In “Mamie’s Well,” a baby-trafficking scheme unfolds on the border

“Mamie’s Well” was a finalist for the Colorado Authors League award for Mystery-Law Enforcement

CHAPTER ONE

It was well past midnight, on a moon bright night, when Sister Felicity made her prearranged rendezvous with Roberto and his weather-worn rowboat on the southern shore, the Mexican side, of the Rio Grande River. She looked across the river into the darkness of the opposite shore and hearing nothing but the lonely call of a desert coyote, gingerly lowered herself into the rickety little boat with Roberto’s assistance. Gently, she handed him her small, non-descript black suitcase, then the baby carrier with its sleeping infant passenger.

Sister Felicity could not see the sweat stained armpits of Roberto’s torn tee-shirt, but there was no mistaking the acrid stench of his portly, unwashed body. She could, however, make out his near toothless smile in the moonlight knowing she’d again be repulsed, as she had been many times before, by the filthy grit of the unwashed hand he would offer to steady her into his boat.

Roberto could see the light sheen of perspiration on Sister Felicity’s forehead reflected in the brightness of the moon. Although this had become a familiar, routine trip for her, she still became nervous and her apprehension showed. If asked, she would blame it on the night’s warmth or on the traditional nun’s habit and cowl she wore. She had, in fact, made the hundred yard journey to the American side of the border more than a few times before. It was the uncertainty of Roberto’s boat and the illegality of it all that always made her a bit apprehensive. But this was a journey she must complete. People back home were counting on her, needing her to be successful.

UNDERWRITTEN BY

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She had been traveling for three days and was far from her home in the southern most region of Mexico, the Chiapas District. She’d crossed the Sierras and the Chihuahua Desert on her journey to the dusty, dirt streets of the nothing town of Boquillas del Carmen with its one hundred twenty residents, pastel painted restaurants and chintzy gift shops with its brown water entry to the United States just beyond. Boquillas, as it was known to the locals, was a town that survived on the few tourists that crossed the Rio Grande on a day trip as part of their Big Bend National Park experience.

For five dollars, the Gringo tourists were offered the option of crossing the Rio Grande in one of Roberto’s two equally ancient rowboats, on foot or on donkey. No one walked and, as might be expected, the donkeys were kept far busier than Roberto’s little boats. Truth be told, the Gringo’s choice mattered little to him. He owned both the boats and the half dozen scrawny-ribbed donkeys in the river-side corral. 

For the Gringos, it was a quick lunch, a visit to the trinket-filled shops and an even quicker walk around the few dozen brightly painted adobe and cinder block buildings of Boquillas before another five dollar choice of transportation took them back to the US side of the river and, in comparison to Boquillas, the metropolis of Big Bend, Texas.

Boquillas was a town that time and the United States Border Patrol had written off as unimportant. There were no border guards on either side of the river, just a video inspection kiosk on the American side with signage that read, “All those entering the United States from Mexico must follow the following procedures and register.” Only the tourists read the procedures and followed the rules. The Mexicans never bothered. 

There were no cellphones in Boquillas. Reception, as you might imagine, was all but non-existent. When she needed Roberto’s assistance, Sister Felicity would leave a message as to the time she’d be meeting him at Fortuna’s, the more respectable of the town’s two restaurants. She paid him far better than the tourists ever did, nearly doubling his daily income, assuring herself of his assistance at any hour of the day or night and, of course, assuring herself of his silence. 

“Mamie’s Well”

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As she had in the past, Sister Felicity took the steadying hand offered by Roberto while raising the front of her skirt showing just a bit of leg as she stepped from the boat onto American soil. An unremarkable moment, in and of itself to be sure except for Roberto noticing that the kind Sister’s legs were smooth shaven. He always thought that odd for a Sister of the Church to bother with such a triviality. Few of the women in Boquillas ever did.

In the quiet darkness of the American shore, Sister Felicity thanked Roberto for his kindness before turning and walking the short distance into the thriving little Texas town of Big Bend. With her suitcase and sleeping infant in hand, she made the fifteen-minute walk from the river to the forty-nine dollar a night Big Bend Motel as she’d done many times before. And, similar to her payments to Roberto, she always paid more than the advertised room fee that blinked in missing neon gaps on the sign out front and therefore, was assured her room would be there awaiting her arrival. Seeing her enter the office, the night clerk wordlessly passed Sister Felicity the key to a first floor room without requiring any identification or paperwork. The night clerk, like Roberto, asked no questions.

Come ten o’clock the next morning, Elena Hidalgo exited Room Number Five as an attractive, light-skinned Mexican American, dressed neatly in a loose fitting, short-sleeved off-white blouse, knee-length khaki shorts and blue canvas espadrilles. She wore a light application of makeup and pale lipstick, simple hoop earrings and a modest yellow gold engagement ring/wedding band set. 

Elena Hidalgo looked to be just another young Hispanic mother traveling with her baby. She walked the few blocks to the Big Bend Bus Station, purchased a Trailways ticket for New York City and disappeared into America.

Daniel Ginsberg grew up in the East New York and East Flatbush sections of Brooklyn. After graduating from The School of Visual Arts (Advertising and Graphic Design) he served in the Army as a military policeman, criminal photographer and photojournalist for the Japanese and American governments on Okinawa. Upon his return to civilian life, he maintained a fashion photography studio in New York City, later enrolling at Louisiana State University (BS: Biology; MS: Reproductive Physiology). Today, Daniel lives in Denver, Colorado, where he writes, works in his studio and takes long walks with his wife Patsy and pooch Brewzer.