Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  “It sounds like that grocery store has some unique ingredients that might interest tourists, don’t you think?”

  I’m not sure what we’d do if Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino didn’t exist. Abuela would probably make us move!

  “I think I’m going to add Don Carlos’s Grocery Latino as the first stop on my tour,” I tell Mrs. Liz.

  “That’s great! What do you think you’ll write about it?”

  This is a tough question. Disney World is a place for tourists. I see Don Carlos every week, but I never thought of his place as a destination. Sometimes we eat tacos in the little Mexican restaurant in the back of the store. Don Carlos came to my First Communion and he’s been to every birthday party since I can remember. Don Felix, Don Carlos’s butcher, is the one who delivers the pierna we eat on Nochebuena. He has dinner with us every year because Abuela insists he not eat alone on Christmas Eve.

  “I think I’ll talk to Don Carlos about his story,” I say. “Like why he opened a store in Merryville and when he opened it. Stuff like that. I think it could be interesting for visitors to learn about Don Carlos while munching on garlicky pork sandwiches!”

  “You’re making me hungry just thinking about it! It sounds like you have a plan. Now, just let me know if I can help with anything else. I’ll be over by the microfilm machine trying to fix it. It’s been getting a workout this week!”

  Mrs. Liz is easy to talk to. It doesn’t seem like she’s trying to help because she thinks you don’t know the answer. Or because she gets impatient when you take long to come up with an answer yourself.

  Mrs. Liz turns to leave, and I follow her. I want to know what a microfilm machine is and why it’s broken.

  “Is it for the Internet?” I ask.

  I don’t think Mrs. Liz knew I was behind her because she jumps a little.

  “Oh goodness! Gave me a fright. No, honey.” She stops at a bulky machine that reminds me of a computer from the old days. Big and clunky with a ton of knobs and dials and a screen that’s more like the glass on a really large microwave door than a computer.

  “It’s analog,” Mrs. Liz says proudly.

  She flips a switch and the machine hums to life. Then she fiddles with a few buttons, and an old newspaper article about Georgia paper production in the early 1900s pops up on the screen.

  “You think of a date and I can check in our catalog to see if we have a newspaper clipping on microfilm from that date,” she says. “You just insert the film into this slot here and the machine will project the article onto this screen.”

  “That’s really cool,” I tell her. “So, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Oh, it just keeps acting up is all.” Mrs. Liz pauses for a moment. “I don’t really know what’s wrong.”

  I ask Mrs. Liz if I can take a look.

  “Be my guest,” she says.

  I peek behind the machine and inspect the screen.

  “I’m going to need some tools,” I tell her. I show her the panel behind the monitor. “There might be a blown fuse that needs replacing.”

  “You’re the expert,” she says.

  I ask her if there is a mechanics section in the library.

  “We have a technology section over there,” she says, pointing. “I’ll check the system to see if there are any books on microfilm machines.”

  While she does that, I walk over to the technology section.

  “Don’t know why I didn’t think of that first! You’re one smart cookie, Emilia.”

  The tech section has a few books on computers. A couple of coding books, a few on software, one on sewing. I catch a title between Computing Made Simple and The History of the Paper Mill. I pull out a book and read the cover: The Totally Essential Shelby Mustang Guide 1965–1970. The car on it is just like the car my dad was working on yesterday.

  I open to the first chapter and read a few sentences, then I look at the diagrams. The car in the picture is almost identical, except my dad’s is a rusty olive-green color and this one is shiny and silver. Both have the same emblem on the hood and on the side of the car. A snake in attack mode, and silver block letters and numbers just below that say GT 350. I close the book and ask Mrs. Liz if I can take it home.

  “Of course!” she says. “I’ll swipe your library card and you’ll be all set.”

  “Oh, I don’t have a library card. Where do I get one?”

  “Well, we just need proof of where you live. That’s it!”

  “So, I can’t take this book without a card?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Liz says. “But let’s find a solution. You can call your momma and she can confirm the address and we’ll get you started. How’s that sound?”

  I pick up my phone. Mom won’t be calling me for at least another thirty-five minutes. I don’t feel like waiting that long.

  “My mom is out of town,” I say.

  Gus wanders over and shows me another book. He opens to a specific page and points to a strange-looking creature emerging from a river surrounded by trees.

  “The Etowah River Monster!” he says, again a little too loudly. “The legend is that a snakelike creature with fins that’re kind of like the Loch Ness Monster’s swims along the Etowah River even to this day! Only thing is, there isn’t any documentation that it’s anywhere near Lake Arrowhead or the small creeks that border parts of Merryville.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “Hey, do you have a library card?”

  “Sí, ¿por qué?”

  “I want to check out this book.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Mrs. Liz, please put Señorita Emilia’s book on my tab.”

  “I can pay you back.”

  Gus and Mrs. Liz laugh.

  “It’s a library,” Gus says. “Books and information are free here.”

  “That’s so cool,” I say, but inside I’m all tangled wiring. I didn’t know that about libraries. My mom downloads audiobooks for me and buys hard copies online.

  “Gustavo will check out the book for you and next time you’ll get to check out a book with your brand-new library card.”

  “Great,” I say. Just then, I think about something that might help both me and Gus with our projects. “Hey, doesn’t Don Carlos have a chupacabra piñata at the store? Maybe you can use it as a prop.”

  “He does! But I’d rather catch one in action. Do you think there are chupacabras in Merryville?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What’s a chu-pa-cab-ra?” Mrs. Liz asks.

  “It’s a goat-eating creature that stalks around farms,” Gus tells her.

  “Oh my!” Mrs. Liz shouts. “That’s terrifying. And we have lots of farms around these parts!”

  Mrs. Liz seems genuinely frightened. She shifts around uncomfortably as if a chupacabra will pop out at any moment.

  “It’s a myth, Mrs. Liz,” I tell her. “Myths aren’t real.”

  “You’re right,” she says. “Tell me more about Don Carlos’s grocery store. I only moved here from Decatur a few months ago, but I haven’t seen it.”

  I tell her the store sells all kinds of things, like sweets from Venezuela and Colombia. Don Carlos is from Venezuela. He sells onions and peppers and eggs and stuff like that, too. There’s a carnicería with all kinds of meats in a display case. It’s different from the other butcher shop in town because Don Carlos sells chorizo, which is a little spicier than regular sausage.

  “Emilia?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re going to start your tour at Don Carlos’s?” Gus asks.

  “I think so,” I say. “What do you think?”

  “Excellent choice,” he says. “Are you just doing one stop, or will you go somewhere else, too?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll add the library?”

  “That’s real sweet of
you, Emilia,” Mrs. Liz says.

  “I like this place,” I tell her, looking around. “It feels like people should visit. Plus, you can get something if you come.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Information.”

  Mrs. Liz nods and gives me a pat. “Thanks for promoting your local library, Emilia!”

  “Hey, maybe we can help each other with our projects?” Gus offers.

  “It would be cool if you could go with me to Don Carlos’s. And I’ll totally help you with your film!”

  “¡Por supuesto!” Gus replies. “It’s going to be the first-ever horror film shot entirely in Merryville!”

  “Wait, it has to be a tourism guide.”

  “Well, yes, pero adding a little horror is sure to attract visitors. Other cities have haunted tours. Why can’t we?”

  “You’re right. So, you’ll cover the Etowah River Monster?”

  “Nah,” Gus says. “The Etowah River is too far away. But some of these creeks around Merryville lead to Arrowhead Lake. There’s bound to be a giant platypus or something.”

  “A platypus? That’s not scary at all.”

  “Those things have spurs on the backs of their feet that emit poison. If it whacks you, you’re going to be in agony for days.”

  “That does sound painful,” I tell him. “We’ll go check out your mutant platypus after visiting Don Carlos’s grocery store tomorrow. Okay?”

  We seal the deal with our special handshake. Gus checks out a few books, including the one about the Shelby, and we both thank Mrs. Liz.

  Outside, Gus can’t stop talking about the project. “You know, we’re coming up on magic hour. I’m going to film a few quick exterior shots of the town right now. Wanna come?”

  I study the book in my hand and shake my head.

  “You go ahead. I’m going to go to the shop.”

  “Okay,” Gus says. “See you later, Señorita Emilia.”

  “Good day, good sir,” I say, bowing.

  “Such a chivalrous lady,” he says. “Hasta luego.”

  “You’re going to trip and fall!” I tell him as he continues bowing and walking backward. He straightens up and makes a scary face before he turns around and heads in the opposite direction.

  I get to the auto shop and Señor Orestes tells me that my dad is out back again, working on the car. I can see a slight look of concern on his face.

  Señor Orestes and my dad have always gotten along. They both share a love of soccer, though they have serious disagreements about whose club is better. Gus’s family is from Guadalajara, Mexico. His dad is a Chivas fanatic. That’s the Guadalajara team.

  “Bah!” my dad said once, during a disagreement with Gus’s dad at our house. “No way they’re better!”

  “Never been downgraded to second tier,” Señor Orestes said, “and the winningest record. And homegrown talent.”

  “Here he goes,” my dad said, waiting for Gus’s dad to list all the great international players.

  “Carlos Vela, Marco Fabián. Omar Bravo!”

  “Oh boy,” I remember Gus saying. “Don’t get my dad started on Omar Bravo.”

  “All-time leading soccer star, played at Deportivo de la Coruña in Galicia, played for Kansas City MLS team! Homegrown talent, from where, hijo?” Señor Orestes pointed to Gus like a wizard casting a really intense spell.

  “Guadalajara.”

  “¡Órale!”

  Gus’s dad lived in Alabama from the time he was a teenager. His parents moved to the States in the eighties and worked in the chicken plants. When he was going to start college, his parents got sick and he had to leave school. He had a knack for painting and wound up working at paint and auto body shops most of his life.

  “He could’ve been a painter,” Gus said. “Like, a legit artist.”

  “I’ve seen his work,” I told him. “He’s amazing.”

  Most of Gus’s aunts and uncles live in Mexico now. They visit family in Guadalajara every year, but Gus tells me that his dad never wanted to move back.

  “Me gusta este país,” he said, referring to the United States. “And I found your mother here.”

  “They’re so corny,” Gus said. “My dad calls my mom ‘la paloma,’ then sings ‘cucurucucú, paloma’ to her any chance he gets.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Not when your dad sounds more like a crow than a dove.”

  “You should go talk to your dad, mi’ja,” Señor Orestes says. “Parece que lo necesita.”

  “What do I talk to him about?”

  “You’ll think of something,” he says. “And when he does talk, listen.”

  I nod.

  Like Señor Orestes said, my dad is in the back lot, working by himself. He’s doing the same thing still— trying to fit the doorframe and sheet metal together.

  Dust kicks up from my feet as I walk along the gravel. I set my backpack down next to an old tractor tire and take the book I checked out from the library. When I look up, Papi’s moving the sheet metal to the workbench. He clamps down the metal and switches on the welder. He moves to the supply shed right next to me.

  “Oh, hey, Emilia,” he says. “Back from school?”

  “Library.”

  “Good day?” He digs around in the shed. After a few minutes he emerges with a pair of tools I don’t recognize.

  “I think I chose my tour sites,” I tell him.

  “What’s that now?”

  “My social studies project topic. It’s a tourism guide for Merryville.”

  “Great,” he says, walking back to the workbench like he’s not really listening.

  “Hey, Papi?” I try to think of a memory that might make him smile. Or at least listen.

  He turns his head, which is fitted with a welding helmet, visor up, so I can see his stubbly face. “Yeah?”

  “You remember when I was in third grade, at the school assembly, and the principal called me up to the stage and said someone special was there to see me?”

  I get closer, the book clutched to my chest.

  “Well,” I continue, “when I turned around, you were there, standing in your blue coat and white pants and you were smiling from ear to ear. I didn’t even wait for the principal to stop talking. I ran as fast as I could and jumped into your arms and you swung me around and around.”

  Papi nods but doesn’t say anything. He offers the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. His body kind of sags like the way a tractor tire slowly deflates when you let the air out of it.

  “That was the best time I’ve ever had at a school assembly, Papi,” I say. I hand him the book.

  He takes it and inspects.

  “You like the Shelby?” he asks, looking at the book instead of at me.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “But it’s pretty broken-down.”

  “Just needs some TLC, that’s all.”

  “Is it going to stay that color or are you going to paint it silver like the one on the book cover?”

  My dad’s face relaxes.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s the color of a dirty olive.”

  He laughs. “Don’t hate on the Green Hornet! It’s a 1968 Shelby Mustang. Freshest car ever.”

  “I like the snake on the side.”

  Papi nods. “The cobra is pretty sick.” He reads a page in the book I gave him. “You know, if you wanna stick around and help, you can. If you want to.”

  I feel a sudden rush of excitement. My dad wants me to help him. Gus’s dad was right: I did think of something.

  “You up for it?”

  “Yes,” I say quietly, but inside I might as well be one hundred and forty amps of electricity hitting metal.

  “Cool,” he says, handing me his gloves. “Take these. I’ll go get another pair.”

&nb
sp; Papi hands me a dead blow hammer, which is safer than a regular hammer, and shows me how to strike the metal to bend it the way we want. He puts his arm around my shoulders. “You remember that tire we patched a few years ago?”

  Of course I remember. Every detail, actually.

  I follow my dad to the shed to get more supplies. He hands me small tools to carry back to the workbench. It’s like we’re flying a plane and I’m his copilot.

  “So, Papi, how was your last deployment?” I ask. The question feels strange, but the time feels right. Especially because I really want to know.

  “Fine,” is all he says. He doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing.

  “Were you in the mountains?” We move back to the car and I hand him a black Sharpie so he can mark it up.

  “We’re going to do a few butt welds here to fit the twenty-gauge into the doorframe. But first we have to get rid of the splotchy paint around the car. Some fool tried to paint it white. See this here?”

  He shows me a few spots on the Hornet. He says he’s been sanding the car down to bring it back to its original green.

  “It still has some remnants of the original color. But we have to sand it down now and then we’ll repaint. Sound good?”

  “Oh okay,” I say, trying to keep up.

  He takes out two sets of goggles and two sets of masks that go over your mouth and nose. He fastens the mask on himself to show me how. When I put on mine, I can feel my own breath bouncing back at me. We lower our goggles and get close to the car. Papi shows me how to rub the paint off the hood using an electric sander.

  The sound reminds me of the propeller from the radio-controlled airplane he got me for Christmas one year. We flew it from the hill in the backyard and it ended up soaring across the lawn, straight over the auto shop, and into a beech tree. The hum of the airplane sounded like a bumblebee. Bumblebees aren’t dangerous. They just float and buzz around, eating nectar and pollinating stuff. They don’t even sting unless you mess with them. That’s what the sander sounds like. A giant bumblebee.

  “When your eyes are focused on sanding the metal,” my dad says in a muffled voice through his mask, “it becomes the only thing you see or hear other than your teammate next to you. For example, I know you’re here, but I can’t tell you what Orestes is doing in the stall out front.”