How Tia Lola Saved the Summer

by Julia Alvarez

  The Swords are paying close attention to every word Mami is saying. The story of losing parents is one they can relate to.

  “Tía Lola took wonderful care of me,” Mami says, misty-eyed. She squeezes her aunt’s hand.

  Tía Lola squeezes back. “We took care of each other.”

  “Our mother died three years ago,” Victoria says haltingly, as if she were still struggling to believe it.

  They all sit in silence, caught up in sad thoughts. Valentino sighs. A log shifts in the fire. In the distance, the croaking of the bullfrogs is relentless, on and on and on. Then, out of nowhere, Cari says, “I’m sorry.” But she’s not talking to anyone in the room. Her face is right up against the Mason jar on the coffee table. Maybe she’s apologizing to the baby tadpoles for scaring them a while ago to prove a point. But then she turns to Miguel and asks if they can go out to the pond again before they go to bed.

  “Sure,” Miguel says. He’s game for a night outing. It’ll feel good to walk around after eating so many s’mores.

  “I know it stopped raining, but it’s going to be awful muddy out there,” Víctor cautions, bringing on the hurdles. “It’s a chilly night, too. You might catch cold.”

  “But, Papa …” Cari’s voice has a teary edge. “The baby tadpoles will be orphans if we don’t take them back to their parents.”

  Who can refuse such a request, especially given the recent topic of their conversation? The world is full of losses, but even so, magic happens: someone steps in to make it better. Tía Lola came to take care of Mami when her parents died. Years later, when their parents separated, she came to visit and stayed to take care of Miguel and Juanita.

  Tonight it is Cari, a.k.a. Charity, returning baby tadpoles to their bullfrog parents. Mami and Tía Lola hunt down rain gear, and soon everyone is dressed in old Windbreakers, slickers, garbage-bag ponchos, boots and galoshes and sneakers. They troop outside, Miguel leading the way, followed by Cari, Mason jar in one hand, magical sword in the other.

  Later, on his way to the attic, Miguel swings by to say good night to the girls—Mami’s suggestion. But he doesn’t mind. He is feeling a lot better, especially after seeing a few stars peeping out from the clouds as they walked back from the pond tonight. It looks like they might have practice tomorrow.

  In her room, Cari is crawling into bed. “Night, Miguel!” she calls out, waving her sword before tucking it in beside her.

  “What in the world!” Victoria exclaims, her mouth dropping in astonishment.

  Cari scrambles out from under the sheets. She hopes there isn’t something scary in her bed that she has to be brave about now, too.

  “Your sword,” Victoria points out, checking both sides of the blade. “There’s no name on it anymore.” Maybe the letters rubbed off when Cari was trailblazing through the wet field, swooshing at the long grass to be sure there were no porcupines or skunks or snakes or spiders in her way?

  Victoria calls Tía Lola from next door, where she is tucking Juanita and Essie into the four-poster bed they have decided to share. “Tía Lola, did you and Cari exchange swords or something?”

  “My sword is upstairs in my room,” Tía Lola declares. “And your sword never left your side. Isn’t that right, Cari?”

  Cari nods. The sword has been her constant companion since Tía Lola said it would make the world less scary and help her become the big, brave girl she really is, who will soon be entering kindergarten.

  “Now that it’s blank, you can put whatever you want on it,” Tía Lola says. And just like that, she pulls a marker out of her pocket so that Cari can write her real name in big, bold letters across the magic blade.

  Four

  monday

  Víctor, the Victor

  Monday dawns with a bright sun, flashing off the shed’s tin roof. By afternoon, the pasture will definitely be dry and ready for baseball practice. Miguel is feeling on top of the world, as if he really can work magic.

  At breakfast, Víctor offers to help Miguel get the playing field ready, gathering the branches and twigs the rain brought down. Mami is relieved, as this will keep Víctor entertained until she gets home. Summer school is in full session, and though Mami is taking off a few days after July 4, she has to put in some hours today at the office. The girls will be fine in Tía Lola’s excellent care. Today, in fact, Tía Lola is running a sort of summer-camp spa, doing the girls’ nails, giving them pedicures, and curling their hair, before they go to town to shop. A girly-girl day. Only Esperanza seems less than delighted with the prospect.

  After breakfast, Miguel and Víctor head for the back pasture. They stop at the shed to deposit the baseball equipment they brought along. Before he stacks the last bat in the corner, Víctor takes a few swings. “Brings it all back,” he says dreamily.

  “Brings what back?” Miguel is curious. They’ve been talking baseball nonstop: scores, players, teams.

  “Oh, you know, being your age, having big dreams,” Víctor reminisces. “I wanted to be a major leaguer big-time. We didn’t really have much of a team to root for in New Mexico, but I watched all the games I could on TV. Even organized my own team. We got pretty good. My coach came out to talk with my familia.”

  “Cool,” Miguel says, taking a second look at Víctor. It is surprising when someone your parents’ age turns out to have dreamed your dreams. “So what happened? Did you go for it or what?”

  Víctor sighs, a sigh so deep and sad, it takes Miguel’s breath away just hearing it. “I was the oldest of seven. Always had to help out. Still, I played all through high school, college, whenever I could. Law school was tough, though. Worked a night shift and weekends to pay my way. Then I got married, along came the kids, my wife got sick.…” Víctor’s voice drops off.

  It always makes Miguel sad when adults start talking about how they’ve had to give up something they really love in order to take on their responsibilities. Doesn’t give growing up a good name at all. But then, Miguel can also see that it hasn’t exactly been Víctor’s choice to have his wife die and stuff. Just as it hasn’t been Miguel’s choice to have his parents divorce.

  “But hey, I ended up with three great kids,” Víctor adds, as if realizing he’s gotten them both knee-deep in some sad memories. “And I’ll tell you, that Essie, she’s a ballplayer. Quite the mean pitching arm. It’s been kind of nice, getting back into baseball by helping coach her team.”

  “So you really do coach?” Miguel wasn’t going to take Essie’s word for it.

  “Absolutely! In fact,” Víctor adds, looking over his shoulder like some cleanup supervisor is watching them, “how about we work on a few pitches before picking up?”

  The morning ticks away. It’s almost noon when man and boy scramble to finish the cleanup. By the time they head to the house for lunch, Miguel has learned to throw a wicked curveball. He has also had a surprisingly good time.

  Miguel hopes that his papi will understand that Víctor isn’t a substitute father or anything. Miguel would much rather hang out with his own father, but then again, Papi has never shown an interest in anything but watching his son play baseball.

  As they come down for lunch, the girls sure look and smell different. Their hair is curled, their nails are painted pearly white and pink, their lips are shiny with lip gloss. The only one who looks normal is Essie, who hasn’t changed a bit.

  Víctor goes over the afternoon plans. After lunch, he’ll drop Tía Lola and the girls off in town. But how will they get back? “Maybe it makes more sense if I just come along?”

  Victoria does not want her father hanging out with them while they shop. That would ruin everything. Papa does not approve of what he calls “consumer madness,” unless it’s taking place in a bookstore in the history or sports section. “Linda said we could catch a ride with her after work.”

  “Either that or we can just hitchhike,” Essie says airily. It’s as if she’s purposely baiting her father.

  It works. Víctor’s face is a mask of c
oncern. “You must never ever—”

  “Get in a car with a stranger,” the Swords chorus, giving themselves high fives all around and laughing hysterically.

  Víctor waits until the laughter dies down. Then he makes his daughters promise they will never ever get into a vehicle with a stranger.

  “You know that rules out ambulances, Papa,” Victoria says, a twinkle in her eye. It’s nice to see her being a little naughty, as she’s always so well-behaved. “Our poor papa. You’re going to get even more gray hairs, worrying about us.” Victoria gives him a peck on the cheek, just so he doesn’t start worrying about getting old and dying.

  Miguel has noticed that Víctor sure is a big worrywart when it comes to his daughters. But if he keeps worrying, he’ll never even let himself coach baseball. He’ll worry about coming home too late after practice or being gone for away games. If not that, he’ll worry about getting hit by a ball and killed and making the girls orphans. Miguel wishes he could say all this to Víctor, but as he himself knows, all the advice in the world doesn’t help until you are ready to change from deep inside.

  “By the way, you girls all look like you had a fine time getting makeovers at Tía Lola’s spa,” their father says. He looks relieved to be changing the subject.

  “I did not get made over,” Essie defends herself. It’s as if her father has accused her of a crime. “I was out front practicing.” Tía Lola found her an old bat Miguel had left behind in the attic, as well as a bag of old balls. Essie has been tossing them up in the air and hitting them against the side of the house. “Not near any windows,” she is quick to say, before her father, who worries about such things, can remind her.

  “Oh, Essie, I haven’t forgotten,” her father says apologetically. Of course, he’ll keep his promise to play ball with the girls. Not that he has any other takers besides her. “I’ll tell you what. Let me drive the others into town. Then you and I can have our own practice. We’ll stay in the front of the house, out of the team’s way,” he adds, to reassure Miguel. “Sound all right to you, Captain?”

  Miguel hesitates. He would actually prefer if all the girls were gone, especially the middle Sword. But even without Mami around to remind him, he knows he would be a bad host to say so. Besides, he totally trusts Víctor to keep his promise of steering clear of the team’s practice. Not that he would mind some tips from Víctor. Just from their session this morning, Miguel can tell that Víctor has that special baseball intelligence that could help the team win their game Saturday.

  Víctor and Essie are already at it by the time Miguel’s teammates begin arriving. Soon a small crowd has gathered, watching the pair. Essie looks like a pro—every pitch under perfect control. Her father calls out pointers.

  “Who’s that?” his teammates keep asking Miguel.

  “A friend of my mom. That lawyer from New York City who helped Tía Lola.”

  “No, not him. The other one. The girl.”

  “She’s just his daughter.”

  Just nothing, their expressions seem to say. We know a fireballer when we see one. “Wish I could play like that,” Patrick says wistfully. Being the team’s smallest, weakest player is no fun. “Maybe she’ll practice with me, you think?”

  Miguel now wishes he had made more of a fuss about Essie staying behind with her father. But how was he supposed to know she’d be such a good ballplayer, making him and his teammates feel average?

  Next pitch is a fastball that should get a speeding ticket. Rudy has just pulled up in his pickup with Dean and Dean’s older brother, Owen, who’s helping coach the team. Rudy has been having a hard time recently keeping up with the kids. Must be getting old, or maybe he’s just too busy with the café to summon the extra steam. “Way to go!” he calls out to Essie.

  Víctor and Essie come over to say hello. One thing leads to another, and Rudy finds out that Víctor has been coaching his daughter’s team in the city. “Anytime you guys want to join us,” Rudy invites them, making Miguel’s self-confidence take another nosedive. But just as he thought, Víctor remembers his promise. “Thanks, but I know the team really has to stay focused, no distractions. And hey, we’re having a great time ourselves, isn’t that so, Essie?”

  But Essie has heard an offer she can’t refuse. What’s more, she herself never made a promise to stay out of Miguel’s way. “I know I can’t play or anything,” she tells Rudy, ignoring her father’s widening eyes, “but maybe I can come watch?”

  “Anytime,” Rudy says, not noticing the very slight shake of the head the girl’s father makes in Miguel’s direction.

  Maybe Miguel was distracted with the idea that Essie would wreck everything, or maybe he shouldn’t have left his good-luck sword back at the house. Not that he could have played ball while carting around a plastic sword almost as big as a bat. But maybe having the sword close by would have avoided what happened. Somehow, as he was winding up a pitch, he tripped and twisted his ankle.

  Víctor must have heard the yelps of pain and raced down, because he’s the one who carries Miguel off the field. After conferring with Rudy, Víctor decides Miguel should be seen in the emergency room to rule out a fracture.

  “Today is your lucky day,” the emergency-room doctor tells Miguel after peering at the X-ray on the lit-up panel. “There’s no evidence of a fracture. But you will need to stay off the foot for at least a week.”

  Víctor, who has been pacing the length of the narrow examining room, stops in his tracks. “A week!” he exclaims at the same exact time as Miguel.

  “Sorry, guys,” the doctor apologizes to both, as the man seems just as upset as the boy. “But you don’t want to hurt the ankle so you can’t play for the rest of the summer, now do you?”

  Miguel can’t stand it when adults ask such ridiculous questions. What’s he supposed to answer? Oh, yes, sir. I would very much like to hurt my ankle and not play baseball all summer. “But what if I take really, really good care of it for a day and it feels totally cured? Can I play then?”

  The doctor is shaking his head. “It’ll take more than a day, sorry.”

  “But there’s got to be something you can do,” Miguel pleads. He is ready to endure anything, even a whole bunch of needles or an operation, just as long as he can play ball by Saturday.

  “Listen, here,” the doctor says, growing a little testy. “My professional opinion is you need to rest it for a week. That’s all I can offer as a doctor. Short of that, I’d be dabbling in miracles.”

  Víctor and Miguel exchange a look. A lightbulb has gone on in both their heads. It just so happens they know someone who might be able to help Miguel get miraculously better right away.

  Back at the house, Mami and Tía Lola and the girls have all heard the news from Essie. Mami is so worried, she’s ready to drive to the hospital, but just then the van turns into the driveway. There is quite a fuss as Víctor carries Miguel up the front steps, Mami asking about fractures, the girls clutching their throats dramatically like Miguel’s some wounded soldier returning from the war.

  After practice, the team streams in, wanting news of their injured captain. They’re also supposed to try on their uniforms, but they feel a little sheepish asking about it, given the bad news that Miguel might not be able to play in Saturday’s game.

  “Hey, team, I want you all up in my room now to try on your uniforms,” Miguel orders, surprising even himself. His team’s morale shouldn’t be brought down by his bad luck. For a moment, he feels an odd, grown-up sensation, putting the happiness of others before his own.

  Víctor insists on carrying Miguel up the two flights, despite his protests. He doesn’t want to look like a baby in front of his teammates. “Just want to protect that ankle until we talk to Tía Lola,” Víctor explains in a whisper.

  Miguel is grateful that Víctor has not mentioned what the doctor said about staying off that foot for a week to his mother. That’s all Mami needs to hear. Then, even if a miracle were to happen, his ankle magically healed, Mami would
not let Miguel stand on that foot until a week—to the minute—was up. But Miguel isn’t sure how long Víctor will keep his mouth shut, given that he is such a worrywart himself. Besides, loyalty among parents has got to be stronger than loyalty among baseball fans.

  Tía Lola has been in and out of Miguel’s room, assessing which uniforms need adjustments. When the last team member leaves, Víctor calls her back in and closes the door. “We’ve got something to discuss with you, Tía Lola.” He is nervously pacing the length of the small room. Miguel is feeling equally nervous, sitting on his bed, his bruised ankle propped on a pillow, his good foot jiggling like crazy.

  “We know that you have special abilities.” Víctor stops short because Tía Lola is shaking her head, denying this fact. Víctor flashes Miguel the same SOS look he sometimes gives Victoria when he needs her help managing some temper tantrum or enforcing some rule. But Miguel can’t think of how to approach Tía Lola either. How do you ask somebody to work a miracle?

  “Isn’t it a fact,” Víctor continues when Miguel doesn’t speak up, “that the swords you gave us have, by your own account, the magical ability to help us face a special challenge?” Víctor is sounding too much like a lawyer, taking a long time to say something simple. At this speed, Mami will soon be upstairs wanting to know why they haven’t come back downstairs.

  “The doctor said I had to stay off my foot for a week unless there’s a miracle,” Miguel blurts out.

  “I see,” Tía Lola says, letting herself down into the rocking chair with one of the uniforms she needs to fix. She looks carefully at Miguel and then Víctor, as if she can see way down to the bottom of each one. “You want me to work a miracle?”

  Víctor lets out an embarrassed laugh. After all, he’s a grown-up, a professional man, a parent—all the requirements for not believing in miracles and magic. And for most of his adult life, that’s what he has been, a hardworking, sensible citizen. But right now he needs his life to go another way. He wants this boy to get to play the game that he, Víctor, had to give up. “I guess that is what I’m asking for.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he hears himself saying.