***

– Martin hurtles forward in the unyielding grip of the river. One more stroke and he will be able to touch the ball, lodged like a piece of food between two monstrous teeth. He stretches his arm, reaching as he kicks one final time. Feels the hard, grey lump of rock first. He grabs it with one hand, tries to propel himself up, slides down again. The water is everywhere, rushing in his ears, splashing into his mouth, stinging his eyes. There is nothing to grip, his feet can’t touch and now he is scared. He treads water, pumping his legs up and down. All he wants is his mother. Frantic as his hand slips back down the rock face. Then, he notices something long and brown wedged between the rocks. A log! Kicking and reaching, he is just about there, fingers brush the surface. And then he curls his hand around it, squeezes tight to the rough bark. Lets his body float out behind him like a flag. He gets his free hand around the ball, hooks it under his elbow and kicks off towards shore, pushing off of the slippery rock with his feet. In seconds, his toes sink into the soft silt beneath the muddy water. Wading onto shore, he thrusts the ball over his head in triumph, the muscles in his tiny calves shaking.

Then he hears it: the sound of the boys cheering and whistling. The dimple in his left cheek deepens and he thrusts his shoulders back, a tiny figure in the wide, relentless rushing of water. Tucking the ball under his arm, he sprints back towards the ball field. Wipes the water or tears from his face.

On the black strip of road above him, the passenger side door opens of the SUV swings.

A man steps out.

Across the street, the boys gather –

***

– like storm clouds.

“I passed Martin on the way here,” Jessenia says, looking over at Alejandra.

“I know. He likes to go down to the soccer field. Watch the big boys.”

“He was running. And it was funny. For a minute, from the back, I was sure it was Emilio.”

Alejandra’s mother lets out a sad, shuddering moan and crosses herself. Says, “I left him some treats at the cemetario.”

Alejandra nods, swallows. Seven years he’s been gone. Seven years since she found out Emilio was running jobs for the cartel. I had no choice. I’ll stop. I will. But everyone knew you couldn’t work for the devil and not become him yourself. Please, he begged, gripping her hand as they sat at the end of a dingy old bed in a rented room in the city.  She can still picture the mottled brown of the cockroach that scuttled across the floor as they sat.  But when she looked at Emilio his edges had already blurred.

If you stop, they’ll kill you.

He nodded, his face harder now. And she stared at his hand on hers, the tiny moon shaped scar at the base of his thumb, pulled her hand from his grip. Left him. Left them. Went home with only a self.  She didn’t know that Martin was already there, a tiny calabacita seed taken root.

It wasn’t until later that she told people that he had died. Because even though she was the one that left, even though he had turned into someone that she could not recognize, still she was certain that he would come home when he heard about the birth of his son. Months passed. A year. That’s how she knew he really was dead. She was sure. That’s what she told people; nobody would have believed that Emilio joined the cartel anyway. Never Emilio. So, she mourned his loss a second time all the while nursing her baby, teaching her classes, resting her weary self against her mother, her friends, her family. Home.

And her boy who can wring everything out of her and lift everything up in her.

Martin –

***

– “Martin! Martin!” The boys chant, his name like a drumbeat.

One of the older boys slaps him on the shoulder as if he is ten and not only six.  Says, “Little man went in the river!  I would’ve let that ball go if it was me!”

Martin thinks of his mother and remembers quite clearly that he was not supposed to go in the river. Knows with certainty that she will be angry if she finds out. His clothes cling to his tiny frame. He will tell her that it was an accident.  Or maybe the sun will dry his clothes before then and she will not notice. The boys chatter loudly, argue with gusto about who will play which position and who should sit out.

Suddenly, Fat Rafa, who has his hands crossed over his chest and is refusing to play goal again, says, “Hey. Check it out. What’s that car doing?”

All of the boys’ heads turn towards where he is pointing, at a black vehicle stopped on the road across the river. It gleams in the sunlight like some sort of exotic robot. Most people that they know do not own cars. And nobody owns one like that.

“Look,” someone whispers, pointing to the old foot bridge that connected the paved road to the town. Two men, one large and one small, strode across it. The boys stand as still as trees. Take a collective breath as if they are about to go underwater.

Watch –