Irma bent down and circled an arm around Bill Gastner’s shoulders. “There’s one more piece of pie, if you want it. And I put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
“What a sweetheart,” Gastner said.
Madelyn Bolles relaxed in the rocker, watching the various ceremonies of departure. At one point, as Estelle passed close by to retrieve her mother’s shawl, the writer leaned forward, reaching out a hand. “I should be heading back,” she said. “Are you on call tonight?”
Estelle laughed. “I’m always on call.”
“And what happens if your husband is called out at the same time?”
“Without Irma, the whole thing would collapse,” Estelle replied. “She’s on call, too.”
“You’re most fortunate,” Madelyn observed. “She seems like a wonderful girl.”
“Indeed she is, and we’re most fortunate. If she ever leaves, I quit.”
“Is she married? A family of her own?”
“Not yet. She has a lonnnnnnng-suffering boyfriend who has the market cornered on patience. But the time will come. We’ll be happy for her and feel desolate at the same time.”
“You’d give up your job?”
“Sure.” Estelle surprised herself with how quickly the single word came out. Certainly, the thought had crossed her mind, but it had always been pushed back into some quiet corner, not to be discussed. The ache that still crept in and entwined itself around her right rib cage served as a reminder of how quickly a comfortable life could be disrupted-even destroyed.
Madelyn eased herself out of her chair and stepped to the piano. She opened the keyboard cover and stood for a moment as if counting the keys to make sure they were still all there.
“Do you play?” Estelle asked.
“Not so you’d notice,” Madelyn replied. “I know the names of all the notes. On a good day, I can play ‘Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater’ without making a mistake. How many hours a day does he practice?”
“I don’t know how to count what’s practice and what’s play,” Estelle said. “He’s at the keyboard one way or another for five or six hours a day. Sometimes more.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Madelyn bent down and inspected the keyboard. “How does a little kid work here for six hours a day and yet the keys stay so clean?”
“Ah, well,” Estelle said, folding the shawl over her arm. “That’s one of his little quirks. He never has to be reminded to wash his hands for the piano. For eating, yes. For the piano, no. It’s all the more remarkable since his other passion is grubbing outside in the dirt with his brother. They have an enormous excavation going on out back. I think they’re trying to make a scale model of an open-pit copper mine.”
“Huh,” Madelyn said thoughtfully. She lowered the keyboard cover. “He likes school?”
“He’s passionate about it,” Estelle said. “For everything except music, if you can imagine. He’s not fond of the teacher, but they only meet twice a week, so he endures.”
“That must be a trial, perhaps for both,” Madelyn mused.
“I’m sure it is, and probably more so for her. Right now, she’s trying to teach them to play those little plastic recorders.”
“We used to call them tonettes?”
“That’s it. Francisco can’t abide them.” She held up her mother’s shawl. “I’ll be back out in a minute. Bill and I need to talk, and you’re welcome to join us. You might find it interesting.”
“If I’m not intruding, although I have to admit I’m pooped.”
“You’re not intruding. Remember our agreement.” Estelle smiled. “I’ll tell you when you are.”
“Done deal,” Madelyn said.
In a few moments, with Irma gone home, the two youngsters and their grandmother in bed, and Francis working in his office in the back bedroom, Estelle, Bill Gastner, and Madelyn Bolles settled once more in the dining room. Only, the former sheriff indulged in more coffee and the remaining piece of dessert, and he focused on it as Estelle reviewed the events of the afternoon.
“You know,” he said, placing the empty dish on the table, “in my own cowardly way, I always hoped that Father Anselmo wouldn’t muck things up until after I retired. He did a pretty good job. It’s amazing that he’s been able to run in folks for so long without something going wrong.”
Estelle looked at the former sheriff with astonishment.
“Well, yes, I knew,” Gastner said without waiting to be asked. “Well,” he backtracked, “I sorta knew, you could say. And I think you did, too. After all, the church is never locked. I know for a fact that the Border Patrol checks once in a while, but they’re careful.…They have enough bad press as it is without getting the reputation for raiding churches. Anyway, Regál isn’t one of their points of concern. Never has been. The mountain makes a pretty good fence, unless you know how to use it. A little advice from a person who knows the country can be a big help.” He shrugged.
“The border fence runs about a mile to the west from the crossing, then that big bluff of rocks crosses the border, kind of on a northeast-southwest line. The fence looks like it goes up and over, but it doesn’t. So you can skirt around the end, and follow the trail through the rocks. You come down right behind Joe Baca’s place-if you don’t get lost.”
“They do this at night?” Madelyn asked.
“Most of the time. Late evening, I’m guessing. A little light makes it easy for them, hard for the Border Patrol. You can hear a chopper coming from miles away. It doesn’t take much to hide in the rocks. But you know,” and he hunched forward, resting his thick forearms on the table, “that’s not the issue. Crossing the border isn’t difficult in a bazillion places.” He looked up and grinned. “It’s like a dog chasing a goddamn truck.…Chasing a truck isn’t hard. But what does he do when he finally catches it? You get across the fence, and then what?” He sipped his coffee. “If they had a place to rest for a bit, and then someplace all arranged to work, and a way to get to work, then it’s easy.”
“But it’s starting to look as if he has the whole village involved in this,” Estelle said. “They must know what’s going on, at the very least. It isn’t just providing sanctuary at the iglesia once in a while for an illegal or two. They’re sponsoring illegals, padrino. A handful comes in, as far as I can tell, and they mix in during a church ceremony of some kind. This next week-in fact tomorrow-it’s Fernando and Maria Rivera’s seventy-fifth wedding anniversary. And then I wouldn’t be surprised if a few folks agree to drive the illegals to either a place of employment, or at least on up the road where hitchhikers don’t raise eyebrows. That’s what’s happening. They have their own little railroad organized.”
“I’m not surprised. You have a whole village working together, you can get a lot done.” He grinned and hitched himself sideways in his chair. “That idea isn’t original with me, by the way.”
He leaned forward, reached out and tilted his cup, then pushed himself away from the table and padded over to the coffeepot. “You know how easy it is to cross to Regál,” he said as he returned to the table with a refill. “Anywhere else is a hell of a hike. But climbing up into the hills to skirt the fence, hell, that’s not hard. Or hitching a ride through the gate with a willing resident? That’s not hard, either, especially if the right person is working the crossing on our side. Their side isn’t the issue.”
“Is it fair to say,” Madelyn Bolles said, “that not everyone around here is concerned about illegals coming into the country?”
“Very fair,” Gastner replied, spreading his hands wide. “And on the other hand, to some folks it’s the biggest goddamn threat this side of ten-dollar gasoline. ‘You can’t let all them damn greasers into this country, or first thing you know, one of ’em will want to marry my sister.’” He shrugged. “Then there’s the other extreme, those folks who say anybody should be able to work and live anywhere, without any goddamn fences or border checkpoints, or brown shirts standing around with machine guns asking you, ‘Where are your papers?’”