Ana Rosales

Ana Rosales

In a once quiet village in Oaxaca, the late afternoon sun sets, trucks amble in the dusty streets, feet stroll languidly, a feeling passing between brown faces of fatigue and the contentment of a workday done. Workers in jeans and boots, women in long skirts and scarves. 

A group of teens take up space on the sidewalk of the main street. The young men are rugged, half-shaven, leaning on trucks and sidewalk railings. Showcase of strength and bravado. They tease, boast, threaten, and joke. A performance for the girls, themselves dressed in tight jeans and mini-skirts. The old women pass by, shaking their heads. The language, the display of bodies, the lack of respect these days, it was all too much.

It didn’t use to be this way. The village had long been a display of Catholic devotion, and even lately among the growing Protestant churches. But in the last few years, in came the black SUVs, men in sunglasses, the nightclub, the dances, an influx of money. Young men, once laborers in the fields, now had cars and money to flash. Young women, once devoted to their mothers, were now parading themselves, bodies and eyelashes to flash.

A girl passes through, head held high, red sash bound tightly around her slim waist, her long white dress blowing in the breeze, blue blouse showing her collarbone and golden cross. The other teens pay her no mind. The old maid, they call her. But Juan Pablo says watch this. He struts out into her path, interrupting her gait. She pauses awkwardly. He takes off his cowboy hat and makes a grand sweeping gesture, asking to walk her home. No, thank you, the girl says. Are you sure, he continues, these streets are not safe. Her eyes meet his for a fiery moment. I know the way. She passes on her way, and laughter erupts on the sidewalk.

Juan Pablo’s face tightens for a moment at his rejection. But he is not the first to be turned down. For Ana Rosales is not just a good girl. Whispers have it, with good reason, that she is the most beautiful girl in Oaxaca. Juan Pablo watches her go, the way she strolls with such grace. She seems like a girl out of the 19th century, with her long dresses every day, her long straight nose, her jet black hair in a bun. 

Ana Rosales rounds the bend and sees the old beat-up Toyota pickup slowing down. A wrinkled face appears in the window. “Look what I found, the pretty schoolgirl!”

“Hi Tío!” Ana’s dark face brightens at the sight of her uncle. Ramon Rosales lives somewhere downstate in Tehuantepec. A detective, he stops by every month to share dinner with the family. “You are coming tonight?”

“Si,mi pajarito. And you will sing tonight?”

“Yes, of course, Tío, one of my gospel songs.”

“Great. And tomorrow, a journey into the mountains.” Ana bounces in delight. She shares a very close bond with her uncle. Ramón Rosales had grown up in the church, but after losing his wife to a car accident, he had drifted away. Raul, his brother and Ana’s father, tried to encourage him to come back to church, but he never pressed too hard. The brothers had a good understanding that way. Then one night two years ago, Ramón came to hear Ana sing. She sang “Mi Esperanza Está en Jesús.” As Ramón saw her understated manner, and heard her beautiful voice reach the rafters of the church, he felt as if Jesus Himself was speaking to him, to come home. Since that night, Ramón had deepened his faith in God, and his love for his niece grew even greater.

The next morning Ana rides with Ramón in his old pickup truck up into the Sierra Madre de Oaxaca. She likes it when her uncle tells her the old stories of when she was a baby. “You cried so loud the day you were born, and then,” he reaches and touches her chin, “you have been quiet ever since.” Ana smiles, looking out the window, happy with the memories. “And with three older brothers, all away from home now, you are the apple of your mother’s eye. She is so proud of you, Ana. Your father, too. Every week he tells me another story of how well you are doing at school, another race you won, another song you sing. You have made your family very proud, Ana. You have chosen the good path, away from all of this new trouble now in the region.”

“Gracias, Tío. Y gracias a Dios.”

Uncle Ramón returns to discussing the mountains and the trees and the birds. When they stop for a nice view, they drink water from canteens and the uncle tells Ana to listen close to the sound of the bird calls. “That one.” He cocks his head to listen to its sing-song melody. “That is where my name for you comes from - La Pajarito.”

On the way down, Uncle Ramón pauses and looks out the window intently, but Ana cannot see anything interesting. “Let me have a closer look,” he says quietly, more to himself. “Those haystacks were not here last month, and they are not in season.” He gets out of the truck and motions for Ana to wait. He takes a few minutes to walk by the haystacks, and uses his binoculars to look around. He comes back deep in thought. 

“What did you find?”

“Oh, nothing.” His face brightens. “Anyway, let us get you home. I can smell your mother’s cooking from here.” Uncle Ramón rummages behind the seat, and Ana spins her gaze, hearing a sound. A stick cracking. She looks in the trees, but cannot make out anything distinct. But she was sure there was a sound. The truck heads southwest, back to the village, and the stories return, this time Ana sharing the news about her brothers.

They stop in the village. Uncle Ramón chats with an old friend. And then a black SUV pulls up, and out steps Juan Pablo. 

“Miss Morales, I have been looking for you.” She struggles to interpret his gaze, a look somehow of both respect and desire. “Why don’t you come to the dance at La Vaquita with me next week?”

“Why don’t you come back to school?”

“School, ha. You see me with a pencil and books? And look at me now.” He gestures to his nice clothes and the freshly washed Audi SUV. Ana is not impressed. “And Miss Morales, I will look even better with you next week in a se—, pretty dress.”

“The outer appearance is not what matters, Juan Pablo. What is on the inside is more important.”

“Si.” His si is rather elongated, and she looks flustered. Her uncle returns.

“Who was that, Ana?” 

“No one important.” Ana scowls. “Just a boy who used to go to my school. A boy who thinks he’s a man.”

Sunday evening. Ana travels back with her uncle to Tehuantepec. It will be her first time ever visiting his home. Tomorrow another niece, Maria José, from his wife’s family, will arrive from Mexico City. Ana is allowed to be there to welcome her. The road is quiet at night, a few cars head north, and only one light further back in the distance. Uncle Ramón lives in a secluded area, flowers gleaming under the house lights of well-kept gardens. “One moment,” he says. “Let me get the key from the shed.” A black Mercedes rolls up quietly into the driveway. Ana looks anxiously, not expecting a car like that out in the country.

“Mister Rosales, we have been looking for you.” Two men step out in dark suits. A hooded figure heads into the house.

“Who are you?”

“We hear you have been snooping around up in the mountains. Find anything you like?”

“No, just—”

“Good, then you won’t be going back there again.” Then Ricardo Aguirre, lead hitman of Don Fabio, local cartel leader, pulls out a 38 Super and fires, hitting Ramon Rosales in the chest. Ana screams. Her uncle lays motionless in the gravel driveway. Ana buckles forward in agony, hands on her cheeks, dropping to her knees.

Then the hooded figure emerges from the house.

“What you find?,” Aguirre asks him.

“Nothing.” The hood lowers, revealing the face of Juan Pablo. Ana and Juan Pablo stare at one another in disbelief. Over the murder, over being there in Tehuantepec. Her eyes burn into his with utter hatred. As the Mercedes pulls away, Ana is left on her knees over her uncle, her mouth, downward turned and quivering, still locked in a stare with Juan Pablo Ortega.

Grief overwhelms the Rosales home. Ana is broken at the sight of her parents’ grief. Maria often finds Raul in the garden, staring blankly into the distance. Ana, though, has been pacing, muttering. She wants action. But yesterday, in the midst of her hands gesturing again, her father frightened her, taking her by the arms. Forcefully. “Ana, please. You have to remain quiet. These people are murderers, they have no conscience.” 

The funeral was early on Saturday morning. The extended family were arriving at the Rosales house. But Ana could not relax, her grief and disbelief and questions were too strong. “Papa, give me the car today, let me go drive. I cannot bear it anymore.”

“Let her go, Raul,” Ana’s mother said.”The family will understand. Everyone knows how close she was to your brother.” Ana drove off, heading to the coast. She thought the ocean might soothe her. She drove in silence. Down at the beach, near Salina Cruz, Ana took her shoes off, and walked along the beach, wearing blue capris and a wide hat. She let herself weep, and whispered her prayers to God, asking why, asking for Him to guide her steps. She remembered the old poem of footprints in the sand. You are my Good Shepherd, Lord, she whispered to the skies above.

Then Ana turned around to look at her prints in the sand. But further back there was a figure tracking her prints. Juan Pablo Ortega, and he was gaining on her. Ana began to run, her hat flew off behind her. I can outrun him, she told herself. She began to sprint, gliding along the water’s edge as the tide rolled in. 

But he was gaining ground, somehow. She saw his body language, driven, intent. Would he kill her? Was she next? Ana ran and tears formed at the corner of her eyes, with the sound of that gun replaying in her mind. Trails led into the brush and she veered in.

Out of sight for a moment, she gulped water frantically, spilling it on her blouse. “Ana! Ana, wait!” Closer, now. She ran again, choosing trails at full sprint. There was a small village in the distance. Small homes, many alleyways. 

Ana stepped into an outdoor market. She moved quietly between the stalls. She slowed her pace, perhaps she had lost him. Now it was time for caution, and a plan to hide and wait. She turned a corner and there he was, just twenty yards away. She knocked a stall over, sending chickens fluttering, and the chase resumed. 

Ana ran into an alleyway, but a dead end. Juan Pablo turned the corner and faced her. Then into a house but no backdoor. Only stairs up to the roof. Ana bounded up and ran to the edge, panting. She turned and there he was, hands out.

“I won’t hurt you, Ana.”

“Then why are you after me?”

“I was sent after you, to—.” He could not continue. Tears streamed down Ana’s face. “Ana, please, I had no idea what was happening when I followed your uncle. They told me to follow him, that they had a deal to present to him. I couldn’t believe what they did.” Juan Pablo fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. “Please, believe me, Ana.”

Ana  looked terrified, her hands on the ledge of the roof. “Ana, your uncle found a hideaway the cartel uses, a huge stash of cocaine there.” He pressed his face into his hand. “Ana, they told me to bring you back, dead or alive. You can’t go home now. They know your car. I am dead if I come back without you.”

She shook her head, scowling at him. 

“Ana, listen. I was a fool, going after fast money. Now I know. Those men are murderers. I’m a fool, Ana, but now I know. I can’t live like them. You can’t go back to your car, I can’t go back to mine. But Ana, please, please, I want to help you, we can get out of here, out of Mexico even.”

“What did my uncle know?”

“I don’t know, but he was onto the stash, and now it doesn’t matter anyway.” She gave him a look. “They burned his house down last night, to get rid of any evidence.” Ana scowled again, deep in concentration. “But when I was there, that night . . . I found this.”

A letter with her name on it. She opened it, hands trembling. “To mi sobrina, mi pajarito, you are a blessing to me, and a blessing to many. Keep singing, keep shining. Tío Ramón.” Along with the letter there was a necklace with a small golden bird. Ana wept, clutching both to her chest.

She walked with Juan Pablo in silence. His plan is to get to Salina Cruz, then steal aboard a ship heading north. She stopped him abruptly. “Why did you not open the letter? Or give it to the bad men?” 

“When I saw it, I put it in my pocket. I told myself it’s your letter, no one else’s. Just how my mother taught me. Ah, I’ve been such a fool, getting involved with the cartel. They give us money for doing little errands, bring this here or there. Then they bring all the girls in. But Ana, I tell you, none of those girls compare to you. It’s all fun and games. The nights at the club feel empty. I wanted to talk to you all the way through school. And now look what I’ve done.”

“But how can I know your plan will work?”

“Ana, I don’t know. But you can’t go home. They are watching your house.”

She takes a deep breath. Juan Pablo continues. “If I come home in the Audi, they will ask me where you are. If I leave the car at the beach, they will know I have turned. And Ana, please believe me, I have turned. I have been sick inside, ever since Aguirre pulled that trigger, for you, your family, and for myself.”

“Juan Pablo, I will go with you, but first I must go home.”

No, Ana—”

“Ten minutes, no more. I must let my father know.”

Two hours later, Ana taps the window of the Vega home. Celeste pulls her headphones off. Ana taps again. “Girl, what are you—” Ana motions silence and whispers. The Esperanza home is just down the road from the Rosales home. “Mom, I am going to the market for a juice. Need anything?” An hour later Raul walks down the street. 

Hector Esperanza chuckles outside his garage. “Hey, Rosales, come check out the new engine on my old Ford.” He motions Raul inside, and Ana emerges from the shadows. She embraces her father tightly, explaining everything. 

“Go, Ana, you must go with him. Oh, that poor Ortega boy, getting mixed up in that cartel after they had his father killed.”

“What? Juan Pablo told me his father died in an accident.”

“No, my love, he messed up a job the cartel gave him, and paid the ultimate price. Then they took Juan Pablo in, Don Fabio acting like a father figure to him. All lies, of course. I am afraid they are setting his son up for the same fate.”

“Papa—”

“Go with the Ortega boy, Ana. You are not safe here.”

Thirty minutes later they emerge from the shadows into a taxi. But Juan Pablo gets a closer look at the driver, recognizing the old man. He signals to Ana, flicking his eyes toward the driver. He feigns small talk for a bit, then at a curve in the road, he lunges for the wheel, yelling, “Ana, go!” She hurtles out into the street, watching the struggle between the two men, the car still moving, careening wildly. 

A screech of tires, and Juan Pablo returns behind the wheel. “Ana, we must go back for your parents. I heard the driver’s threats. Use the Esperanza house again.” Ana finds Celeste, and a long wait ensues. Celeste returns. “Ready now. My father is picking them up in a neighbor’s car. Then we switch drivers here and you go.”

The silence of the old Honda is filled with tension, not only fear but also the role of Juan Pablo in Uncle Ramón’s death hangs in the air. Juan Pablo can take it no longer. He pulls over on a secluded road. “Mister Rosales, I will drop your family in Port Salinas and get you onto one of the ships. I will go back and face Don Fabio. I don’t how you could ever forgive me. I don’t know how God could ever forgive me.”

Ana watches as her father nods in silence. The four arrive at the port quietly. Juan Pablo whispers feverishly to a boat captain, and slips money into his hands. “OK, the boat is ready. Vamonos. And good luck.”

“Juan Pablo.” Ana’s father takes him by the arm. “You are coming with us. You have a life to live, and there is a new life that I want to tell you about.” Ana Rosales looks at her father before the four join the captain on a small canoe, and they paddle out into the shadows of Port Salinas.