Because of the Sun

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  “Get that look off your face, Shelly,” he told me. His face was red and shining with grease and sweat. “You always have such a look on your face, you know that? And it’s getting so goddamn old.”

  Mama had gone to pick up her last paycheck from the gas station and Daddy was fixing a lawn mower he’d found on the side of the road in town. He was banging around among all the useless material he’d collected over the years and hoarded in big piles in front of our trailer. Always making so much noise, making sure I knew he could throw anything he damn well pleased as hard as he wanted, till he broke it, even. All that banging made my mouth loose.

  “Yeah, it is,” I told him. “It’s getting old as hell, Daddy.” I knew I shouldn’t have said it as soon as the words were out of my mouth, as soon as I turned to go inside, and prayed to God he wouldn’t throw something at my head.

  He came over so fast, pulled the door open before I even had a chance to close it, nearly taking my arm off. And he threw every insult at me, filled the trailer with them.

  But they couldn’t reach me; they didn’t cut and they didn’t mean a thing. I watched as he got red and raged and his lips formed more and more meaningless words. I watched, half expecting foam to trickle from the corners of his mouth, as he towered over me and I was in awe that none of it—none of it—could reach me.

  But Anna was there and she flinched at each of his words. Even though they were meant for me, they pierced her like just-sharpened arrows.

  And by the time he was done purging all his hate and anger, she looked tired and defeated.

  “Why do you ruin everything?” she whispered when he went back outside and drove away. Maybe to get drunk. Maybe to find Mama and unleash more hate on her.

  “Ignore him, Anna,” I told her. “You have to learn to ignore him and never expect him to be any different. Don’t let your guard down.”

  She shook her head. “You make him like this. You don’t believe in him, so he doesn’t change.”

  It was the most warped pile of crap I’d ever heard, and I lunged for her before I could think. I grabbed her arm and dug my fingers in so deep, so hard, I could feel the veins and tendons and bone.

  “Don’t you ever, ever blame me, Anna. It’s him!” I told her.

  She stared at me. “I hate you,” she said. It wasn’t the first time she’d said that to me, but it was starting to sound truer and truer.

  “You wait,” I told her. “It’s going to be the same, same as always.” She shook her head, refusing to believe me, telling me I was wrong. I didn’t know how she could still believe anything could be different, but she did. And even though it was backward, I was glad that Daddy was going to prove her wrong and me right. I let go and told her, “You’ll see.”

  Three days later, not even two weeks after he came back with shiny bracelets, we came home from school, opened the door, and there was Daddy with a gun pointed right at us.

  “You were right, Shelly,” he said as he stood there, Mama in a chair next to him. “I’m bad through and through.”

  “I never said that,” I whispered, looking at Mama.

  He laughed. “You did, baby. You’ve said it every single fucking time I looked at you. Like I’m some kind of idiot, some kind of loser!”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry,” Mama said. And quick as anything, he turned and held the gun to the side of her head.

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” he told Anna and me. “It’s not like I’m so horrible that I’d kill your mama right in front of you….” He pulled something on the gun and it clicked. And my guts fell to the floor and Anna sounded like she was taking her last breath.

  “Would I?” he said, and looked at me. “Would I, Shelly?”

  I couldn’t speak, but I knew I had to. I watched as his finger squeezed the trigger, then loosened.

  “Daddy,” Anna said.

  “I’m not talking to you, baby,” he said, looking at her. “No, I’m talking to Shelly. I wouldn’t, would I, Shelly?”

  I shook my head.

  “I can’t hear you,” he said.

  “No, Daddy,” I finally managed.

  He nodded and took a swig from the beer bottle in his other hand. “That’s right, Shelly. I wouldn’t. Because I’m not that bad, am I?”

  “No, Daddy,” I said.

  “I provide for you all…and I came back, didn’t I? I’ve fought in wars, for God’s sake!” He drank the rest of the beer, set the bottle on the table, and put the gun back to Mama’s head. “No…I’m not that bad…or maybe I am?” He stared at Mama as he thought. “Just when I think I’m not, I wonder.” He shook his head and looked at me with drunk eyes. “But if I did ever do anything that terrible, whose fault would it be, Shelly?”

  I looked at Mama and I swear she shook her head a little, but I knew the answer he wanted and I gave it to him.

  “It’d be my fault, Daddy.”

  “Whose, Shelly?”

  “Mine, Daddy.”

  He pulled the gun away from Mama’s head and looked at it. “Well, you remember that when you want to look at me with judgment. You just remember that when you think I’m so bad.” He turned to me, desperate, and said, “If you would just believe in me, sweetheart, if you just would,” and for a moment, I saw in him whatever it was that Mama and Anna loved in him and I hated that he could do that.

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said.

  And he put the gun in his waistband and stumbled outside. A moment later, we heard the roar of his car.

  “I’m fine,” Mama said as she reached a shaky hand for the cigarettes on the table. “Don’t you worry, I’m just fine. He didn’t mean any of it.”

  The next morning she made eggs and toast and he sat at the table and ran his hands over his face. “I was just foolin’ yesterday, you all know that, right?” he said. “Just a stupid game. Gun had no bullets.” He smiled like we were stupid little girls, like how could we ever believe it had bullets! “Your daddy just plays stupid games, that’s all.”

  And Anna’s eyes flickered with something like hope and faith and I stared down at my eggs to make sure he didn’t see what flickered in mine. And just like that, things were the way they’d always been.

  Mama and I do it before we can change our minds. Just the two of us, because Anna is who knows where and it’s better that she’s not here.

  We grab some shovels Daddy keeps among all the junk outside. I wonder where he might have gotten them. I picture him spotting them in a dumpster and determining they were still good before grabbing them and throwing them into the backseat of his car, never imagining they’d be used to dig his grave.

  We wait for the dark.

  We don’t worry about passing cars. Nobody passes through these parts at this hour. Not once when he had her pinned down, not once when we were little and called for help. People never see anything anyway. Even though they know everything.

  We wait until it is pitch-black.

  And then we start digging.

  The scrape of the shovel sounds louder than a scream. And the digging is harder than I expected. It takes a lot longer. We spend hours making that deep, dark hole, disturbing the earth.

  When our hands get raw and soft blisters erupt, I go inside for towels to wrap around the handles. On my way out, I see the crucifix hanging over the door and I close my eyes and walk past Jesus.

  When I get back outside, Mama is muttering, but I can’t make out anything she’s saying. I hold a towel out to her, but she ignores it and keeps shoveling.

  I think we’ve dug deep enough, but Mama says Deeper. At least three times, she says Deeper.

  We have a small ladder in the hole with us now, a rope tied to it so we can pull it out after. I look up at the sky from deep in that hole.

  Smoky clouds rush over the moon. There are no stars to witness our sin. But the moon, the moon sees it all. And the sound of yipping coyotes in the distance makes me worry that the moon has dispatched some kind of wild vigilante justice for Daddy.

  I
shiver, worried the hole will cave in on the two of us and Anna will come back and Mama and I will be gone and she’ll be left with Daddy’s corpse.

  “That’s deep enough,” I tell Mama.

  “Deeper,” she says, and I realize it will never be deep enough for Mama.

  “That’s enough, Mama,” I tell her. “Enough.”

  She looks up at the moon and stays quiet for a long time before she says, “All right.”

  I climb the ladder propped on the side of the dirt wall, pull myself up and out. “Come on,” I tell Mama as I look back down into the hole. Slowly, she pulls herself up and out.

  We pull the rope and the ladder clatters up.

  “Now,” I tell her.

  And we both know what’s next. I look at the trailer, dark except for the dim night-light Anna and I have had since we were children. Always scared of the dark.

  When I open the door, Mama stays silent. She walks to the end of the trailer, grabs one end of the blanket, and begins pulling with a strength I never guessed she had.

  I watch.

  There’s a smell. I hold my breath and gag. I sway, then steady myself and go to help Mama.

  She shakes her head. “No!” she says.

  “Mama…”

  “No,” she repeats. She lets out a breath, grabs the blanket again. “Close your eyes, Shelly. For God’s sake, close your eyes.”

  My knees are weak. My arms shake and I think it’s because of all the shoveling, but I can’t be sure. I fall on the bench and do what Mama tells me. And then, because I can hear her sliding the body along the floor, I put my hands over my ears.

  I hold my breath until I feel dizzy. And I suddenly feel far away, and I’m glad.

  The world is black and dreamy. I’m floating in my own head. I’m dizzy enough to not think about the terrible thing that has happened, that is happening.

  I start dreaming of things that don’t make sense. I start seeing the sun and Anna’s face. I see the moon and the clouds from moments ago. I hear the yipping of the coyotes. Then I see Daddy.

  I see his face.

  And I remember.

  My eyes snap open and I run, but Mama is already at the edge of the hole in the ground and she is just now pushing him in.

  There’s a loud thump as he hits the bottom. I feel it in my chest, in my whole body. It shakes the earth.

  I walk over and grab the shovel and start throwing dirt on top of him. We both do, and we don’t stop, even though my arms feel like they will break and my back burns with pain. I keep going. Mama keeps going.

  We keep going.

  My heart is racing, my mind trying to understand the panic that comes and goes.

  I try to calm down, but I can hardly breathe.

  And then there is not enough air in the world and the shovel slips and I start crying and Mama is with me.

  But I can’t speak, not a word will come out, because I can’t breathe.

  I make animal sounds, horrible sounds that are barely sounds at all.

  I feel Mama holding me. She’s whispering words, but only the horrible hissing from within me registers.

  I think of rattlesnakes, and I worry we are in a pit full of them. I worry Daddy has called them on us.

  I can see Mama’s face. The dark will be gone soon, I think as I look at the sky. The sun will be out and will burn bright and we’ll get caught. We have to finish.

  “I’m okay,” I manage finally, through gasps and hiccups. “I’m fine.” I get up and grab the shovel. “I’m fine,” I tell her again, shoveling more dirt into the hole. “I’m fine.”

  It’s all I can say, because I think my soul flew away. I’m just a body, like Daddy.

  I swallow hard. And I wonder what I am. And Daddy’s words haunt me.

  I’m bad through and through.

  When we’re done, we shower. After we shower, we sit.

  “I’m driving his car across the border,” Mama says.

  I nod.

  “I’ll get a ride back somehow.” She stares out the window. The sun is up. Another day has begun. Somehow. The sun is too bright. The kind of bright that makes your eyes pulse and your head hurt. Mama is dressed in jeans and a white thermal shirt, her hair semiwet. She looks like Mama, the same as always, except for that look in her eye. Like someone who hasn’t slept but is somehow more alert, more aware of any sound or movement.

  Moments later, we hear the sound of tires. Then the slam of a car door. Followed by another.

  Something in my stomach lurches and Mama hurries to her feet.

  “It was all me,” Mama says quickly. “All of it was me, you understand?” She rushes to the window and then to the door, steps outside, closing it behind her.

  “Hello,” I hear her say. I get up and look out the window and see Doña Marcela with her daughter, Rosa; Rosa’s boyfriend; and Anna. They all stand close to Mama.

  Doña Marcela is carrying something in her hands. I can tell from the way it’s wrapped that it’s a container of soup from Delia, the lady who runs the small kitchen in the gas station. Mama knows Delia from when she worked there. Doña Marcela hands the container to Mama and I can picture Delia in that turquoise shirt she always wore and with an apron around her waist, making soup. Wordless, because she spoke to no one. I can see her now, carelessly washing and chopping vegetables so the water splashes on the floor and bits of carrots fly up around her.

  But the chicken, that she chopped with precision. If you listened carefully, you could hear the loud crack of bones, of bodies being broken in half, washed, and thrown into boiling water.

  People wanted to believe Delia’s soup cured every ailment, sickness, hangover, emotional strife. Her chicken soup made its way to houses where tragedy had struck.

  To mothers who had lost children.

  Women with two or three or more children whose husbands had left them.

  Women who just killed their husbands.

  Once I went around back to the gas station kitchen and saw Delia break a live chicken’s neck.

  Pluck its feathers.

  Drain its blood.

  That’s what made the soup so good, people said. It was fresh.

  I look at the soup in Mama’s hands and remember the way Delia would wave at me with the knife in her hand when I’d come looking for Mama, making sure she was there and that Daddy hadn’t come back and done something to her.

  I rush to the bathroom and vomit. Wipe my mouth, then go outside.

  Doña Marcela looks at me and I can tell she knows. I see the way her gaze makes its way over to Daddy’s car and then the patch of dirt where we buried him.

  “I thought I saw your husband leave,” Doña Marcela says. “Last night.”

  Mama’s face drains of the little color she has left and I think again of Delia and her knife and the chicken and I swallow back the fresh bit of vomit that comes up. Doña Marcela glances at the car and continues.

  “Or maybe it’s tonight I will see him leaving.” She and Rosa’s boyfriend exchange looks and he nods.

  Mama watches them for a moment. “I…I…” She turns her head slightly in the direction of Daddy’s car and I can see her struggling to understand exactly what Doña Marcela is saying.

  “Tonight, I think he’s leaving tonight.”

  Mama makes eye contact with Doña Marcela and says, “Yes, that’s right. He’s going…to find work. Not much he can get around here.”

  “No,” Doña Marcela says. “Not around here. He’s got a bad reputation with everyone around here.” Mama keeps her eyes on the woman and then nods.

  “You won’t be alarmed, then, when you hear him take off in the middle of the night?”

  Mama looks at the trio. “No, I won’t….”

  Doña Marcela takes in the bruises and marks on Mama’s face and neck. She gestures toward Anna. “She showed up at my door. Slept on the couch.”

  Mama looks down at the ground. I think she’s hiding tears and I think we are all thinking of the night so long ago
when we thought Daddy had gone completely crazy and we ran to Doña Marcela’s house for safety. Mama nods, and then, without any more words, Doña Marcela, Rosa, and her boyfriend get in the truck and drive off.

  Anna heads inside, but Mama watches them drive away. After a while she says, “We’ll leave the keys in the car tonight.” Then she sits down on one of the beat-up lawn chairs in Daddy’s pile of junk and pulls out her cigarettes. I watch as she tries to regain control of her body but keeps trembling.

  I go to check on Anna. She’s sitting on the table, staring at the floor where his body was. Just stares at the spot. Then she gets up and pushes past me, opens the refrigerator, and takes out one of Daddy’s beers. She looks at me as she opens it, takes a long gulp, and then wipes her mouth.

  “Why’d you leave?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

  “I went to hell,” she says. She puts the beer back in the fridge and slams the door shut. “To say hi to Daddy.”

  That night, I pull my bed out from under the bench and stare at the ceiling. Mama is sleeping, or not sleeping, in the front seat. I don’t think she can hear Anna, or maybe she can and she hears Anna pray and hopes it will save us all. Or maybe Mama is praying too.

  The room and bed at the end of the trailer are empty.

  Anna prays quiet prayers that make her cry. And even though I want to tell her not to bother with prayers, I fix my gaze on the crucifix hanging over the trailer door.

  Jesus looks so small and helpless. I used to pray to him until I realized I was praying to a man pinned to a cross, holes in his hands and ruined feet, gashes in his sides and a crown of thorns on his head, his agony evident from his face and the blood perpetually running from his wounds.

  I felt guilty then, asking him for anything. Jesus had bigger problems. But I also thought he owed me. Because he was the Son of God and could make anything happen.

  Why? I ask him now. I don’t ask him for anything else. Just an answer. But he looks back at me with that sad look on his face and I feel a pang of guilt again.

  And then I close my eyes and feel myself falling into sleep. But he’s there looking at me, so I talk to him.