The Line Becomes a River - Francisco Cantu Page 0,2

her time looking up and down the street before lifting herself from the park bench. We walked slowly down the sidewalk past the brick dome of the Aduana Fronteriza and turned to make our way down Calle 16 de Septiembre. A block from the mercado we stood at an intersection choked with cars, waiting for the signal to turn green. Then, as we made our way across four lanes of traffic, my mother cried out and fell to her hands in the middle of the street. I turned in panic and kneeled down at her side with my arms around her shoulders. Are you okay? I asked. She breathed through her teeth and gestured down at her foot, twisted in a pothole. You’ve got to get up, I told her, we’ve got to get out of the street. I looked up at the signal, flashing its red hand. I tried to drag her to her feet, but she shouted and winced, breathing in short gasps. It’s my ankle, she said, I can’t move it.

I stood in the intersection as the light turned green, holding my hands out to the line of cars. I glanced toward the mercado and saw a man running from the sidewalk. In front of us, a woman stepped out of her car and came to kneel at my mother’s side. Tranquila, she whispered, tranquila.

A man in a cowboy hat stepped down from his idling truck and turned to the cars behind him, motioning for them to stand by. The man who had run from the mercado touched me on the back. Te ayudo, he told me, qué pasó? My hands were shaking as I gestured at my mother. No puede caminar. The man stood on the other side of her and made a lifting motion with his hands outstretched. We bent down together and slung my mother’s arms around our shoulders. The woman at my mother’s side reached out to touch her—vas a estar bien, she told her before turning to walk back to her car. My mother hopped up on one leg as I lifted her with the other man, and we shuffled together toward the sidewalk. We helped my mother sit against a concrete wall and I turned to watch the traffic roll again down the street.

I kneeled down and looked at my mother’s hands, smudged black from the asphalt. Do we need to call an ambulance? I asked her. She opened her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. I don’t think so, she said. Just let me sit. I looked up at the man and stood to take his hand. Gracias, I told him, not knowing what else to say. The man shook his head. It’s nothing. In Juárez we take care of one another. He patted me on the back and gestured for me to sit down with my mother. When you’re done here, he suggested, come visit my stand in the mercado. I’ll be there with my mother, we’ll make some quesadillas for the both of you. Before turning to leave he looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Aquí están en su casa.

I

In the dream I am hunched over in the darkness. The floor of the cave is covered with black shapes, arms and legs severed from the bodies that once carried them. I touch them and hold them in my hands, feeling dirt and blood and cold skin. I sort through the parts for a head, for the remnants of a face, for something to identify the people who were deposited here. I leave the cave empty-handed, emerging into a landscape devoid of color, the air still and raw. Outside, a voice tells me I must visit a wolf in a nearby cave. When I arrive there, little light is left in the sky. I walk through a stone passageway until I must squint to see through the darkness. At the back of the cave I can make out the rough shape of an animal circling in the shadows. Soon I discern the outline of a wolf walking slowly toward me, one paw placed silently before the next. As the animal approaches, my body swells with terror. I look over my shoulder and see the figure of my mother, gesturing for me to hold out my hand, to offer it to the wolf. I look forward and hold out my arm, breathing deeply as I open my palm. The wolf slowly comes near, stretching its neck to sniff