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Border Windfalls

Sarah Mallery

        Surrounding the main quad at Sunford College, brick buildings stood coated with ivy so thick the windows looked more like square holes chiseled into a Chia Pet than double-hung windows. From there, bored students could look out daydreaming while frittering away precious classroom time. Below them, narrow pathways gently twisted and turned through a staid campus, reminding one of an English university rather than a small United States college, and indeed, in 1968, Sunford might as well have been nestled in another country. No anti-Vietnam demonstrations or Civil Rights movements here; only conservative children of even more conservative business families, pretending to get a “well-rounded” education and in the meantime, spending their parents’ money as fast as they could.
    Peter Rosen’s view on education, however, contrasted sharply from his colleagues and in particular, his roommate Jack Reinhold. No two people could have been more different. Jack descended from a Texas oil-rich family, while Peter’s parents were hard-working, lower middle-class, and being Jewish, slightly insecure about their son’s enrollment in so Waspy an institution. But Peter had won a full scholarship, and that was that.
    “Jesus Christ, Peter, why do you have to pound the books all day, huh?” Jack’s boisterous voice always broke Peter’s concentration.
    “Listen, I’ve got a chemistry test tomorrow, if you don’t mind! Some people have to work hard to get good grades....” Peter teetered on the verge of another tirade about not having a rich daddy to bail him out, but thought better of it and stopped.
    “Peter, someday you’re gonna regret not playing with me and my pals. Life’s too short, you know?” Changing into his tennis outfit, Jack warbled a low whistle, then bounded out of the room, slamming the door shut and sending several of Peter’s papers flying.
    “He really thinks he’s God’s gift...” Peter grumbled, snatching up the strewn papers that had littered the floor of their small dorm room floor.
    As much as he tried, he couldn’t help it; he was bitter. Why not? Things were always so easy for people like Jack. Was it because he was from a wealthy family? No, not just that. After all, Leonard Kaufman down the hall—his father was fabulously rich, yet he was a complete nerd—nothing ever went right for him. Peter chuckled at the thought of Leonard trying to be social at the college cafeteria; it was not a pretty sight. He sighed and looked down at Jack on the quad talking to a co-ed before settling down to a long study session.
    Four years later in medical school, he was still studying hard, still much too serious, and still completely different from Jack. “Come on, Rosen, you’ll never save the world, you know,” everyone laughed. But Peter was not only going to be a good surgeon, he was also really going to contribute to society.
    However, picking out a specialty proved difficult—too many things competed for his attention, and indeed, if his Aunt Sophie hadn’t been sent to the hospital for extreme dehydration due to a recent bout of influenza, he might never have decided at all.
    “Dahlink, I expect you to come visit me here at the hospital. Now, come tomorrow... that’d be nice,” she commanded over the phone, unwilling to wait for any kind of response. Click.
    The next day, as the elderly woman nodded off in her bed, Peter was itching to go, but he knew if he actually got up to leave without saying good-bye, there would be Hell-To-Pay. Instead, he picked up a copy of “National Geographic” and started thumbing through it, flipping the pages in time to the rhythmic, gravelly sound of Aunt Sophie’s snoring.
    God, these articles could be so much more interesting, he sighed, alternating between glancing at the pictures and checking out Aunt Sophie’s progress towards waking up. The photos are really spectacular. If only the articles gave you more detail. If only....
    On the spreadsheet in front of him was a little boy, displaying a horrendously disfiguring harelip and cleft palate. Staring forlornly into the camera, his tears had been caught mid-slide on his cheeks, frozen forever in the photograph, but that wasn’t all. Behind him, several townspeople had been captured as well, but instead of sadness, their faces were suspended into sneers and taunts.
    Children born with this condition, the article stated, not only had to contend with a real physical problem, they had to deal with people who thought their malady was the sign of the Devil himself. According to local custom, they weren’t allowed to live a normal life; indeed, they were to be constantly punished, or at the very least, not permitted to go to school for fear of contaminating the other students.
    Peter could feel his energy being drawn out of his body and siphoned onto the page. This was his answer: he would specialize in plastic surgery and eventually try to set up a small clinic to repair some of nature’s damage to these poor unfortunates.
    But nobody took him seriously. Sure, sure, they all snickered. You’re doing this not for the tremendous-amounts-of-money-you-could-get-doing lipo-suction, but rather for the good of small children. Yeah, sure. Tell us another one, Rosen. His parents were no help, either. They were more than ecstatic—their son, the Beverly Hills millionaire plastic surgeon—how could they go wrong?! Their finances as well as status would go up in the world once he became a full-fledged doctor—what a godsend!!
    But in his first year as a doctor, Peter chose a research position at a plastic surgery clinic in El Paso, Texas, where the job description included some hands-on experience as a craniofacial surgeon, dealing mostly with harelips and cleft palates. His salary was much lower than expected, and he didn’t seem to even care about liposuction or face-lifts where the real money was. His parents were stunned.
    The head surgeon at Peter’s clinic remained adamant. “Listen, Rosen, I know you are hoping for extra funding for your harelip projects in Latin America, but just forget it. This is 1980, with a Republican president; they’re not receptive to your convictions. If you have to pick an unpopular cause, why don’t you spend your time researching this new virus that seems to be killing homosexuals? Nobody cares about your kids from other countries. Take my advice on this, I know what I’m talking about.”
    Peter slunk home, devastated. It must be my touch, the non-Jack-Reinhold-touch he ruminated. Suddenly he wondered what the rogue was up to. How was his life turning out? He switched on his television for the evening news, then walked over to his refrigerator to pull out a frozen turkey T.V. dinner. He was examining the back of the package when he heard a voice that propelled him 180 degrees to face the television.
    “....Tell me, Mr. Reinhold, how can you account for this remarkable turn-around in your newly acquired cable station in El Paso? Ever since you took over three years ago, the rating charts have sky-rocketed, with everyone talking about record sales. Tell me, isn’t it true your “Give-A-Kid-A-Wallet campaign has been the main reason for this?”
    Jack Reinhold smiled deftly and leaned into the microphone. “Well, yes, the program has been a success. Give a child a wallet and they’ll try to put something into it, I always say. Makes them get out there and work hard. Thanks much, and have a great day.” Slipping into his brand new Porsche 911, he was off and running.
    All the years of hard work and frustration finally caught up with Peter. “Goddamit!” he screamed as he hurled a slipper at the TV. “ It’s time I had some of <>Imy goals realized! I’m a good person, I work hard. Why the hell can’t I get successful?!!....Give a Kid a Wallet! Give a Kid A Wallet! What about my kids?! How about their lives?!” Pounding his fist against the kitchen counter, he watched turkey, gravied mashed potatoes, and peas catapult across the room.
    That night in bed, images of Jack standing over him, laughing, made sleep impossible, but eventually, as the night sky shifted from pitch black to a soft, milky gray, he drifted off, his mind made up.
    “WBBQ Cable network, Jack Reinhold, Managing Director,” a receptionist’s reedy voice warbled over the phone.
    “Yes, I’d like to talk to Jack Reinhold, please.” Suddenly, Peter was very nervous.
    “I’m afraid he’s in a meeting. Whom shall I say is calling?” Her pinched tone was beginning to lodge itself just beneath his skin.
    “Just tell him a very old friend from college is on the phone.”
    “What friend? What is your name, sir?” The tone chilled considerably. The hell with her.
    “Look, tell Jack, Peter Rosen called, and have him call me back.” He hung up, sorry he had called.
    He only half-expected an answer back; people like him never commanded one. Instead, he spent his nights at a nearby library, studying South American cultures, with their remarkable herbal medicines, and their abhorrence for harelips and clef palates. The more articles he read, the stronger the gravitational pull lured him in towards these abandoned and abused children.
    Two weeks later, an invitation arrived in the mail: “WBBQ Station cordially invites you to a cocktail party honoring Jack Reinhold, Managing Director. Please RSVP by January 20, 1980.” Annoyed that there was no personal note to him, he was about to flip it into the waste paper basket when he caught sight of a few scribbled words on the back:
    “Hey, buddy, great to hear from you.
    Please come, okay? Best, Jack.”

    He felt curiously reaffirmed, as if his own father had placed a loving arm around his shoulders, telling him what a good boy he had been and how much he was admired.
    The Maitre D’ Restaurant was old-world, elegant, and obviously expensive. Silver trays of champagne-filled fluted crystal glasses floated throughout the “Chateau Room” on the finger tips of well-dressed waiters, while caviar canapes made their way into executives’ mouths, and plush carpeting muted the sounds of business deals being solidified.
    Peter tried to juggle a canape-filled plate and napkin along with his second glass of champagne as he scoured the room for his old roommate. When he spotted him from across the buffet tables, he thought, same old Jack: handsome, albeit with a slight receding hairline, but still vital as he extended his large, masculine hand out to everyone in passing.
    Peter smiled in spite of himself. This man really had it all. Then Jack caught sight of him. Waving his right arm wildly, he shouted, “Hey Peter! Wait there, I’m comin’ over!” By the time he had reached the doctor, his simple bear hug made Peter feel truly welcomed.
    “What a surprise to hear from you! Frankly, Rosen, I thought you hated my guts. I’m so glad! When this is all over, I want you to come to my apartment to catch up on old times, okay?”
    Peter nodded, excited at finally being accepted. But after the party, as he entered Jack’s apartment, his insecurities instantly surfaced. A glass and chrome coffee table lay on top of the most plush cream-colored textured carpeting he had ever seen. Light tan leather sofas, accessorized by woven Guatemalan throw pillows and a collection of antique sailboat models on various Stickley side tables, completed a picture of confirmed bachelorhood and good taste. Peter was totally intimidated.
    “Hey, buddy. Have a drink and let’s catch up.” Jack handed his ex-roommate a thick-walled tumbler of Jack Daniels-over-ice and motioned for them both to sit down.
    “So what in the world have you been up to these last few years, huh? Still in medicine? Still so serious? Talk.”
    Not inclined to spill his guts, Peter hesitated. But a second later he couldn’t resist.
    “You’re the one who’s gone on to fame and fortune, Jack, not me.” The envy and bitterness were unmistakable.
    Jack sat back for a couple of seconds before answering, his head cocked at a forty-five degree angle. “Man, I’m so tired of you always thinking everything’s been handed to me on a silver platter. I mean, I created this whole cable situation on my own, without any help from my dad or the rest of my family. It’s all me, kiddo, so why don’t you get off your high horse for a second, okay?”
    Peter could feel the blood rushing up into his brain and quickly gulped down the rest of his drink. Suddenly the room started to sway, and with it, an outpouring of his goals and dreams in a torrent of words that had been repressed for years. When he started talking about the children, he became quite emotional. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he asked where the bathroom was so he could compose himself.
    Returning to the living room, he sat down to face a surprisingly somber Jack. “Listen, buddy, if you are serious about this business with the harelips and the kids, maybe I can work something out for you.” Jack leaned in, squinting his eyes as he continued to think outloud.
    “I don’t know if I can swing anything, mind you, but why don’t you make a list of what you would need in order to start operating. Then send it to me, let me think about it all, and I’ll get back to you on this in a couple of weeks. All right?”
    Peter nodded, still numbed by alcohol, and a surrealistic feeling that all this couldn’t be happening.
    But by the following day his list was preliminarily sketched out: a clinic that could hold up to five beds at a time, an operating room, x-ray equipment, surgery utensils, scopes, at least one nurse—he knew often asymmetry could occur and if it did, a good nurse or nurses were required to help in the suturing of the nose and mouth if one side didn’t quite match up with the other. Sometimes there might be poor healing from cleft palate surgery, and that, too might require a second operation.
    In addition, he knew ear infections often resulted from cleft palate surgery because the cleft could interfere with middle ear functioning. To allow proper drainage and air circulation, often a plastic ventilation tube was inserted during another smaller procedure.
    He thought of bleeding inoperative hemorrhaging because there was such an abundance of blood supply in the palate, so of course, a massive stockpile of bandages would be needed. Due to budget concerns, he would have to forego a geneticist and psychologist, but an orthodontist, audiologist, and an ear nose and throat specialist would be much appreciated. A bi-lingual speech therapist would be ideal, but having scribbled late into the night, he was beginning to get nervous—-his list had become so extensive. How far could he actual push Jack? He wondered.
    Then it hit him. Narcotics. Drugs for anesthesiology and for pain. Oh, my God. How in the world was he going to carry narcotics across the border? He knew from experience post early tissue operations could use Tylenol or other weaker aids, but bone-grafting and post palate procedures were a very different matter. The very idea of all these children having to endure all of this without proper painkillers was intolerable.
    He was thinking of scraping the entire operation when his office phone rang. “Hey, Peter, I think we might have a go-ahead on this.” Jack sounded excited.
    “You’re kidding! Well, I’ve thought of a problem.” Peter said.
    “What’s that?” Jack sounded impatient.
    “Narcotics. Those kids cannot have certain operations without them. The pain is just too great. You can’t bring narcotics over the borders, Jack, you know?” Peter couldn’t hide his disappointment.
    There were several seconds of silence. Then, “Call me tonight. I have an idea.”
    After a long day of anxiety, Peter finally phoned. “Hi, Jack, it’s me.” He waited nervously. “Well....?”
    Jack started in. “Okay, I don’t think it will be a problem, because my cable station has worked with a doctor down in Mexico who says he can supply morphine, etc. in exchange for helping some villagers he knows with this problem.”
    Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief; maybe it was all going to work out after all. He went ahead and signed his Professional Leave papers from his clinic, and contacted Jack daily about all the things he needed until at last, he felt he was ready to go.
    “Oh, Rosen, there’s one more thing I forgot to tell you,” Jack said casually. Oh, boy, here it comes, Peter cringed.
    “It seems my driver, who has been transporting all the wallets for my “Give Children A Wallet” out of this little village, suddenly quit, leaving me high and dry. Since you mentioned you’re thinking of putting a clinic near there, I thought maybe you could pick up the wallets yourself. I’ll be looking for a new driver, but for now, you could pinch-hit for me and also get involved with the community, you know?”
    Peter laughed. Sure, sure, no problem, he told Jack. Just when do I start?

* * * * * * *

    From birth, sucking on his mother’s breast had been a very different experience for Eduardo than it was for his brothers and sisters. When they nursed, their tummies were soon filled with warm, nutritious milk. When Eduardo tried to feed off of his mother, all he got was pain and total frustration.
    “Ah, Dios mio, what are we going to do?!!” his mama would say, tenderly looking down at her odd little one, the one many villagers claimed was the work of Satan. Her eyes would fill with tears as she watched her baby desperately try to suckle, his cheeks working furiously while his hands squeezed her flesh. But as the liquid spilled out between the two gaps on the top of his mouth, he would end each feeding session by clenching his miniscule fists and letting out an explosive wail.
    Her husband Ernesto pronounced the boy was no good, but Rosalie wrapped him even tighter in his swaddling clothes, keeping him warm and safe, away from the world. But she couldn’t always protect him; as Eduardo grew, she could see how everyone treated him. Children threw things at him when he tried to walk to school, and many of the adults in the village, when they saw him coming, would scurry over to the other side of the street while making the sign of the cross. So she shielded him the only way she knew how: he was to stay close to her in the home, never go out in public, and with her limited education, she would teach him how to read.
    In time, Ernesto admitted there was no good reason to complain about Eduardo; he was a good child, after all, with an acceptance of life far beyond his years. In fact, he was so quiet and well-behaved, his father often didn’t even notice his son sitting by the big front window, his face pressed against the glass, gazing at all the other children scampering back and forth from school each day without him. It just bothered him that his son couldn’t say any solid words, only strange guttural tones that only Rosalie could understand.
    But there was one joy in Eduardo’s life: watching his mother weave bright, beautiful cloths. Her large wooden loom took up most of their back bedroom, and it was there he would spend hours watching her shift the different threads with her hands and feet, combining colors that stayed inside his head for days.
    Sometimes she would instruct Eduardo not to interrupt her, particularly when she was weaving her ‘material especiale’, to turn into wallets for that ‘nice Mr. Reinhold’. This kind of work was very important, she would reiterate daily to him. In fact, ever since she had connected up with Jack, Rosalie and Ernesto’s lives had changed. Now they didn’t have to worry so much about putting food on the table, so she was always anxious to please.
    When she worked, she would take out several different colored strands from her parents’ hand-carved trunk: navy blue, magenta, yellow, pink, red, white, and green. Threading them carefully into her loom, she would start humming. This was the part Eduardo loved the most; it meant his mother was happy and that always gave him great peace.
    In and out the different shuttles flew. Up and down the foot pedals danced, until soon a beautiful striped heavy fabric would begin to emerge. And as the afternoon light sifted in through the window at a lower and lower angle, Rosalie would keep working until finally her neck and back felt the familiar muscle tension she knew so well. Time to stop and prepare dinner. Then she would get up, and stretching into a yoga-like position, laugh at Eduardo, asleep next to their dog, curled up like a baby, not the eight-year-old boy he really was.

* * * * * * *

    “I think I‘ve gotten everything you wanted on your list, Buddy. It’s all ready to be moved into your facility in the town of Quolonga, as requested.” Jack couldn’t control his smug grin. “Give me a call the second you get down there, okay, Rosen?” he went on. “I wanna make sure you made it all right with all the equipment. I also want to make double sure after a week, you get over to the Gonsales house to pick up those wallets.”
    “Of course, of course. I promised you, didn’t I? You know me. The conscientious one. Don’t worry—I’ll definitely pick up those wallets.” Peter waved to Jack as he hopped into the front cab with the driver and the truck pulled away.
    In Quolonga, a small staff of three greeted them in front of a rundown, paint-peeled clinic on one of the few paved streets in town. Peter shuddered, but in a few days they had made sure it was scrubbed, cleaned, and sterilized—at least it was sanitary.
    It turned out Jack would remain true to his word. Not only did Peter receive most of the items on his list, his old roommate had also done good, local PR. Within the first week, Peter had patients standing in line, more than ready for their first operation. Babies, bundled up in their mothers’ arms, were the easiest. It was the older children that Peter was the most concerned about and without morphine, he felt completely stymied.
    When Jack called, he assured the doctor about a delivery soon, and speaking of deliveries, had he picked up the wallets from the Gonsaleses yet? Peter felt like snapping at him; wallets were certainly not as high a priority as these children, but he bit his tongue and agreed to go the very next day to pick up the trinkets.
    Watching Peter trip over one of their chickens clucking happily in the front yard, Rosalie giggled. These gringoes. They might all have money, but en realidad, they had no grace. Walking through the rusted front screen door, she greeted him politely, then motioned for him to follow her into the house where all the wallets were kept.
    Stepping through the doorway, Peter gasped. All around the tiny living room were beautiful fabrics hung up in every conceivable inch of space—from an armoire, several cupboard doors, to even a standing lamp. He had always admired these kinds of woven cloths at the Texas open-air markets, but it was quite another thing to see that many intense colors up so close.
    Rosalie grinned proudly, then coaxed several members of her family to come out of the back bedroom to meet Peter. Ernesto shuffled his feet nervously, his eyes cast downward as Peter extended his hand. Little five-year-old Maria looked up at the strange man with the biggest brown eyes the doctor had ever seen, but it was Eduardo who immediately captured Peter’s attention. Just seeing that bilateral lip, he understood instantly how miserable the boy’s life probably had always been.
    Rosalie smiled and retreated towards the back of the house, and after a couple of minutes she returned, carrying a large cardboard box. Peter took it from her, set it on the floor, and opened it up. Inside, were dozens of beautiful, hand-woven wallets. As he exclaimed, “Oh, how wonderful!” Rosalie came and went, carrying box after box, until the small room overflowed with cardboard and vibrant colors.
    She pointed to an address on a small slip of paper, then to the boxes. “Muy importante, muy importante!” she insisted.
    Frustrated with Jack, Peter frowned. What was he, a delivery service or a doctor? Then he felt ashamed. After all, Jack was making his dream come true; it was the least he could do for him and his wallet campaign for kids.
    He turned to Eduardo, and placing his left hand on the boy’s shoulder, tapped his own chest with his right index finger first, then gently laid it over the two gaps above the boy’s lip and declared, “I can fix. Me—el doctor. Comprende?”
    Rosalie looked puzzled for a second. Then it hit her. Rushing over to Peter with eyes the size of 200 peso coins, she kept asking, “Is posible? Is posible?”
    Peter nodded. Without warning, she flung her arms around the young doctor’s neck, crying and laughing all at the same time.
    The next several weeks became a blur. Twenty-four seven, Peter focused on the children, and although all the morphine had arrived, he realized he would have to divvy it out sparingly. And as far as his weekly trips to the Gonsales household to pick up the wallets were concerned, they didn’t bother him that much—his official driver, José, turned out to be pleasant enough. Each week, they got into a light banter about baseball and American culture while José loaded his truck with the ‘wallets especiale,’ as Rosalie liked to call them.
    Eduardo was doing remarkably well, considering, although his series of cleft repair operations had been as difficult as they had been painful. Because the child had never had the initial tissue procedure that Peter normally would do at three months, they had to make up for lost time, and then, when they saw some intraoperative hemorrhaging, they decided to perform major suturing in order to stop any excessive bleeding. But throughout the operations and his stay at the clinic, Eduardo never complained; he just kept nodding his head and gazing up at Peter with nothing less than adoration.
    Even outside the clinic, life had picked up for Peter. Jack bought him a black Range Rover for his weekly trips with José, and in addition, two good business suits “for when he had to return to the states and have meetings with important people.” Although those meetings never seemed to amount to anything, the doctor didn’t notice—he was too busy flying north with Jack on the station’s Lear jet and admiring the view from cream leather double-club seats.

* * * * * * *

    Jack and his companion George began their slow descent over the sparce, desert-like terrain, as huge dust clouds rustled up dirt particles, paper debris, and dried plant life. After landing, they climbed out of the small Cessna and ran for cover into an old, mud-splashed building, just long enough for Jack to radio someone over his walkie-talkie.
    “Get ‘em all ready. We’re comin’ over now,” he ordered into the mouthpiece. Turning around, he winked at his associate.
    Soon, a bug-splattered jeep shuddered to an abrupt halt outside the building, and when the driver vaulted off the truck, some fine dust from the ground seeped in under the bottom crack of the door, causing Jack to give two quick coughs before heading out.
    The three men rode in silence for quite some time as they headed far up into the hills, where everything was bursting with vegetation, birds, animals, and humidity. Nearing the top, odd, unintelligible sounds echoed repeatedly. Then, as the jeep got closer, the sounds became almost familiar, until finally, the car pulled up in front of a large, Spanish-style hacienda. There, the sounds were unmistakable.
    Sounds of barking dogs clogged the otherwise peaceful air, making it almost impossible to hear oneself think. After the men got out of the jeep and walked behind the house to a large wired kennel, the frenetic hounds jumped up in unison, their noses twitching like rabbits as they desperately clawed the fence.
    George noticed most of them were Bloodhounds, but a couple were German Shepherds, and one was a Doberman. Judging from the timbre of their barks and the slight curl of their lips, he surmised they were not necessarily friendly, simply territorial.
    “See, George, I told you these dogs are special,” Jack announced proudly.
    “OK, OK, but why? You never did tell me, Jack.”
    “These dogs are ‘specially trained for border patrol guards, U.S. Marshals, and drug enforcement organizations in the states. We have also used them in Mexico and further south. They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”
    “Yeah, so?”
    He continued. “Anyone would think they do top-notch drug sniffing work, because they’re smart, they look great, and they certainly have the energy... But I have a little secret. I’ve hired an expert dog trainer to brainwash these little fellas here, so they don’t locate the drugs. They even start looking elsewhere. Great plan, don’t you think?”
    George stared at Jack for a couple of seconds, then shook his head. “Son-of-a-bitch! That’s brilliant! It must really work, you bastard; you’ve sure gotten rich. But what about this partner of yours, this goody-two-shoe doctor friend?”
    Jack snorted. “Don’t worry about him. He’s totally innocent and so into his kids and their operations he wouldn’t be able to tell cocaine from white table salt. Forget about him.”

* * * * * * *

    Three months later, when Peter spotted a shiny black Mercedes parked halfway up the street from Rosalie and Ernesto’s house, he didn’t think anything of it. After all, his current mission was far more important. He had brought with him his new young friend, and together, they quietly walked up the front path and slowly opened the screen door.
    Eduardo took one look at his mother and said clearly, like any other boy, “Te amo, Mama.” A hushed silence followed. Then she burst into tears.
    “O Díos mio,” she cried repeatedly, clinging to Eduardo and rocking him back and forth in her arms. “Es muy claro, sí?” she finally whispered to Peter.
    He nodded, smiling. Yes, it was very clear, for the first time in Eduardo’s life.
    Suddenly, a rifle blast crackled through the air, shattering the front window and scattering broken glass everywhere.
    “Get down! Get down!” he yelled. There was no time for a Spanish translation, and apparently, no need for one. Before Peter could say another word, he watched the members of the Gonsales family crawling on their hands and knees military-style to the back of the house, with Rosalie signaling him to follow as they all bolted out the back door. In less than one minute, they had ended up at a hidden outhouse, where an old, rust-covered pickup truck was already fired up, with Ernesto behind the front wheel.
    One of the children shoved Peter towards the loadbed. He jumped in, landing on a semi-soft dark green army tarp, and when he lifted up a corner, he saw more bolts of the beautiful woven fabric. Stunned, all he could mutter was, “Que pasó? Que pasó?” What the hell is going on? he wondered.
    Rosalie brushed back her wispy hair. “No problema. Es no problema. Paciente, por favor. Please....,” she begged, as one of the older daughters covered them all up with the tarp. The truck sped off, bouncing so high, Peter had to grab Eduardo to keep him from flying out.
    After the first field, the truck slowed down, then stopped to pick up someone. Peter could hear Ernesto and another adult male in the cab, talking rapid fire Spanish, and although the stranger’s voice sounded familiar, he couldn’t quite make it out over the rattle of the old engine and the crunching of road pebbles. He could feel his right hip bone throbbing, and he tried to edge up on his elbow to call out to Ernesto, but just then, the truck unexpectedly slammed to a dead stop.
    He tried to shield his eyes from the overwhelming sun with his hand as someone lifted up the tarp. His eyes suddenly could focus and he blurted out, “Oh, my God, José! What the hell are you doing here? What’s going on?!”
    José grinned. “Hey, amigo, this is the way it is down here, you know? We all gotta live, we all gotta eat.” He shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the cab.
    Peter lay still for a moment, trying to think. Obviously the Gonsaleses were in on this whole thing, so was José, and Jack—Oh, my god! Jack had to be the ring leader, he.... A wave of nausea washed over him, just contemplating all the implications. If Jack was up to his eyeballs in drug trafficking, where did that put him? Where did he fit into all of this?
    He sat up in a panic and yelled at the muddied half-opened cab, “Hey, José, stop and answer me RIGHT NOW! Stop the truck!” The two men up front continued in stony silence for a couple of minutes, until they had rounded a bend and got into a more deserted territory before stopping.
    Up in the cab, Ernesto twisted his torso to look back at the doctor. “Señor, what is it you want to know, eh?”
    “I want to know where am I in all of this?! I don’t want to have anything to do with drugs!” Peter’s fist slammed down hard on the edge of the load bed.
    José jumped out of the cab and stamped back over to Peter. “Amigo, you always in the middle. Those wallets you and me pick up every week, eh? You always in the middle...”
    Peter’s mouth dropped. “But...but...I’m innocent, I had no idea....”
    “Señor, we gonna take good care of you. You stay with us for a few days. Then the Federales not find you, okay?” José was already heading back towards the cab.
    That night, as they all huddled together in the back room of a small, dilapidated house, overwhelmed by cat urine and tobacco, an angry Peter stayed warm by a bolt of fabric he had wrapped around him along with murderous thoughts.
    But looking over at Eduardo, he melted. As the moonlight wafted in through an open window, he spied a tear drying on the young boy’s cheek, and he wondered what the child was thinking if he was awake, or dreaming about if he had just fallen asleep. It was the last thing on his mind before drifting off into his own dreams.
    A loud knock startled Peter out of a police-filled nightmare the next morning. Seconds later, José was bending over him. “Señor Rosen, is not safe for you to return to the United States yet. Too much trouble at the borders. We can keep you for a week or two, here in town, okay?”
    “Listen, where the hell is Jack Reinhold? Where is he? I want to talk to him!” Peter demanded.
    José averted his eyes. “I so sorry. Señor Reinhold is not here right now. I am so sorry. We do not know where he is...”
    “That’s just great! Just what I need! He gets me involved in this mess and then disappears! Just wait until I get my hands on him...” Peter growled. “What about the rest of my children? I need to get back to the clinic, and do my real work, you know?!”
     “Sí, sí, Señor Rosen, I understand. Is your job. And now, is my job to protect you, so please... stay here ‘til I say is okay.” He turned and walked out of the room.
    Peter stayed put but remained on edge. At night, his sleep was fitful, and during the day, his appetite had shrunk down to nothing. Forget José, he finally decided, I’m going to return to the clinic and do my operations. Suddenly, he felt better than he had in two weeks.
    Café Orlando was a small, trendy place, where pretty waitresses served cafe espressos and cervesas that tasted better than the usual warm beers offered in other local hangouts. Settling down at a table in front of a big glass-plated window, Peter zeroed in on the front door of his clinic across the street and waited. Soon, a mother entered the clinic with her little girl whose head and lower face were carefully covered with a colorful Mexican shawl. When the two quickly came out again, the mother was trying to calm a sobbing, inconsolable child.
    I should be there for them, Peter agonized, gulping down his last sip, and as he raced across the street to try to catch the mother and daughter he smiled, knowing in his heart that he was at the right place, doing the right thing.
    He never made it.
    Two Mexican drug officials grabbed him as soon as he got over in front of his clinic, then whisked him away to the border, where they handed him over to two U.S. drug enforcement officers.
    “But wait, I must see my patients at the clinic. They are counting on me.” Peter pleaded. The officers just laughed, fingering their mustaches and rolling their eyes.
    His trial didn’t last very long and the judge was fairly lenient with him in comparison to Jack. His doctor’s license was suspended for now, but because of his charity work, there would be a possible future reinstatement based on good behavior. When they read Jack’s sentence, Peter glanced over at his former partner and noticed that the suit was still gorgeous and expensive, but the face looked gray under the tan, and the knuckles were definitely white.

* * * * * * *

    Most days Peter feels quite sorry for himself, sorry he ever got involved, and how he would like to kill Jack. For an innocent man, eighteen months in jail is a long time to be locked away. But then, when he really feels depressed, all he has to do is get out Eduardo’s letter again and immediately he starts to feel better:

Señor Peter, I write letter to you. thank you for my life ever one love me now. I go to school other persons play with me now. I never forget you. I love you. con mucho cariño, Eduardo.

    Sometimes in the exercise yard, Peter runs into Old Bill, the “Lifer” who manages to pull himself up onto an iron bench and pontificate about how crime doesn’t pay. Once in a great while the other inmates even stand around and listen to the old guy for entertainment. But on those occasions, just thinking of Eduardo, Peter simply smiles, and walks away, shaking his head. Maybe, just maybe crime does pay, after all.

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