When We Get There

Chapter 3

The town bus station, like any other semblance of modern infrastructure in the country, was abandoned. Split glass bottles and old cans flowered from the stone planters that lined the main office. Ignacio, Abuelo Franco, and Abuela Maria stood in a loose semicircle near the curb, Ignacio's one small suitcase and threadbare bag lumped and piled in the center. From time to time, Ignacio picked long slivers of broken glass from the basin, careful not to cut his fingers. Removing the debris revealed a soft bed of half-dying green plants underneath. Whenever Abuelo Franco noticed this, he swatted Ignacio's hand.

"Stop touching that, you'll catch something." Abuelo Franco said.

Ignacio did as he was told, though still occasionally while Abuelo wasn't looking, he picked out a plastic wrapper or dirt-clod wad of gum from the planter and flicked it into the wrought-iron waste bin a few feet away. The sun hung low in the sky, just barely breaking night and splaying long black shadows from every structure. They leaped between the jagged crevices in the pavement.

Abuela Maria glanced at her watch, then at the office, where a set of parallel bars flanked a dirty window. An old clerk inside clicked at a plastic terminal that took up half the desk space. Abuela knocked at the window and pointed at her watch. The clerk paid no attention.

"They're half an hour late, already," She grumbled.

"The day the autobus runs on time is the day I can run again," Abuelo Franco laughed.

"When Rosalina drove, it ran on time."

"Hah! Back when Rosalina could drive, I was still running!"

Abuela smirked and rolled her eyes, then looked off down the road where a spume of dust rose like a brown smokestack over the low brick-house skyline. Through the midmorning, shadows appeared a white-and-black collective bus. It pulled into the small bus turnout lane. The vehicle let out a giant hiss of steam as it slowed, then activated the breaks. The cracked white paint on the side was laden with dirt. A logo reading EL RAYO in bold black and yellow adorned with peeling lightning bolts was splayed over the side. The bus door started to slide open then abruptly stopped, to which the driver responded with a flurry of curses. He jumped from his seat and shoved the door the rest of the way open, then offered Ignacio and his grandparents a solemn nod before resuming his seat.

Before Ignacio could even think of reacting, his grandparents had already tackled him in a warm embrace. Abuelo Franco wasn't very forceful, but Abuela Maria nearly sent him sprawling with the ferocity of her affection. After a moment of cheek kisses and tight hugs, Abuela Maria stepped back and glanced at him from head to toe with a tear glistening in her eye.

"Do I really have to go?" Ignacio asked. Abuela's face took on a pained expression. He felt that he already knew the answer.

"Your parents are already prepared to leave, mi amor. There are some things that-- that we can't control. Plus, you'll have a good life, Ignacio. Things will be better there. You'll have a good school, a good home, good friends. Vas a ver muchísimas cosas, mi amor. It's better that you enjoy them there. You can't do that here." She said, the tear in her eye now falling down her cheek. It sounded more like she was trying to convince herself.

But why? Ignacio thought as she hugged him again before stepping back for good. Why do I need a new school, and a new home, and new friends? I have all those here. It's best not to say anything. That would just make it harder.

Abuela stepped back and hugged herself. Abuelo smiled at him, better able to keep his emotions in check.

"Tene cuidado, no? Your father will meet you in Buenos Aires. From there, America." He said.

"I will," Ignacio said. His own eyes were starting to sting. Already blinking made his eyes wet.

The bus honked twice, the universal sign for hurry it up. Ignacio grabbed his suitcase and slung his school bag over his shoulder. They both felt awkward in his hands, but he held them with a perfect simulacrum of confidence. He turned, walked up the first steps of the bus, looked over his shoulder, and smiled at his grandparents. Ignacio then walked the rest of the steps. The doors shut a second later.

The bus was nearly empty and cold. In the first few seats were two women covered in patchwork cotton blankets. The middle seats had two passengers in different rows poring over books or eating nuts from a bag. A few dozen nutshells lay scattered in the aisle. In the back, a solitary man carrying something that looked like a rubber boot filled with feathers slumped over, sleeping.

Ignacio took a seat in the middle, just two rows in front of the man with the rubber boot and feathers. Outside the window, his grandparents waved to him, and with a brave face, he waved back. The bus engine sputtered to a roar, the entire vehicle hissed in protest, and the wheels started rolling. For a moment, Ignacio kneeled in his seat and watched back as his grandparents, upon the bus leaving the lot, clung to each other. That, of all things, made him cry the most. As far as he knew, this was the last time he would see them. His last sight of them would be them embroiled in sorrow.

For a while, Ignacio watched the town's ancient facades pass like a scene in a movie. Once the one-story buildings and sidewalks had morphed into scrap metal farmhouses and barbed fences, he slumped back into his seat. Ignacio pulled out his blanket from his bag and swaddled himself in it. It was uncomfortable, but at least he wasn't cold. The bus noise and cold and the rising sun's piercing rays didn't let him sleep well. Not that there was any need since he'd slept well the night before. Instead of sleeping, he thought. He thought about the future, about the bizarre journey ahead of him. America! Once a word that meant the opportunity to him, according to what his parents told him, was just at his fingertips within a few days. It was exciting. Just thinking about a place of legend made his heart race. It was something to be optimistic about, at least.

But below that, festering like a lead-coated ball in his chest, was a deep fear mixed with sadness. Fear of not knowing, fear of never being able to know, and sadness that he was leaving everything behind without knowing if he would ever be able to come back again. His friends, his family, the town. Everything he ever knew, his life, his memory, faded into the distant dust as if it were nothing more than an afterthought.