, gracias. But I’ll be staying here at least one night. When is the next bus due?”

The driver’s grin faded. “Ah, sí señorita, pero there is no other bus. Only me. Well, me and my brother.

“I drive the bus north through here each week on Thursday and then back to the south on Saturday—like today—at about the same time.” Again he wagged his hand side to side in the air. “You know.

“And then my brother, he drives the bus north on Monday and back to the south on Wednesday. We always come through here at about the same time, 6:30 or maybe 7.” He raised his right index finger. “And we always stop at this corner.”

He leaned forward. “Of course, we take Sunday off, alabe a Dios.” He crossed himself.

Ariana nodded, her smile still in place. “Gracias, señor. That’s perfect. I’ll stay here for a few days. Then I’ll catch the bus with your brother or you again going south.”

He wrinkled his brow. “But you are going farther south? Por qué? I mean, why?”

It was the first time anyone had shown interest in what she was doing. “Yes, far to the south. My great-grandfather’s friend, un Tejano, was the marshal in a fishing village a long time ago.” She shrugged. “I grew up on stories about him. I hope to see that village before I return home.”

“May I ask what was the name of the village?”

“Agua Perlado.”

“Ah, sí, sí. That is very far to the south indeed. And it is a dangerous trip. Please be very careful. We have a beautiful country here, but sometimes the people, they are not so beautiful.”

She laughed lightly and nodded. It was like having another dad. “I’ll be careful.” She raised one hand. “See you in a few days.”

He raised a hand as she turned and stepped down from the bus. Briefly, his thoughts turned to the two young men who had preceded her off the bus. Quietly, he said, “I hope so.”

5

Ariana decided to check into the hotel first, then explore the shops in town. Swinging her bag with her right hand, she crossed the street to the hotel.

When she walked through the double doors, a set of three small bells tinkled.

The clerk was on the near side of the desk. He was a gruff-looking, rotund man. He was dressed in dirty black slacks that slouched over scuffed black shoes that hadn’t seen polish in awhile. The formal appearance, such as it was, ended at his belt, which was also black but had faded and worn edges. Above that he wore a white ribbed a-frame undershirt.

When he looked around and saw her, he scowled, then walked through a small wooden gate to wait behind the counter.

As she crossed toward the desk, she appraised him further.

His face was round and puffy and red, with a few days’ growth of salt and pepper stubble. Horizontal lines seemed permanently and deeply etched into the fat on his forehead. He was bald save a salt and pepper fringe above his ears and a few long stray strands on top.

From the right corner of his mouth protruded a cigar he had clenched between his teeth. He was holding a fly swatter in his right hand, and as she crossed the lobby he swatted flies on the counter twice and swept them to the floor with his hand. In that time, he rotated the cigar three times with his tongue.

Even this early in the day, the temperature was nearing 90 degrees. Despite three overhead fans slowly rotating in the lobby, thick beads of sweat trickled among the hairs on his beefy neck and shoulder and chest.

When she got close to the desk, Ariana ran headlong into his body odor. She stopped cold, then took a half-step back. Her nose was scrunched up and her forehead wrinkled.

The man looked up before she could erase the look. “So you wanna room or not?”

“Are—I was just wondering, are there any other hotels in town?”

“No. This one is all. So you wanna room?”

For a moment, she considered. She could still get back on the bus and— But no. What was to say she wouldn’t have a similar problem the next time she wanted to stop?

She smiled. “Yes. Yes sir. I’d like a room for—” She paused and mentally counted the days. To continue south, she would have to wait a week. “For seven nights.”

“Ah, so that’s a week, eh?”

“Yes sir.”

He put his palms on the edge of the counter and leaned forward slightly, running his gaze over her from head to feet and back. Then he grinned. “Hey, you don’t gotta call me sir. We’re practically the same age, you an’ me. You’re stayin’ a week, eh?”

“Yes sir. I mean, yes. Probably.”

He quoted the price, then said, “In advance.”

She set her bag on the floor, unzipped it and took out a small clutch. As she dug the money out, he turned away and took a key from a box on the wall behind him.

When she put the money on the counter, he took it without counting it, then slapped the key on the counter. “That’ll be 208, up the stairs, left, room’s on the right.”

She reached for the key, then said, “So that’s in the back?”

He nodded.

“I—I’d rather have something overlooking the main road.”

“208. Take it or leave it. No refunds.”

She frowned. Why was he being so gruff? “I’ll take it.” She slapped the key, turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.

He watched closely as she walked away.

6

The room was carpeted with surprisingly thick carpet, but otherwise sparsely furnished. It had with a double bed, a small chest of drawers and a bedside table. On the table was an alarm clock with annoying, bright-blue luminescent numbers and a lamp. Across the room near the door was a small dressing table with a chair in the leg well.

Ariana pulled out the chair, then slipped her bag into the leg well and left to go shopping.

She shopped all morning. She had brought plenty of clothing with her, if she could locate a washing machine once a week or so. But after seeing the ladies on the bus, she thought it might be nice to buy a couple of dresses and maybe even a hat or two to protect her from the sun.

She selected two dresses, a plain peach-colored one and a dark green one, then two pair of shorts, both khaki, and a second pair of running shoes. She didn’t find a straw hat she liked, but she bought a bright yellow ball cap and a rose-colored t-shirt that caught her attention.

When she returned to her room in the early afternoon, she was exhausted, but her mind was racing. She needed a plan. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to visit the few remaining shops and maybe visit the historic-looking old church.

But the way the man downstairs acted bothered her. And that made her think back about the bus driver, him glancing at her as he was talking to the first man who got off the bus ahead of her.

Her father would approve of her growing paranoia, but she didn’t like it. She preferred to trust people until they gave her a reason to distrust them.

Still, she decided to follow the local custom, up to a point. She would nap during the hottest part of the day. Siesta, they called it. But she had a reason other than escaping the heat. She would stay up all night.  By tomorrow morning, she would know whether she had reason to worry.

For now, she laid her purchases neatly on the dressing table. She locked the door to her room, then took the chair from the dressing table and wedged the top of it under the door knob. After checking the window to be sure the latch was secure, she closed the thick red curtains and lay on the bed.

By 3 p.m. she was asleep.

She awoke with a start at 8 p.m. For a long moment, she stared at the ceiling, wondering where she was. When she remembered, she glance to the left.

The chair was still under the door. Across the room, the curtains were still closed.

Good.

With only a few hours of sleep, she was still exhausted, and groggy to boot. Surely a few more minutes of sleep wouldn’t hurt anything. Maybe another hour.

And the door and window were undisturbed. She’d get comfortable. If anyone was going to try anything, it wouldn’t be on the first night anyway.

She got up and turned down the quilt, tossing it to the end of the bed. The top sheet would be more than enough cover.

She stripped off her jeans, shirt and bra and tossed them onto the new clothes on the dressing table, then slipped under the top sheet.

The bottom sheet and pillow were cool on her skin, soothing.

She closed her eyes.

7

Ariana was still sleeping soundly when three men crept into the hallway opposite her door.

Two crouched quietly near the wall on the other side of the hall.

The third man knelt and slipped a standard wooden yard stick under the door. Putting the chair under the door knob was a typical tourist trick. The men in the hallway had long ago learned how to thwart it.

On his knees in the hallway outside the door, the man moved the stick cautiously side to side until it bumped against the left rear leg of the chair.

Then he withdrew it slightly, keeping pressure on one side of it, until he was able to center the end of the stick on the base of the leg. Then he adjusted the angle of the stick to the chair leg from 90 degrees down to around 30.

He paused, took a deep breath, then released it so he could listen.

He steadily increased the pressure on the end of the stick until, at last, the chair leg began to move to one side.

But he pushed too hard.

The back of the chair slipped a few inches and lightly scraped the door

The springs in the bed creaked as Ariana stirred and rolled onto her right side.

The man listened for a long moment. When no further sound was forthcoming, he inserted the yardstick again, located the other leg, and shoved.

The chair toppled over on its left side, landing on the soft carpet with hardly any sound.

Again the man waited for a moment, listening. Finally he took a passkey from his pocket, quietly unlocked the door, and let himself in.

The other men followed.

***

Less than ten minutes later, three men went down the back steps of the hotel into the alley. The one in the lead carried only a bag. It was tan and made of light canvas with leather handles. A floral design in pastel shades was imposed over scrolling green vines.

The two men in the back carried a larger burden. The casual observer would think they were carrying a rolled-up carpet, though on closer inspection he would find it was a quilt with a body inside. A living, breathing body that had been rendered calm through the liberal use of chloroform.

A black, windowless van was waiting.

The man in the lead paused at the base of the stairs. He looked up and down the alley.

Nothing moved, save an old cat that hung out across the street behind the cantina waiting for scraps.

Still watching, he raised his right hand and gestured for the other two to come ahead. Then he preceded them to the back of the van and opened both doors. He tossed the bag into the van along one side, then stepped around the door and walked along the passenger side of the van to get in. He would be a passenger tonight.

The second man put his end of the burden—the heavier end—in the van. Then he knelt and put his hands beneath the center of the quilt, pushing straight up to help his friend maneuver it in.

The third man grabbed the smaller end of the burden and lifted just as a heavy thump came on the passenger side of the van.

The second man straightened, forgetting his task, and frowned into the darkness. “Rodrigo? Siguendo, mi amigo? What’s going on?”

No response.

He looked at the third man, said, “Aw—José, empujarla! Shove her in!” and gestured angrily toward the bed of the van. Then he walked past the man to see what was going on.

A shadow detached itself from the area of the driver’s side rear tire. When the other man had passed José, the shadow launched.

A fist connected with José left temple.

He rebounded off the open door and sagged forward.

On the other side of the van, there was a distinctive crack followed by a yelp of pain. Then the van rocked again under the force of something again being slammed against it.

A moment later, José was bent forward, his face shoved hard against the floor of the van, his hands cuffed behind him.

The first shadow straightened, pulled a cell phone from his pocket and called the police.

The second shadow emerged from behind the van, two men walking ahead of him. One was limping badly.

The second man looked at the first. “You got these guys?”

The first man grinned. “Sí, sí.” He gestured toward the quilt. “Get her on her way home.”

The second man nodded, stooped, and picked up the quilt. He turned and carried it back upstairs.

Almost an hour later, Ariana, still a little woozy, was fully clothed in one of her new dresses. She was  sitting on her bed in her room.

A young Mexican man was sitting near the dressing table in the chair he’d picked up from the floor. His arms were crossed over his chest. A grin was plastered across his face.

She frowned at him. “What happened?”

“They took you.” He shrugged. “My brother and me, we got you back.”

“But how— Why— What happened?”

“Your father, he knows Francisco from the war.”

“Francisco?”

“The bus driver. He is my uncle. He called me in Nogales, asked if we might like a trip to Mexico. We said sure.”

“But—”

“When you got off, we would get off. When you got back on, we would get back on.” He shrugged again. “Simple.”

“Oh—okay. Okay, I understand.”

“So you will go north when my other uncle comes through on Monday. My brother and I will—”

“What? I’m not going back north.”

The grin vanished. “What? But—”

“I appreciate your help, but I set out for Agua Perlado, and I’m going to Agua Perlado. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some rest.”

He got up and walked to the door. In the hallway he looked back and frowned.

He was still frowning when she closed the door.

*******