LOST
From the temporary safety of the culvert, Catalina hid as far back in the cement tube as she could, then dropped to her knees, looking in horror as angry flames of fire blew out of the sides of her house where there had been windows. A large red and orange fireball burst through the roof that had covered her home. She waited for her parents. That was the plan. She was to wait in the culvert if anything ever happened. Her parents were always quiet about what they meant by "if anything ever happened." From what she had heard tonight, someone thought her father was a thief and was ready to kill him and her mother as well. She knew she needed to leave and get to the safe house her parents had trained her to go to, but the fire, it drew her like a moth drawn to a flame. Just when she had given up all hope, she saw a figure run out the back. Instead of going to where she was hiding, they turned away from her and ran to the west.
She began to cry. She wanted to know if her parents had gotten out safely. The last thing she heard was her father's anguished cry, followed by a gunshot.
Waiting, she saw the first of the emergency vehicles; the fire trucks pull up, the firefighters quickly moving to attach hoses and start squirting water on the house. The police cars were next, blocking both ends of the block, lights flashing, looking surreal when they caught the smoke from the fire. Then the ambulances, their back doors open, the miniature hospital rooms ready to care for anyone injured. Neighbors huddled in small groups, talking amongst themselves, heads nodding, pointing at the house. Uniformed officers moved among them, notebooks open, hoping to get information.
'What did you see, sir?
What did you hear, ma'am?
How well did you know the family? Did you ever notice anything strange about them?' they asked.
She knew how many of them would answer,
'No vi nada.
No escuché nada. No hasta la explosion.
No conocía bien a la familia.
Eran personas agradables. Se ocuparon de la casa, pero estaban muy tranquilos.
¿Su casa era un laboratorio de metanfetamina? ¿Es por eso que explotó?
No sé nada.
Lo siento pero no hablo inglés. ¿Hablas español, poli?
I didn't see anything.
I didn't hear anything. Not until the explosion.
I didn't know the family well.
They were nice people. They took care of the house, but they were reticent.
Was their house a meth lab? Is that why it blew up?
I don't know anything.
I don't speak English. Do you speak Spanish, officer?'
The neighbors would be polite, but they were afraid of the police. They would give nothing of importance to the policia. Some of them had undocumented relatives staying with them or had previous run-ins with the police. All knew to keep their heads down, their voices quiet. None of them heard yelling; none of them heard her father's despairing cry; no one heard a gunshot break the silence of the seventeen hundred block of Calle Street, the street so nice, the neighbors joked, the Anglos named it twice.
She watched as a new vehicle arrived. It was a truck. It was familiar. The driver's side door opened, and a tall man got out. He turned towards the culvert, and she recognized him even from her distance. It was El Jefe. For an instant, she considered leaving the safety of the culvert, running to him, and telling him all. Her parents had told her repeatedly that if she was there in the culvert for real, to consider the police possible snitches. For whom, she had no idea. Catalina wouldn't accept that Ed Brown was a bad police officer, not after last night. Her parents, however, had taught her too well; she needed to get away soon to one of the sanctuaries that protected the undocumented in Denver. Padre Esteban was the closest at St Michael the Archangel. He could protect her until she found her parents or at least discovered what had happened to them. Catalina threw her bag over her shoulder and made her way through the culvert into the dark.