The Coyote's Bicycle Read Free

before them. A hawk wheeled in the sky above. This was not a newconversation for the boys, but one that evolved in the telling and the things they’d learn from those who returned or who passed through. Fathers and sons tended to leave one at a time, and once established, they’d send money and, eventually, send for the others. Women composed most of Solo’s family, and he hadn’t heard from his cousin in a long time. So it was expected that Pablito would go first—at the request of one of his brothers, perhaps. “And someday in appreciation of my assistance,” Solo said, “you will help me to get to the United States as well.”
    This had always been the plan.
    Solo stopped to adjust the sling on his back, and then he hurried to catch up to Pablito, who never dallied. When the idea of leaving was talked through, it often seemed too big an undertaking. The village was an entire world where everyone knew and helped each other. Nearly everything outside of it was foreign to the boys. At these times, Solo would apply subtle brakes to his narrative—lest Pablito up and depart before both of them were grown and ready. “Even though you hold on to your dream,” Solo pointed out now, breathing more heavily as his full sling weighed on him, “you also love your family. Your grandfather is old but he’s strong and he knows a lot of things.”
    Solo could think of three aspects of Pablito’s life in the village that might keep his friend around: the boy’s unique connection with his paternal grandfather, the bountiful wildlife and natural beauty that surrounded them, and the best time of their day, when Pablito and Solo set out on the milkman’s bicycle. “Those are some things you love,” Solo said.
    Pablito didn’t agree, or even nod. He didn’t shake his head or avert his eyes. He was simply quiet in the rhythm of walking the hard-packed path with the sandal soles made of car tires.
    They came to a familiar curve in the trail and discovered that a dark bull had taken up a position directly on the track. To the leftstood a marshy papaya grove where two pale heifers hovered like ghost cows in the deep greenery. To the right ran a wire fence covered in brambles. The boys were about as tall as the wheels on an oxcart. Even if it were not angry but merely startled, the bull could trample Pablito and Solo. It settled its great bulbous eyes on them and shuffled its hind legs around until its whole mass pointed at them like a compass needle. It became clear that the animal would not move without prodding. The boys whooped and whistled. Solo raised his arms to appear taller. Pablito then bent and grabbed some fallen papayas—he instructed Solo to do the same—and they lobbed the green fruit into the path of the bull until, as if receiving the message after some delay, it shuffled off into the grove and casually joined its mates.
    The boys continued on. Eventually, Pablito said, “My brothers sent some good money this time.”
    â€œ Verdad? ” Solo asked.
    Pablito didn’t answer. He’d never lied to Solo.
    â€œIt’s a good thing,” Solo said. “Maybe your father will rent Don Ricardo’s tractor and working the fields will be a snap.”
    But Solo knew that Pablito’s father would not rent the tractor, that he would harness the oxen as always. Remittances like these were coveted—to build new rooms onto shacks, for example, sometimes even of cinder block. A family could invest in a gas generator or a horse or a cow. Regrettably, overdue maintenance had a way of diminishing hopes for wholesale improvements. Thatch roofs needed to be replaced every eight years. And at seven pesos for each palm frond, even if friends and neighbors contributed their labor, the costs could add up. As often as not, however, the patriarch of a family would simply drink the money away.
    Pablito waved off the idea of renting the