Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  “The neighborhoods in the Bay Area are amazing,” Mom says. “There’s one right by a few huge tech companies that feels just like Merryville, only it has more coffee shops and a bookstore!”

  We walk up to Jimmy’s booth—they’re selling shakes.

  “Plus,” Mami continues, “I cannot wait to shake up the tech boys’ club and bring a new point of view to the table. ¿Verdad?”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Papi says.

  “Shakes all around!” Mom yells, like a boss.

  I give her an Are you sure? look.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she says. “We have lots to celebrate.”

  “Like what?”

  “Being together, for one,” Papi says.

  Papi looks at Mami lovingly for a moment before he takes her hand and kisses it.

  After the festival, we all huddle on the back porch and gaze out at the town. I look at the Shelby in the back lot and wonder when we’ll finish it.

  “So much has changed, huh?” I say, nestled between Mami and Papi on the porch swing while Abuela sits in her Adirondack chair, looking quietly toward town. The little lights on Main Street twinkle against the woods that lead to Park View. Mom rests her head on Papi’s shoulder, and I lean on his other arm.

  I take out a piece of Diana nougat fresa candy from my pocket and unwrap it. Mom lifts her head off Papi’s shoulder. I remember that we already drank milkshakes, so I go to put it back in my pocket.

  “You can have it, mi amor,” she says. “Just this once.”

  I finish unwrapping it and put the whole thing in my mouth, in case she changes her mind. I rest my head on Papi and everything is quiet except for the Diana nougat skipping in my mouth like a flat rock across a river. My head bobs up and down as Papi’s tummy starts bouncing and then I hear Mom laugh. Abuela looks over and just shakes her head.

  The next morning, after church, I tell Mom and Dad that I want to go to the library to thank Mrs. Liz for all her help.

  “It’s open on Sunday?”

  “Yeah, it’s closed on Thursdays but open the rest of the week.”

  “Didn’t know that,” Mom says.

  Gus and his family find us when Mass is over. They’re going to meet us at the barbecue at Barry’s house later.

  “See you there, Señorita Emilia,” Gus says.

  “Hasta luego, Señor Gustavo.”

  Mom and Dad decide to go for a walk, and Abuela stays behind to help out with the next service.

  “See you at home, Chispita,” Papi tells me.

  “¿Chispita?” Mom asks.

  “We’ve been working on the Shelby together,” Papi explains, “and we came up with a new nickname.”

  “Little spark, huh? I like it.”

  Papi winks.

  “Did you know,” Mom says, “that your dad bought that car fourteen years ago?”

  “Really?”

  Papi nods.

  “He said he would plan to work on it during every leave, and when he got out of service, he and I were going to drive it across the country.”

  “Why didn’t you finish it back then, Papi?”

  “Well,” he says, “I ended up having something better to come home to.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  My dad can cast spells. Sometimes, like now, they make me feel like I’m floating. I don’t think my feet are touching the ground.

  * * *

  At the library, Mrs. Liz tells me about the changes she wants to make. She wants to host language classes once a week, and she wants to make space for the community to organize and talk about policy. I tell her those are great ideas.

  “Thanks for helping me with my project, Mrs. Liz.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Emilia,” Mrs. Liz replies. “You asked good questions. I just tried to point you in the right direction.”

  I take in a big breath of musty books. It might be one of my favorite smells now.

  “My job is to make sure you have the information you need to make smart decisions as you move through the world,” she says. “I take my job seriously. You can count on me for that.”

  Sometimes your community looks out for you. Like Mrs. Jenkins and her “check-ins” or Mrs. Liz showing me how to find information in the library. Sometimes people help in more subtle ways, like Mr. Richt and his social studies lessons. Sometimes it’s more complicated, like Abuela and her rules.

  I love Merryville and Park View. I love the way the trees surround us on all sides. The way the train tracks cut through town. The way people get too excited about fireworks or a school football game or a random festival.

  There is good in this town, but you can’t put together a vehicle with a messed-up bead line. You can’t expect your car to drive normally with a damaged axle. You have to take it apart. You have to examine the pieces that are warped or corroded or missing. You have to grind out the corrosion. You must take a dead blow hammer and smash the warped parts into place.

  * * *

  At dinner that night, we all sit around the table. Abuela has prepared an enormous amount of food. Steak, yucca, white rice, plantains, black beans (gross), and flan de coco! Then she comes out with a platter of foot-long hot dogs and two bowls—one with chili and the other with shredded cheese.

  “What’s this?” Mom asks.

  “I made something traditional,” she says, pointing to the plate of Cuban food on the table. “And I made your favorite.”

  Abuela passes two hot dogs to Mom. She moves her hands away from the table so Abuela can set down the bowl of chili next to her. Mom leans forward a little to sniff the food. Her hair envelops the plate like a curtain, just missing the bowl.

  “I love chili dogs,” she says softly.

  “You love chili cheese dogs,” Abuela responds. She takes the ladle and drizzles chili over Mom’s two hot dogs. She tosses a pinch of freshly grated cheddar over it. We all watch as the cheese melts into the chili.

  “Got any more of those?” Papi asks.

  “You want a perro caliente también? Not this delicious Cuban food?”

  “Yes,” I chime in. “We definitely want those chili cheese dogs. With fries if you can, Abuela. Por favor.”

  Abuela gives me side eye before huffing and heading back into the kitchen. I overhear her say something about cultural heritage and what kind of person prefers chili to black beans. My dad and I shrug.

  “We’re also Georgians,” Papi says.

  “And we like our chili cheese dawgs,” I say loud enough for Abuela to hear.

  Papi cracks up when I say dogs like that. He says I’m from Georgia. I think he hopes I decide to go to the University of Georgia after high school, but I think I might be interested in Georgia Tech instead. Go Yellow Jackets.

  We eat and chat about the week ahead. Mom doesn’t pepper me with questions about homework. She just asks what the plan is for the week. I run down my list: homework, hanging out with Gus, working on the car. She seems happy with the way I’ve organized my time.

  “When do you have to go back, Mom?”

  Mom doesn’t immediately respond. First she glances at my dad.

  “I don’t know if I want to take the job, baby,” she says. “We’re all finally back together, you know?”

  I’m happy . . . but not completely.

  “Well, we’ll talk about it,” Papi says. “Nothing is set yet.”

  Abuela comes in with two more plates of hot dogs and an even bigger bowl of chili. She struggles to bring everything to the table and ends up dropping the bowl. It crashes on the floor and shatters into pieces. Bits of chili splatter everywhere.

  “Aye, Dios mío,” Abuela says.

  My dad is the first up. He heads to the kitchen and comes back with a roll of paper towels. He hands them to me and I get right to the floor and start sc
ooping up the bits of chili.

  “Careful with the glass,” Mom says. She carefully picks up shards that have scattered everywhere.

  “Déjame buscar el Mistolín,” Abuela says, but before she enters the kitchen, Papi is two steps ahead of her. He returns with a mop and bucket.

  “Wait until Emilia finishes, Antonio,” Abuela says.

  “Mami, siéntese.” My dad motions for Abuela to sit down. “We got this.”

  Mom, Dad, and I work together to clean up the mess while Abuela watches. She points to broken pieces we miss or smudges we need to go over again. Dad pours so much Mistolín, it nearly sends us all out of the dining room from the potent lavender-lime.

  We finish up and sit down to enjoy the meal. Papi returns from the kitchen with another bowl of chili. He serves Abuela and me and then pours some for himself. After Abuela says a prayer as thanks, we dig in.

  It doesn’t take us long to devour the chili dogs. Before we take our last bites, I decide to tell Mami what’s on my mind.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  “¿Sí, mi amor?”

  “I don’t want to move to San Francisco. I want to stay here. In Merryville. This is my home.”

  I take a slow breath. I’m nervous about what she’s going to say, but I want her to hear the truth.

  “That’s why I don’t want to take the job, boo. You’re thriving here. Why would I take that away? I mean we have everything—”

  “But,” I interrupt, preparing the second part of what I have to say, “you should take the job. We’ll find time to visit you when you have to be away for long. And I know you’ll come home as much as you can. We’ll figure it out, Mami.”

  Mom doesn’t respond right away. She lets everything sink in for a minute.

  “Baby, I’m not going to just—”

  “She’s right, Susanna,” Abuela jumps in. “It’s a great opportunity. And we’ll always be here for you.”

  Abuela gets up and moves behind my seat to squeeze my shoulder.

  “Our families didn’t sacrifice for us to hide our talents,” Abuela says.

  “It’s your turn, Sue,” Dad says. He knows she wants to be there. He knows that somehow we’ll figure it out—like all the times he’s left. That’s what we do. We take all the pieces and we put them together. They morph into different shapes over time, but somehow, they’ll all fit.

  Dad knocks on my door at around six on a Monday morning a few weeks later.

  “Come in,” I say, barely able to talk.

  “You told me you wanted me to wake you up early.”

  He flips on my lamp and I turn to avoid the light. He walks in and sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Good morning, Chispita.”

  “Hey, Papi,” I say, still groggy.

  Dad heads to my bathroom and returns to set a few things on my dresser. I peek and see that he’s laid out my brush, a few bows, some hair ties, and some hair spray.

  “You told me you wanted that one, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I move my covers off, throw my legs over the bed, and rub my eyes. Dad opens the curtains to let the early morning light wash in.

  “All set for you, Chispita.”

  “Thanks, Papi.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  I give my dad a big hug.

  “I’ll make some café con leche,” he says.

  “Yummy.”

  I start my new morning routine. After I’m dressed, I move over to my dresser and take my hair products to the full-length mirror Papi set up in my room. I fluff my hair for maximum volume and add a little hair spray. When I’m done, I spritz on some body splash and bring my things back to my bathroom.

  Papi returns with the pot of café and a cup for himself. Together we watch the trees and birds outside my window. It’s a perfect moment, until Abuela pops in with a flatiron.

  “¿Ya te levantastes?”

  “Sí,” I tell her.

  “And she already did her hair, Mami,” Dad says.

  Abuela gives us both a look.

  “Pero ¿cómo vas a ir al colegio así?”

  “I told you, Aurelia. It’s her choice.” Mom appears over Abuela’s shoulder.

  I scrunch my hair a few more times so the curls settle around my shoulders. I admire myself in the mirror.

  “Impressive,” Papi says. “I love it.”

  I turn to Abuela and shrug.

  “I like lions, Abuela,” I tell her. “What can I say?”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Papi asks if I can join him in the living room. It’s been a rough day, because Mom just left for the West Coast to start training for her new job. It’s just me and Dad at the house because Abuela is at the auto shop.

  Papi has his back to me as he fiddles with the TV. I’m not sure what’s going on, but if we’re about to watch a movie, I hope it’s Labyrinth.

  He seems to have queued up what he wanted because he joins me on the sofa. Papi is quiet, barely moving except when he rubs his hands together on his lap. I can’t quite read his face. He’s acting really weird.

  I’m about to ask him what’s up when the video starts to play.

  DAD’S VIDEO

  #1

  Dad leans against his workbench. He’s wearing his Marine-issued utility uniform and boots. His cover is resting on the workbench behind him, and he messes around with a wrench. He seems nervous as he stares into the camera. His name is on a strip of fabric stitched to the right side of his blouse. He shaved his beard and cut his hair short like it used to be. In the dark of the garage, he could still be on tour somewhere thousands of miles away.

  “Um, well, here it goes,” he says. “Hang on—let me make sure this thing is recording.”

  He walks over to the camera and out of view. The workbench comes in and out of focus as he adjusts the lens. The camera rustles a few more times before Dad comes back around. The late spring wind brushes against the beech trees just outside the garage. The shop is closed, but there’s something like a low-budget spotlight on my dad.

  “Okay, take two,” he says.

  He inhales and closes his eyes. The camera catches every movement as he exhales. Finally he opens his mouth to state his rank.

  “Staff Sergeant Antonio Torres,” he says. He goes on to list his company and the tours he did during his twelve years in the Marine Corps.

  “Actually, I don’t know why I’m stating all of this. You know who I am, and you know more or less how many times I’ve been away from you and Mom and Abuela. I know you sent those videos, and I want to tell you right now that I saw every single one of them.”

  Papi pauses to think before continuing.

  “The thing is, I severed myself from my family so I could fight. Sometimes I didn’t want to hear from back home. When you’re out there and you’re seeing action, getting fired on from all directions, you just assume that that moment could be your last. You feel a kind of numbness inside.”

  My chest starts to feel heavy. I watch my dad struggling to continue.

  “Emilia, it was hard for me to think about home while I was out there. I felt like one person with my unit and another totally different one back home. I haven’t figured out how to balance everything, but I’m going to try harder. I promise.”

  Papi clenches his jaw like I do when I’m stressed or angry.

  “I should have responded to you. I should have sent you a video every dang chance I got because what good is fighting to protect the ones you love if you can’t show your love?”

  Papi’s eyes are red and I can tell he’s fighting back tears. I feel my own eyes welling up. He holds his gaze at the camera and nods before walking out of frame. The video keeps rolling and I see the welder off to the side and the dead blow hammer and clamps organized neatly on the wor
kbench.

  “I’m having a hard time right now,” he offers, coming back into frame and looking at the camera. “You know how sometimes you have trouble focusing on one thought when there are lots of thoughts in your head? Like when you’re trying to do homework or take notes?”

  I nod at my dad on the TV.

  “Well, the same thing is happening with my feelings.” His head drops and his shoulders sag. “I’m feeling a lot of things right now, and I’m having trouble controlling which feelings get out and which ones don’t. Does that make sense?”

  He pauses to catch his breath, letting the tears fall down his cheeks.

  “But I know it’s not fair to you and Abuela and Mami. So I want you to know that I am going to get help. I do care about how this is affecting you. Okay?”

  I move my hand across the sofa and give Dad’s hand a gentle squeeze. He turns his palm upward and takes my hand in his. We don’t say anything or even look at each other. We don’t have to.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Many aspects of the novel, however, are drawn from research on subjects ranging from finding reliable news resources to immigration law to neurodiversity to our nation’s veterans and active duty military. These are all important topics that affect the lives of children and families from varying socioeconomic, racial, and cultural backgrounds. Knowledge is power, and I hope the list of resources below will be a useful tool to, as Mr. Richt says, “dig deeper” into the important themes explored in Each Tiny Spark.

  CRITICAL READING

  Society of Professional Journalists Code of Ethics

  www.spj.org

  There is a great deal of information (and in many cases, misinformation) available today. SPJ’s Code of Ethics is one tool to help determine the credibility of an article or news organization. The code includes the following four principles: “seek truth and report it,” “minimize harm,” “act independently,” “be accountable and transparent.”