Family Rules

by Samuel S. Crawford

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  Despite growing up in the twenty-first century, I was almost born on the dirt floor of Mom’s office at El Presidio de Santa Barbara State Historic Park. Mom was in the middle of offering Ned the position of maintenance supervisor when she went into labor with me. Ned had been the one to accompany Mom on the ambulance ride to the hospital. I wish the ambulance had never come. I wish I had been born at El Presidio. If I had been born here, no way anybody would ever be able to take this place away from me.

  When Mom hired Brook and me to work at El Presidio’s Founding Day Extravaganza! & Candlelight Dinner, Dad said we’d be more hurt than help, and even though he was probably right about that, I said that I was going no matter what. Brook said that since all her friends were away at Camp Chattawanga, she might as well tag along too.

  So here we are, all piled into the sedan, Mom sittin’ shot gun so she can yell out, “Dog!” or “Man in crosswalk!” at the appropriate time. But today, Mom’s too worried about Founding Day to do her job properly, so I’m the one who ends up yelling “Welsh Corgi!” when Brook rolls through the stop sign on the corner of Santa Barbara Street and Canon Perdido.

  El Presidio’s Founding Day Extravaganza! & Candlelight Dinner was Mom’s idea for how to make up some of the funding the museum lost when Trump fucked over the state park’s budget. Mom’s whole idea is to charge rich people a bunch of money to spend the day making adobe bricks and tending to the ovens like the Spanish settlers did. Or at least that’s the way Mom explained it to Dad. She even used my idea about ending the day with a period-accurate feast, complete with entertainment and Ned’s famous margaritas. Ned is my best friend. Out of everybody in the family, I love the Presidio the most after Mom. Then it’s Brook, then Dad.

  Dad doesn’t like the Presidio because of the “bougie white people, and the hypocrisy of it all,” but Mom says that Dad just feels out of place. Brook doesn’t like the Presidio either. She says that it’s dirty, and when anybody tells her otherwise she says, “The walls are, like, actually dried mud.” Even though I am only thirteen, Mom says if I study real hard in school like she did, that one day I can run the Presidio myself. That’s how come I’m studying Spanish in school instead of French like everybody else. Once, before Mom got so busy, back when she had an assistant, she took me up the Presidio’s bell tower, and told me that one day, I would be responsible for the whole park. She asked, “You see those buildings north of Ortega Street?” I nodded, then she said, “The Presidio owns all that land.” It was a real Mufasa and Simba moment.

  When we finally get to the Presidio’s parking lot, Brook leans out the window so that she can punch in the four-digit code that raises the control arm. She tries twice, but the arm doesn’t move.

  I ask, “Are you holding down the four and the six?”

  Brook says she is holding down the four and the six, but the arm isn’t rising, and now a truck is behind us, honking so much that Brook throws half her body out the car window so that she can tell Carlos Ortega that she doesn’t care if his great-great-grandfather built one-third of the Presidio’s outer defense wall, if he doesn’t shut up, she’ll– But then Mom tells her she’s being more hurt than help and to run and ask Ned to let us in, for the love of God.

  When we get inside the office Mom points to two skirts; one felt, one cotton. She says, “Those are for you two. There are vests in the closet.” Then she turns around to sort some of the papers on her desk and Brook and I have a silent battle about who will be stuck wearing the scratchy felt skirt. Brook pinches and then twists the skin on my inner wrist, and when I yell out, Mom doesn’t turn around, but she says, “You two better not be fighting.”

  Once we’re dressed, Brook in cotton and me in scratchy felt, Mom tells us that we’ll be running the adobe brick-making station. Brook asks why she can’t run the station about corn or the one where you just help people assemble construction paper Mexican flags. Mom sighs and says, “Because I’m your mother.” The brick-making station is by far the worst because you have to spend all day stomping in mud and hay, baking in the sun, instructing grown men on how to pack goop into small rectangular molds while their wives and girlfriends say things like, “It must be nice to get paid for playing in the mud all day!” Dad used to work the brick-making station with us, but that was back when he and Mom were both interns in the research library. Now Dad hardly comes to any of Mom’s events. Whenever I bug him to come with me, he says, “Kid, this Presidio ain’t big enough for the both of us,” and then he shoots me with finger guns.

  Right before the park opens, Ned brings us coffee and pastries for breakfast. He says, “Your mom wants you to eat!” Ned’s been the groundskeeper here for at least a dozen years. Mom hired him to stay on after he finished his state-mandated community service. Back when Ned was just a kid and the Presidio still had livestock, Ned got in trouble for trying to steal a goat one night. He was under eighteen, so they didn’t throw him in jail. Instead, the court made him work off his crime by cleaning out the Presidio’s chicken coop and feeding all the farm animals. Mom says she’s never seen another man who has such a calming effect on chickens.

  One night, not too long after Ned started his community service, a coyote came down the mountain and killed all of the chickens and the goats too, but Mom hired Ned to stay on as groundskeeper anyway. Even though the board is always threatening to sack Ned for one thing or another, they’ll never get rid of him because nobody knows where he keeps the park keys, or even how to open most of the doors.

  Brook and I head over to the breakfast table, where a couple of the war reenactors are gathered. When they see us, one of the men aims his musket at me and asks, “You come here to take our food?” I can’t tell if he is joking or not.

  Brook crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. Then she says, “Our mom is, like, the Executive Director here.”

  The man is just as unimpressed with Brook as she is with him. He says, “Blanca, last name is Ortega. Ya’ know what that means?”

  I say, “Jose Francisco Ortega was the first comandante of El Presidio Santa Barbara and he served from 1782 to–”

  Brook says, “My name isn’t blanca.”

  Ortega’s descendant says, “Means my family built this place. Means I have more right than you to be here.” Then Mom comes out of her office to tell us to hurry up and get the hell to the front of the museum so we can greet people.

  At eleven, Ned opens the Presidio’s front door and even though Mom made it sound like thousands of people would be trampling one another at the opportunity to watch Brook and me stomping around in a pit of mud, only five people pay for admission. Of those people, only one dorky-looking guy comes over to Brook and me.

  From the adobe brick-making station, we can see Ned over in the north east corner, quickly piling dirt on top of small hammers and pieces of shell so that customers can dig them up. Beyond the chapel, we can see smoke from where Mrs. Ortega is making tortillas.

  “Hi!” says Brook, all peppy and annoying, and the dorky guy says “Hi!” Then he asks, “You two gonna teach me ‘bout rolling ‘round in the mud?”

  Brook makes a show of stomping her feet, like she’s in that one I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel stomp grapes into wine. I say, “Well, did you know that an adobe brick weighs eighteen pounds, and that exactly twenty thousand bricks were used in the construction of–” but then Brook scrunches up her nose and asks, “Oh, did you mean that in a dirty way?”

  The guy ignores her. Then he waves over to a friend and calls, “Hey Pete! Come watch these girls mud-wrestle!” He even says “mud-wrestle” like he thinks he’s some sort of MMA announcer. I know about MMA wrestling because sometimes, when I come into the office with Mom on a weekend, Ned and I will pass the time watching MMA and betting pennies about whether or not a particular fighter will cry. Even though the fighters never do cry, I’ll always bet against an especially sensitive-looking fighter, ‘cause I can’t stand the idea of missing t
he chance to spot a crier before he’s cried. I don’t know how much sense that makes, but when I explained my reasoning to Ned he said that it was ten times better to bet with your heart and lose, then to bet with your mind and win. Even though Ned pretends to be this grumpy, grisly guy, sometimes he can be cheesy like that.

  I tell Brook about us being Ethel and Lucy, but she just rolls her eyes and says, “You know I don’t watch that old-timey crap.” Then that Pete guy comes over, and Brook crosses her arms, but she doesn’t say anything to him. Even though it’s only a couple of minutes after eleven, it’s already hot enough to make me feel as though I am melting into the mud pit.

  The two guys watch us for a moment, and Pete even licks his lips. Then he turns to me and asks, “Your sissy got a tight little puss–” I don’t let him finish his sentence. I tell them both if they don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll shove mud down their throats. After that, all they can do is stumble away, laughing, and falling over one another. When the guys are gone, Brook tells me I shouldn’t swear like that, but then I ask, “They left, didn’t they?” so she has to concede the point.

  After a couple minutes, a little family comes up to our station and the mom asks, “So, what’s this all about?” I start to explain about how the Spanish made their way up the west coast, through what is now Mexico and California, and how, when they got here in 1782, they started using mud and straw to make these massive bricks– but then Brook says, “You have to pay twenty bucks at the main office over there and then you can stomp around in this mud, and at some point somebody is going to come over and do a demonstration on how the Spanish made flat bread in these gross dirt ovens.”

  The dad of the little family says, “Maybe we’ll come back after lunch.”

  As they walk away, I yell, “You should try our tamales!” But the dad turns his head and yells that they just have to run to the car and then– but I know that what he really means is Brook scared them away and that they wouldn’t come back here if their lives depended on it.

  I tell Brook about her ruining my presentation, and how if it wasn’t for her, we could have had five paying customers. She says, “Fine! I’ll be Lucy, but I will not be Ethel.”

  A half hour later, another family comes over, so I help a couple of little kids stomp in the mud while Brook throws hay at us and the parents take photos to post on their social media.

  Then two boys Brook and I know from school spot us from across the street. They dodge a few cars and then Oliver, the cuter of the two boys, leaps over the outer-defense wall. He says, “Heyya Fig. Hey Brook.” Brook and I say “Hey,” and then Oliver asks, “What are you guys doing?” so I explain about the Founding Day Extravaganza! & Candlelight Dinner. Then Brook says her line about Mom being the Executive Director here, only this time, she manages to sound a lot less bitchy.

  The boys actually seem to care about what we are doing, so I tell them about how each brick weighs eighteen pounds, and how adobe actually cools a house during the summer and warms a house in the winter. “It’s almost like magic,” I say.

  Brook laughs. She asks, “I can’t decide who is more of a history dork: you, or Mom?” Then she turns to the guys and asks, “Do you guys want to help me climb out of here?” Once she is out of the pit, she says, “Figgi, you hold down the fort.” She turns back to the boys, waiting for them to laugh at her pun. When nobody says or does anything, Brook asks, “Do you guys want to go get some coffee, or what?”

  “Brook, Brook,” sings Oliver. “When’d you get so sexy?” He’s still got his arm around her, and he even lets his hand drop to her butt. Then he looks me up and down and asks, “What about you, Fig? Need help gettin’ out of those muddy clothes?” While I sort of laugh/snort, I spot Dad walking across the street. I smack Brook, who asks, “What?” Then she smacks me back and points towards the chapel where Mom and Ned are stumbling out of the front door, laughing and holding onto one another.

  I don’t know if I’m more afraid that Dad has seen Brook, Oliver and me, or that he has seen Mom and Ned. Then Mom sees Dad, Brook and me, and all of the sudden, Ned has sort of melted back behind the chapel doors. The boys run down the street. Then Dad and Mom meet me and Brook at the mud pit. The veins in Dad’s neck are bulging. He turns to Mom and asks, “What? You’re using my daughters to lure creepy men into your museum?”

  Brook asks, “You mean men like you?”

  Dad says, “Don’t you talk to me like that.” Then he tells the two of us to go wash up. I say, “We’re teaching people about adobe bricks!”

  And Dad says, “You may not know this, but the two of you are being objectified.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. Then she says that since it’s so quiet, we might as well wash up and get ready for the Candlelight Dinner.

  Ned cries, “En garde!” We salute, lifting our oversized lighters to our heads, then Ned runs towards me, the lighter pointed at my chest. “You’re supposed to say: ready, go!” I explain, backing away. Ned doesn’t care. He runs towards me again, so I block him, and tap his chest with the end of my lighter. After I stab him, Ned makes a big show of dropping his lighter and clutching his chest. “You’ve killed me!” he says, falling to his knees, “Tell my– Tell my wife and children that I love–” But then Mom comes in and yells, “Is this what I am paying you for?” to Ned, who blushes.

  Brook appears behind Mom, bopping up and down, saying, “I told them not to fight, I told them!”

  Mom’s real stressed out because people will be arriving any minute, and only about half of the chapel’s thousand candles are lit. She says, “Any second the mayor will be here! What do you think he’ll say if he sees you two in here fight–”

  But then Ned says, “Mica, it was my fault.”

  Brook says, “I’m going to get dressed.” Then she turns to me and asks, “Are you coming or not?”

  “Coming!” I say, then Brook and I leave Ned to fend for himself.

  As we walk across the grounds, Brook gives me a lecture about how Mom’s under scrutiny from the board, and that, as Mom’s daughter, I need to act mature, etc. etc. I don’t know why she cares. But then I realize that I’ve left my phone in the chapel, so I tell Brook that I’ll meet her in the office, and sprint back to get it.

  When I first open the chapel door, I think that Mom and Ned have gone, but then I see two people wrestling by the altar. After my eyes adjust to the change of light, I realize that those two people are Mom and Ned, and that they are making out! Before now I didn’t think Mom knew how to kiss. Mom and Ned are both so into their kiss that they don’t notice that I am there, witnessing their adultery. Even though I am just a kid, I know all about adultery. All of the sixth graders have to read The Scarlet Letter, so I learned about cheating and all of that grown-up stuff. Before Mom or Ned can see me, I slip out the door and run all the way to the office, where Brook is already dressed, sitting in Mom’s chair, and playing Solitaire on the computer.

  When I bang the door open, Brook doesn’t look up, but she asks, “Did you find it?”

  I say, “Mom and Ned were just making out!” then I explain about what I saw on the altar and how, at first, I thought that maybe two people were wrestling. Brook calls me a liar, so I tell her to go look for herself. The two of us run across the grounds and slip back into the chapel.

  Mom and Ned aren’t kissing anymore, but they are still holding each other. This time, Mom sees me. She takes several very quick steps away from Ned. Then she says, “Hey!” in this real enthusiastic voice.

  Brook and I say “Hey!”

  Then Mom asks, “Figgi, why aren’t you dressed? People will be arriving any second!” Then she marches Brook and me across the grounds, not even looking back at Ed.

  Note

  Distributed with all rights and permissions required. All rights reserved.

  The End

  A story by Samuel S. Crawford.