Excerpt: The Adopted Outlaw

I allowed myself to indulge in a brief moment of Surely That Has Nothing To Do With Us when I disembarked the elevator into a lobby full of looky-loos. There was an almost cartoonish level of mumbling and “Oh My”s and everybody⎯by which I mean everybody⎯was packed into a crowd gawking through the front doors of the hotel. Adopting parents in visors and souvenir Guatemala t-shirts from the hotel’s gift shop, foster parents completely oblivious to the kids in their charge, a handful of local business people from the lobby coffee shop or bar, and every variety of Hilton uniform was pressed against the glass, gawking and wondering aloud “What happened?”
But even from across the lobby, I knew that every eye in the house was glued to the spot where I had left Anayansi and Antonio, and I couldn’t help thinking, Well, so much for that idea. Like we were really going to kidnap a baby and try and sneak him home. My mind’s eye saw Anayansi surrounded by fuming khaki-uniformed soldiers with some serious face to save, and I fervently hoped that she was being cooperative. Surely there would be some way for Jorge to step in and help her out. Surely Antonio could stay with Hortensia until Anayansi was able to do whatever this judge felt needed doing to improve her application, and The Boy would be waiting for her when we eventually returned. It’s not like they would let her bond with the kid for six months⎯and him to bond with her, for that matter⎯and then stick him in an orphanage just to prove some political point. Anayansi would need a minute to collect herself and regain her composure, obviously⎯hopefully not in some jail⎯but everything would work out just as it was supposed to. She’ll see, I thought, with what, I’m not ashamed to say, was a pretty big sigh of relief. I mean, it does sound kind of exciting, tiptoeing through a third-world airport in a sunglasses-based disguise, heart pounding as you crawl in the long line down the jetbridge onto an airplane, watching out the window with your heart in your throat while the airplane taxis away from the gate as the police storm the tarmac in jeeps and militaristic hats, relief splashing over you like water from a bucket when the airplane picks up speed, gradually at first, and the wheels leave the ground⎯a rush, to be sure. But I’d never so much as shoplifted a bag of M&Ms from Walgreens; who were we kidding? I never would’ve been able to keep my cool going through customs, showing my passport at immigration, taking of my shoes to go through security. I wanted to vomit just thinking about it, now that I knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Or was it? I slunk up behind the back row of slack-jawed gawkers to survey the scene. The taxi? Right where I’d left it. Furious and embarrassed police officers? There, there, and⎯whoa!⎯definitely there, finger in the driver’s face. From what I could see, the driver was all shrugs and protestations of innocence. What lady? What baby? Overacting quite a bit, from what I could see, his face a contortion of innocent misunderstanding that would be over the top in a third-rate summer tourist town melodrama, but he had a point: What lady? What baby? All four doors and the trunk of the taxi were flung wide, and Anayansi was nowhere to be seen. Shit. So now not only had our status reverted to On The Run, but we were split up, she with the baby, and me with the means to smuggle him out. Sweet.
Think, Icky, Think. She won’t have gone far. I had only been upstairs for maybe ten minutes max, at least some of which she presumably spent waiting in the taxi. I had her passport and our money, so it wasn’t like she was going to jump in another cab and speed away. Unless she would head for the airport and wait for me there. Or had she already been arrested and hauled off in shackles in front of this audience and I was merely catching a glimpse of the aftermath?
At all events, it seemed unlikely that I would benefit from being recognized in the lobby, and I don’t exactly blend into the crowd, least of all when I’m gushing cold, nervous sweat and lugging a car seat over my shoulder. While there was still some excitement on the other side of the glass, I figured there was little harm in my slowly backing away and creeping through the lobby bar towards the breezeway that led past the business center and out to the parking lot tucked up the shady side street around behind the hotel. If Anayansi had been thrown in jail, she’d eventually get word to me back at the hotel, but I didn’t have a room key, and I figured it’d be better for everyone if I put off going to the front desk to ask for a new one until after some of the action had died down.
With a light step in deference to my hard-soled loafers and the tile floor, I backed across the lobby, as close to the wall as the car seat and the hotel’s collection of huge, breakable lamps allowed, and when I reached the shelter of the breezeway, certain that everyone within blocks of the hotel was already pressed against the front windows, I turned the corner and broke into a trot, anxious to find Anayansi and Antonio and get this show on the road if she had somehow managed to give the khakis the slip. This was no doubt the simplest part⎯grab a backpack and get in a taxi⎯of Anayansi’s simple plan, and it had gone quite wrong, quite fast. Any window of opportunity we were going to have to slip through something like an airport that wasn’t papered with our mugs on Wanted posters seemed to be slamming shut, and we definitely wanted to be on the other side of it before it did if possible.
I ran up to the door to the parking lot and drew myself up short. No sense flinging the door up against the side of the building and barreling through with a crash. If Anayansi was waiting for me out in the neighborhood, she didn’t need me creating a scene and getting caught. I strode into the late-morning sunshine as naturally as possible, conscious of the fact that with every step I took away from the hotel with the car seat and no baby I became more conspicuous. More memorable. As in, the huge, beak-nosed gringo that everyone in the neighborhood would remember seeing lope by, should they be asked by a member of local law enforcement. I never used my cell phone in Guatemala even once⎯I turned it off before the plane took off in San Francisco and never even turned it on again; in fact, I realized, I had left it in my suitcase. And I didn’t know if Anayansi had hers on her or not. But it occurred to me as I slunk from tree to tree that the person who invented the mobile telephone might well have found himself in a situation similar to this one years back and seen how they might come in handy. I understood that it was unlikely to produce her, but it was impossible to resist the urge to hiss “Anayansi” ever three steps, as if she might emerge from behind this moped or that trash can.
There was a McDonalds on the corner, an Econo Super grocery market across the street from that, and a string of Guatemalan handicraft souvenir stalls along the opposite side of the street from the hotel, so as Guatemala City side streets went, 13 Calle in Zona 9 was among the busier, with heavy vehicle traffic as well as mobs of pedestrians. I had discovered a small French bakery around the corner on our first trip and had run for coffee and pastries each morning, and on our second visit, when Anayansi was climbing the walls and wanted out of the hotel room, I took her to it. They had delicious orejitos, as the buttery palmier cookies were called here, and could occasionally be counted on for a tasty jamon y queso in a pinch at lunchtime. It was as good a place as any to start this impromptu game of hide and seek, and if she wasn’t waiting there for me, and wasn’t in the slammer, she was likely to think the same thing eventually. Looking back over my shoulder about every three seconds⎯for Anayansi, for the cops, for Yevgeny to randomly appear in the street and shake me awake from this nightmare⎯I threaded through the cars and little delivery vans when the light turned red and made for Le Délice.
The tiny bakery was behind large windows, and I was disappointed not to see Anayansi and Antonio sitting at one of the little tin tables watching for me to walk by. Not that sitting behind a plate glass window like Mrs. Claus in a Gump’s Christmas window display would have been the best place to hide from the law, but I was ready to catch a break. If we could get to Aurora before the cops did, we might stand a chance of slipping through the cracks and getting on a flight, but by tonight I’d be surprised if the airport wasn’t closed. Come on, Yanse, I muttered, strolling back and forth in front of Le Délice’s window, car seat banging against my pelvis. Where are you?
As if she’d heard me, a loud Psssst issued from behind the tree nearest the traffic light on the corner. My head whipped around to see Antonio smiling away, having the time of his life hiding from his Tio Peter, and Anayansi furiously gesturing. I hurried to her side.
“What happened?” I asked her.
“The cops.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“The driver saw ‘em coming before I did. I’da probably gotten busted, but he tipped me off.”
“He was playing dumb, far as I could tell. But there were an awful lot of police around, and they didn’t look amused. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No.” she admitted starkly. She gazed at her son, though, when she said, “But I can’t give him up, Peter. I can’t. I can’t help it if they pry him from my cold, dead hands, but I’m not going to give him up and ‘try again.’ Even if they did find another child,” she almost choked on the phrase and clutched Antonio tighter to her, “what if I go through this whole process again and the same thing happens? ‘Oh, you used a red stamp on this envelope, and it should have been a blue one. So sorry.’ This child⎯” Antonio squawked as if on cue and Anayansi loosened her grip on his little waist. “⎯is my son, and we are just going to have to wing it.”
I looked up and down the street, my mind racing, my heart pounding, my pits drenched in sweat. Anayansi softened her tone and said, “Look, Peter. This isn’t your kid, this isn’t your dream. This isn’t your battle to fight and I know that. If you aren’t in, it’s fine, I get it. I’m not telling you I need you to do this, although I don’t have to tell you that I’d rather have you with me. But if you’re not in, you’re out, and I need you to give me that backpack and I’ll see you at home.”
She was serious, and she was scared. And there was a line in the sand. She was giving me an out, and absolution along with it. ‘I’ll see you at home,’ she said. Our friendship was not on the line. And if I followed her from this point forward, I’d be breaking the law⎯probably dozens of laws⎯of my own volition, a willing accomplice, risking everything, just as she was doing. Beyond the call of friendship? Probably. Would she do the same for me if the tables were turned? I knew in my bones that she would, without even the hesitation I was feeling. Fucking Scorpios.
I reached out for one of Antonio’s tiny hands and planted a kiss on the top of his fuzzy head. “If we’re going, we need to go now.” I told her. She nodded once with a small, satisfied smile, and we both started scanning the street at once for a taxi.
We’d only been looking for seconds when a cluster of those persistent khaki uniforms appeared on the corner at the opposite end of the street. That they didn’t break into a run, pointing and shouting and wielding guns, I took as a good sign, but they did start methodically down the block, even looking behind the mopeds and trash cans as I had done. And if this cluster was on patrol, there would be others. Time was definitely a-wastin’.
“Um, don’t look now…” she muttered.
“I saw.” I said, willing a taxi to appear in the street. Without a taxi, it was no exaggeration to say, we were fucked.
“Aren’t there, like, more taxis than people in Guatemala?” I asked in frustration. “Where the hell is one when you need one?” We furiously scanned the street as we inched backwards towards the corner farthest from the oncoming uniforms.
Cars streamed by, none of them obviously For Hire, and it seemed ill-advised to repeat my wing-flapping routine from earlier in the morning. Anayansi and I were both swearing in every language we knew, and Antonio, sensing the tension, was fussing and prepping for a good cry.
“I don’t see one anywhere, Yanse. What are we gonna do? Do you know what bus goes to the airport?”
“Why, do you see a bus that I don’t?”
“Well, no…”
Skulking behind trees and parked cars we had so far managed to avoid detection by the band of brothers working their way towards us up the street, but as they closed in on us, our options dwindled.
It was Anayansi who came up with the idea. “Really we just need a car, don’t we?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What I mean is, it doesn’t have to say ‘Taxi’ on it, does it?”
“What?” I didn’t want to understand where she was going, although I supposed it made a certain type of sense that a policewoman would know how to steal, and probably hotwire, a car.
“I mean, they’ll be watching for us to be in a taxi, right?”
“I guess so…”
“So what we need is just any old car. Like that car.” The light had just turned red, and she pointed to a tiny white hatchback idling in the street in front of a large delivery van.
“Um, that car has someone in it.”
“What, do you think you’re the first person who’s ever jacked a car in Guatemala City?”
I didn’t realize I was any sort of person who jacked cars in Guatemala City, come to that, although we had had a lengthy conversation with two of the waitresses at breakfast the other morning about how carjackings were rampant in Guate. There was also apparently quite a craze among thugs of approaching people in their cars and threatening them with real or imaginary finger-in-coat-pocket guns and stealing their cellular telephones. They would then call a loved one⎯”Home” for example, or even “Work” in the phone’s menu⎯announce a kidnapping, and demand a large ransom for the person’s safe return. Nothing like a kidnapping had occurred, but the plan, it seemed, was to collect the money before the “victim” was able to get him or herself to an alternate phone and clear up the misunderstanding.
“You want me to carjack that guy?”
“Which guy you carjack is the least of our concerns, Icky. But the cops are catching up to us, and I was kind of hoping to be kidding about that whole ‘cold, dead hands’ thing. If you have a better idea, I’m all ears, but we need a car, and kind of pronto.”
The twenty-something driver of the little car lit a cigarette and turned up his radio, eyes on the road, oblivious to the contingent of pedestrians stepping off the curb. Probably absconding with Antonio was a bigger crime than stealing a car, I figured, and the delivery van blocking our view from any officers of the law who might wander along was a selling point for this particular car. Anayansi gave a tug on the car seat, so I relinquished it to her, and we flanked the small car as surreptitiously as possible.
As it happened, we yanked open both doors at the same time, apparently enhancing the element of surprise, as the kid smacked his head against the roof and fumbled his lit cigarette. Great, I thought. There’s no way a car bursting into flames will attract attention.
“Get out.” I growled at the guy. In English, for some reason, which seemed to flummox both of us, so I barked it again in Spanish. “Get out!”
“Fuck you.” he replied, obviously flustered but budging not.
“This is a carjacking.” I felt compelled to announce, and heard Anayansi, who was working on cramming the car seat and her diaper bag into the backseat, snort out a laugh.
“Oh what, like I should be better at this?”
She laughed again. The driver was less amused and stuck fast to his seat. “Do you want to concentrate?” Anayansi suggested, glancing at the driver, her luggage now stowed.
“Get out.” I repeated.
“Fuck you.” he again replied. We were getting nowhere. The light at the corner turned green, and shortly the delivery van, most unhelpfully, began to honk.
“Get out of the car!” I screamed. I felt my cool slipping away, and the honking wasn’t helping.
“Make me.” Punk.
“Fine,” I said, fishing around in my front pocket. I had worn these jeans to dinner the night before and had remembered in a flash just shoving the change in my pocket. I dug out a small wad of bills. “Here,” I said, brandishing them at the obstructionist motorist.
He laughed. “That’s like five hundred quetzales.”
Now the driver of the delivery van was hanging out his window, eager to show off the shouting and fist-shaking he had added to his repertoire, leaning on the horn like it was his job. So much for keeping us from drawing police attention; a quick glance over my right shoulder showed the uniforms on the sidewalk moving towards the ruckus.
“Anayansi, get in the car.” I ordered. She eagerly complied.
“No. Get out of my car!” yelled the driver. Anayansi put on her seatbelt.
“Look,” I said, lowering my face into his. I’ve had people who love me very much tell me that it kind of scares them to see my sunken eyes and hatchet-like nose from quite so close up, and this guy flinched, as I hoped he might. As he backed away, I leaned closer. “The life of this child depends on me driving away in this very car this very minute. Take the money, get out of the car, and you can come and get your car at the airport in an hour. Five hundred quetzales for your trouble and all you have to do is take a stroll out to the airport on this lovely day and recoup your car like this never happened.”
He took the money. And told me to fuck myself. The van driver honked again, the police were moving through the street⎯goddamn but these cops were on top of it⎯and I lost my temper. I yanked the driver⎯an innocent bystander, after all⎯by his arm and felt his shoulder pop right out of its socket when I flung him to the street. He commenced at once to holler for the police, who would be on top of us in a flash. I jumped in the car, slammed the door, turned they key⎯the sound of the grinding engine ripped through the cacophony of horns and shouts, seeing as how the car had already been running. Anayansi shook with laughter⎯and hit the gas. One of the khakis actually managed to catch up enough to yank open the door, but I had enough speed up to shake him. The light had, of course, turned red, but I had little choice but to floor it, and we turned the corner, Anayansi clutching Antonio, the two of us wailing⎯more Laverne and Shirley than Thelma and Louise⎯as the car fishtailed into traffic. The resulting pile-up in the intersection was a dramatic one, complete with screeching brakes and shattering glass, but the car that slammed into ours served only to knock us free of the brouhaha, and off to the airport we sped.