Señor Orestes motions with his hands like he’s turning a key.
“Oh, Mary,” Abuela says. “Please hand me the keys so Orestes can get started.”
“Sure thing,” Mary says. “Oh, hey there, Emi Rose. How’s it going?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Come, Mary,” Abuela says, “let’s go inside the office, where it’s cooler.” She leads Mary toward the air-conditioning.
Señor Orestes places a piece of paper over the Camry’s floor mat before hopping into the driver’s side, leaving one foot on the ground and one foot inside the car. He yanks a lever under the steering wheel and the hood pops open. While under the hood, he pulls out the dipstick and wipes it with a rag.
Gus looks just like his dad. Dark hair, bushy eyebrows, kind eyes. Gus doesn’t have a full mustache, but their smiles are identical. They extend from ear to ear and could easily light up the night sky.
Señor Orestes uses the little phone on the wall to call Abuela in the office to tell her the car just needs a simple oil change. It seems like Abuela gives him the okay, because he hangs up and starts the process.
In no time at all, the job is finished and Abuela comes out with Mary so she can collect her keys.
“You’re a lifesaver, Aurelia—truly,” Mary says.
“Not a problem,” Abuela replies. “Oh, I forgot to ask how the job search is going.”
“Let me tell you, it’s getting harder and harder by the minute around here.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something,” Abuela says.
“Seems like I’ll have to take Spanish classes if I want a real job.”
“Well, I’d be happy to get you a tutor. And Emilia can help Clarissa!”
“Oh, I don’t have time for a tutor what with Clarissa’s activities and church things. But thanks. Say hi to Toni when he gets back and tell Sue I need some help with my computer. I can’t seem to get the screen to work right.”
“I’ll be sure to tell them,” Abuela says, smiling so tightly, it’s like someone glued her face like that.
“Oh! And please tell Toni we thank him for his service. Y’all should come over soon!”
Mary hops in her car and pulls away.
“Take care now, Mary!” Abuela waves both arms so much, it’s like she’s going to fly away.
Abuela checks her phone and shakes her head. “Esa mujer no quiere aprender nada.” She tells me. “I’ve offered her Spanish lessons for over a year and she always has an excuse. “Entonces que no se queje.”
“She does complain a lot about not finding work,” I say. “Why doesn’t she just accept your offer, Abuela?”
“Aye, mi’ja, quién sabe,” she says. “Vamos, so you can finish your homework. Your father is already on his way! Let me get my things from the office and we’ll go, okay?”
After Abuela is done, I say goodbye to Gus, Señor Orestes, and Agustín. Abuela pats Gus on the back then gives him the keys to the office. She tells him to make sure he locks the door when he leaves. Last week Gus forgot to put the keys in the lockbox and Abuela had to open late. She was not happy about asking customers to come back later. “Qué vergüenza,” she said at the time.
Gus’s dad takes him to the office and tells him to start his homework.
Abuela and I walk around to the back of the shop, down a narrow alleyway toward a metal door with a padlock on it. She punches in a code and pulls the latch, revealing our backyard. We walk up the little hill that overlooks the garage and where you can see the tops of the two-story buildings along Main Street. A train chugs in the distance.
We enter the house through the rear door and I flip on the lights in the kitchen. Abuela sets her bag down and starts rummaging through the refrigerator.
“I’m going to make your dad’s favorite,” she says. “Can you start la cafetera, Emilia?”
“Sí,” I say, taking our Cuban coffeemaker from the stove and twisting it open to add a little water. I grab some Café Bustelo from the cupboard and pour the delicious roast into the filter. Cuban coffee has the most extraordinary smell in the world. Mom says, “It’s the sweet aroma of our island and our ancestors.”
“It’s just café,” Abuela always replies. “Café cubano.”
The clock reads four thirty. In about an hour, my dad will finally be home. I wonder what my first words to him are going to be. Maybe I should have written a script.
I perk up when the doorbell rings. A little beam of light illuminates the hall just outside the dining room. All the worries swirling around in my brain—what my first words should be, why he didn’t call for so long or say anything about the videos I sent him, what it will feel like to finally see him after he’s been gone for over eight months—completely disappear. And suddenly the perfect first word comes to me.
“Papi!” I say, jumping up. My dad grins from ear to ear when he sees me, and the entire house feels warm.
Papi’s duffel bag thumps on the floor.
“Hey!”
My dad is home!
His wide shoulders press against his sharp uniform. His cover is tucked under his arm, exposing his reddish-brown hair, which is cropped tight. I run up to him, ready for him to lift me into a giant hug like he always does.
“Papi!” I repeat. When I reach him, he stops short of lifting me.
He takes both of his hands to the sides of my head then drops them behind my neck. He holds them there and stares.
“Hey there, Emilia,” he says.
It makes my heart thump nervously and my head spin with what to do or say next.
“Antonio!” Abuela interrupts the moment as she walks in from the kitchen. Papi releases his hold and Abuela forces her way into a hug.
“Hola, Mami,” he says, pulling away.
Abuela steps back and rubs my dad’s back.
“¿Estás bien?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Emilia made café con leche,” she says. “It’s all warmed up for you.”
“Great,” he says.
“And Abuela made pan con lechón!” I bounce around excitedly again.
My dad loves Abuela’s sandwiches. So do I. The pork is garlicky and tangy and the bread has a paper-thin crust with a soft, flaky center. Abuela got the ingredients at Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino on the other side of Merryville, near Park View Middle. You can’t get Cuban bread anywhere else. Or Cuban coffee. You can’t get mojo pork anywhere else either. At least not the way the butcher makes it at Don Carlos’s store!
We walk from the entrance of the house to the dining room and sit down together. We’re almost a complete family again. Only Mom is missing.
Abuela has already set a plate down with the pork sandwich and plantain chips at the head of the table, where my dad sits. Abuela pops up like she forgot something and then returns carrying a coffee cup on a saucer with a tiny spoon on the side. She places the coffee in front of the plate.
“Gracias, Mami,” my dad tells Abuela. “So, how’s school, Emilia?”
“Good,” I say. “Where’s your favorite place to go to in Merryville, Papi?”
He seems confused.
“Um, I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“I was just curious.”
Papi meets Abuela’s eyes and they both raise their brows like they’re not sure what the heck I’m talking about. Abuela pats my shoulder and takes my dad’s hand, the one that’s not holding the Cuban sandwich. I start tapping my fingers on the table and Dad stares like he wants me to stop. I slow my finger tap to a halt and then look at both of them, unsure what to say.
“Emilia, why don’t you tell your dad about school like he asked?”
They don’t answer my question and I feel like asking it again, but then I think about my upcoming math test this Thursday.
“Mrs. Brennen asked me if I understoo
d what constitutes a statistical question and I told her yes, but then she asked me to give an example and I said I didn’t know.”
“Okay . . .” my dad says, even more confused. “So, are you playing any sports this spring?”
“Sports?” Now it’s my turn to be confused. “I don’t play sports, Papi.”
“Oh,” he says. “I thought you wanted to try out for basketball or something.”
“No,” I say. “You and I played at the rec center, like, a year ago.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t playing.”
A piece of onion falls off my dad’s sandwich. We all stare at it on the floor.
“So, I have to do a social studies project for Mr. Richt’s class,” I offer.
“I thought he was the coach of the JV football team.”
“He is,” I say. “And basketball and baseball and I think curling.”
“Pretty sure Merryville has never had a curling team, Emilia.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I was joking.”
My dad can usually pick up when I’m telling a joke, but it’s like he forgot.
“Has Mom called?” he asks. There’s a pause in his voice. His eyes shift to the living room.
“I think she’s still flying, Papi,” I tell him. “She said she had a lot of layovers.”
“Oh okay,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll call when she’s settled.”
He takes one last bite of the pork sandwich and sips the last of his café con leche. He gets up and gives Abuela a peck on the cheek.
“Gracias, Mami,” he says, then he walks over to me. “I’m going to take a little rest, Emilia. Maybe after we can catch up?”
My dad gives a sad kind of smile.
“Sure,” I say.
He takes out his phone and turns it on. He waits for it to fully power up by the dining room door. I guess he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, because he puts it back in his pocket. Abuela heads in the opposite direction, back to the kitchen. I stay where I am.
My dad has been a Marine on active duty since I was four years old. Each time he left, my heart would drop into my knees. Then, when he returned, it was like he lifted my heart back into place and everything was right again. That’s how it has always worked. It started with worry, but the relief would come once he was back.
I wonder when the relief will kick in. Maybe it will take longer now because he was away for more time.
My dad unbuttons his perfectly pressed shirt as he heads toward the stairs. He holds on to the railing, taking slow steps up the narrow staircase. I never understood why he didn’t respond to any of the videos I sent him. I sent so many. Thirty, to be exact. I waited and waited but never got an answer. Even though he’s home now, it still feels like I don’t have an answer.
The next day, after school, Gus and I decide to go straight to my backyard to sit on the hill overlooking the town. Trees cover the far side of Merryville and in the distance, I can see the train tracks.
“Everything seems so quiet and ordinary from here,” I tell him.
“Sí, pero that’s the thing about places like this. You can uncover secrets. I bet there are mythological creatures hiding in the woods over there. Lurking just outside the town.”
Gus points his camera at me.
“Is Emilia Torres, explorer extraordinaire, going to uncover the mysteries of Merryville Woods before it’s too late?”
“Why do I have to be the explorer?”
“Because I’m the filmmaker and you’re the star.”
“Can’t you be the star and the filmmaker? And besides, isn’t it supposed to be a tourism guide of Merryville?”
“Shock sells. Tourists would flock here like a bunch of birds after seeing my video about creepy creatures dwelling in the woods.”
Gus drops his camera and points at my fingers. “I like that color,” he says.
I stretch out my hand and look at my nails. “Baby blue,” I say. “I wanted to add sparkles, but Abuela didn’t let me.”
“She’s very traditional,” he says.
“And controlling. I just wish she’d back off with her ‘traditional’ stuff once in a while.”
“When does your mom get back?”
“Not soon enough.”
Below the hill—just in the back lot of the auto shop—I see my dad.
“Can I use your camera, Gus?”
“Sure.” He removes the strap from his shoulder and hands it to me. “Use the strap,” he says. “So it doesn’t fall.”
“You got it.”
I sling the strap over my shoulder and look through the eyepiece.
“See something?”
“It’s my dad,” I say.
“If you flip out the screen, you can zoom in,” Gus says, pointing to the side of his camera.
“I thought you said that zaps the battery faster?”
“Well, sí, it does, pero you’ll get to see what he’s doing better with the zoom.”
I open the little screen and can see my dad in the tiny frame.
“The zoom is here, right?”
“Sí,” Gus says, pointing to the top of the camera where my hand is. “Ahí mismo.”
I use my index finger to zoom in. “He’s using the welder.”
The camera shakes a little, so I use my other hand to steady it. My dad is working on a car. He takes a piece of sheet metal, places it on the workbench next to him, and measures the driver’s-side doorframe. He grabs a smaller sheet and marks it up with a black Sharpie.
He puts on gloves, turns a knob on the welder and aims, then slides the shade down on his helmet so it covers his face. He positions the welding gun over his left hand like he’s holding a pool stick, and carefully pulls the trigger.
“It’s like we’re spies,” Gus whispers. “Like your father is a scientist forced to work on a secret space station designed to destroy planets.”
“Isn’t that a Star Wars story?”
“Possibly. Do you think J.J. Abrams will hire us to direct one?”
“One what?” I reply while still focused on my dad.
Brilliant blue sparks shoot up into the sky like they’re trying to jump over the fence. The sound of metal cracking tickles my heart. It doesn’t bother me like other loud noises. There is unity in the crack-crack-crack of the welding gun fusing metal. I know these sounds. I’ve grown up with them. They remind me of home. My dad releases the gun and moves to another spot.
“To direct a Star Wars movie,” Gus says. “You could direct one and I could direct another. And they can link up somehow, but you won’t find out until after the title credits.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe. Look how the sparks fly around whenever he squeezes the trigger on the welding gun. It’s like they’re dancing.”
“My tita dances like that,” Gus says. “She’s eighty but moves around like she’s got firecrackers in her pantalones.”
Pop-pop-pop echoes throughout the back lot. Dad moves the welding gun in circular motions, connecting the smaller piece of sheet metal to the larger one. When he’s done, he takes off his helmet and walks the newly connected pieces to the doorframe. It doesn’t seem to fit the right way. Papi rubs the top of his head and shakes it in frustration.
He digs around like he’s trying to find something, then turns back to the welder and shuts it off. He leaves his helmet and gloves on the workbench and checks his phone.
“I wonder what he’s working on back there all alone.” I pan the camera to the front hood of the car. I zoom in even more on a shiny emblem—a snake with letters and numbers under it. “What kind of car is that?”
“No sé,” Gus says.
Just then, Abuela steps through the gates. I zoom out. She marches up the hill, taking long strides.
“I
think this is the end of our spy film,” Gus says.
I move the camera up and down in agreement.
Abuela stands a few inches away from us and waits until we acknowledge her.
“I have an idea, mi’ja,” she says, planting her foot like she’s squished a bug into the dirt. “Let’s take your father out to dinner to celebrate his return.”
Abuela doesn’t wait for me to agree. She just hands the shop keys to Gus. “Can you please lock up, mi’jo?”
“Sí,” he replies. We exchange shrugs. The camera goes back around his shoulder as he starts down the hill.
Meanwhile, Abuela spots my dad working in the back lot. She calls out his name in full volume.
“Antonio!”
Dad keeps welding. Abuela yells again and this time I cover my ears.
“Antonio!”
Dad has stopped welding, but he still doesn’t reply. Abuela tries one more time.
“Antonio!”
“What?” he barks, throwing a piece of sheet metal on the floor. He slams the welding gun on the workbench and lifts his helmet up in one frustrated motion. Abuela has her hands on her hips and I’m crouched in a ball, covering my ears. My dad and I make eye contact, but I quickly turn away.
“Dinner out tonight!” Abuela screams.
“Okay, fine,” he says, pulling down his helmet again to cover his face. He shakes his head as he grabs the welding gun, sending a few more crack-crack-cracks into the sky.
“We’ll go wherever you want to go, Antonio!”
Abuela waits for a response, but my dad doesn’t answer.
“He must be jet-lagged from so much travel,” she says. “Where do you think he’ll want to eat?”
“Delucci’s?”
“¡Sí! Your papi loves that place. Excellent choice!”
“Abuela?” I ask. “I have some math homework I need to finish.”
“Finish it now and I’ll call and make a reservation for six.”
“Since when do we eat at six?”
“Your papi said he usually eats at six.”
“Um . . .” I mumble, getting up and following Abuela. He’s never wanted to eat this early. “Abuela, that will only give me an hour and a half to do my homework.”
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