Jill Day 2 - Chapter 4 - Before

CHAPTER 04 – ALLISON TOUCHES ON THE BORDER

As John and Allison’s fully loaded Greyhound bus drives over the World Trade International Bridge into Laredo, Texas, further downstream from the bridge are 52 immigrants swimming in the river’s brown, polluted water in hopes of reaching that promised land for a better life. In fact, immigrants try crossing the Rio Grande River onto USA soil practically every day.

Allison feels the bus slowing down. It stops, then turns into a large parking lot, driving slowly towards a building. She nudges John’s shoulder. “I think we’re here.”

John opens one eye then closes it again. “What time is it?”

“Not sure. Five pm, maybe?” She loads her many belongings back into her plastic beach bag.

The driver parks the Greyhound bus near the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Port of Entry. The driver announces in Spanish and English, “Take everything with you, including all your luggage.”

Standing outside the bus with John, Allison whispers loudly, “Don’t look. She’ll notice. That woman. She’s looking at me again.”

“It's your imagination.”

Hearing him say that under his breath doesn’t surprise her. It’s not the first time he hasn’t taken her seriously. It peeves her to see him more interested in snapping on his fanny pack than he is concerned for her safety.

“No, it’s not. I’m getting a weird feeling. Kind of creepy. I think she’s…”

Before she finishes her sentence, John is already walking away to reach for her suitcase. “Allison, come give me a hand over here, please.” Walking towards John, she espies the woman lighting her Camels cigarette with a match from a well-worn striker-box. The woman’s eyes follow Allison until she meets up with John.

“Allison, we're not expected back for ten days. I'm thinking we could explore Texas a little. Austin would be a good place. We can go hiking. Pick up a tent and camp.”

Crap. There goes the workshop. She walks ahead with her luggage.

In the crowded customs waiting room, the first three rows and all the end seats have been taken. John eyes a couple of seats in the center of the fourth row and glides easily past the others with his long legs and few belongings.

Allison, studying the width of the space available for passing each seated person, questions whether or not her large suitcase can fit through. She’s aware of her husband watching. Noticing that irritated look he gets when he’s impatient, she’s determined to prove to him once again her luggage is not a burden. She turns her suitcase around to its skinny side and maneuvers it past each seated individual with her beach bag hanging from one shoulder. She voices repeated apologies along the way. All is going well until she passes a gentleman. She accidentally knocks his hand holding hot coffee. He immediately attempts to stand up but gets pushed back down by Allison’s beach bag and more hot coffee spills over his hand and onto his lap.

“Oh dear,” she says.

“Bloody Hell!” he shouts in a British accent.

She reaches into her pocket, “I’ve got a serviette. It’s clean. I haven’t used it.”

He mumbles to her, “Dear woman, it’s bad enough that you caused my coffee to spill all over, but do you have to bastardize the English language? The least you can do is speak properly and call that flimsy piece of paper you are offering me a napkin. You are doing yourself a disservice speaking like a bloody Canadian.”

She shimmies her bags further down the line to the seat next to John.

“What happened back there?” John asks.

“Nothing. That British man in the fancy suit spilled his coffee, that’s all. But he was pretty rude. Maybe he doesn’t like Canadians? Or maybe he got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

She plops down on the seat next to John with her suitcase and beach bag positioned between her legs. Allison is glad to be on US soil, yet anxious to pass through customs. She looks to her husband. He appears tired and a little edgy.

“Where’s your passport?” he asks.

“In here,” she gestures to her beach bag.

“Give it to me.”

Wearing only shorts and a tank top, she feels the cold air conditioning. Goosebumps form on her arms. Her seat is molded in a way that pinches the circulation in her thighs and her feet barely touch the floor. No matter how she sits, either her shoulder blades or spine hurt with the uncomfortable curvature of the backrest. She looks down at her sandaled feet and tries to make her dirty toes touch the gray tiled floor. She rubs the front of her neck. “Oh no, I don’t have my necklace.”

“Never mind that. Get your passport.”

“It’s the one Claude gave me as a wedding gift.”

"It’s not a wedding ring, for Pete’s sake. The way you carry on about that necklace sometimes makes me believe you’d rather be married to him, not me.”

She sits up straight and looks right at him. “Where’s that coming from?”

“This is not the place to discuss it. I’m still waiting for your passport.”

Up front, Allison sees the long counter that acts as a barrier between the officials and everyone waiting to be called. She guesses the counter to be at the height of her rib cage. Behind the counter is a row of office desks, with a customs duty officer sits behind each one, each wearing a stolid face. She looks towards her husband and notices his weary state.

Sitting bored with nothing to do except watch an officer with a long nose and thin lips shuffle papers at the front desk, she plays a game only she knows she’s playing. She stares at him imagining what he could be thinking.

She pats John’s leg. Despite his startled reaction, his smile reassures her. A little fidgety in her seat, she looks around. A family is called up front. Amongst those sitting in the uncomfortable seats, she sees a mixture of expressions. Some looking tired, others edgy with restless children at their sides, a tot squirms from a seat to escape a parent’s clinging grip. The British man is wiping his pants with his handkerchief.

She looks again at her husband. He sits stoically, but through that façade, she knows he is tired. She expects that. What surprises her is that he's not the type to get scared.