Pig Park

by Claudia Guadalupe Martinez

  I tried to think about something—anything—else. I stood up and channeled all my energy into my bakery chores. I washed the dishes, wiped the counters, swept the floor.

  When there was no more cleaning left to do, I went back to my room and barricaded myself in. I drew the blinds in an already dark room. I braided my hair, washed my face, took off my jeans, and lay back down on my bed.

  I picked up a magazine, flipped through it, and threw it aside.

  I thought back and counted the loads of brick we sent to the park in my head. One, two, three, four, five... We would finish in no time at that rate. I couldn’t help myself. My thoughts shifted to the boy from the park. I’d only seen him from afar. He was sort of a blur by now, but I hoped that he was as real as me. The presence of a newcomer would mean things were actually turning around. And, honestly, with everything else, it felt nice to think of him.

  My eyelids dropped like ten-pound sacks of flour.

  Chapter 7

  The heat of the sun seeped between the slats of the blinds, warming my face. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. The sun was high enough to leak through my window, which meant I was late—very late.

  I threw on my jeans and ran across the street.

  Our group huddled in the center of the park. I pushed my way in. Casey Sanchez stood at the center. She wore a cut up styrofoam bowl tied around her neck with a belt. The homemade neck brace pushed the meat of her cheeks up like two bulging slabs of menudo. “What happened?” I asked. “Did you fall down the stairs at home or something?”

  Casey grimaced and moaned.

  Colonel Franco shook his head from side to side. “She got hurt yesterday. The boys will finish what we were doing with the bricks. You girls come with me to the Chamber of Commerce office,” he said.

  Josefina was a red-faced beast ready to strike.

  “I’m pulling you out of the field. It’s not safe,” Colonel Franco continued.

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious. It didn’t seem like Casey had lifted a finger the day before. Besides, if it came down to a safety issue, everyone needed to go. Not just the girls.

  “But—” I started and stopped. I shut my mouth. Banishment to the Chamber office was still a step up from being sent home.

  I followed Josefina to the Pig Park Chamber of Commerce office, which was located in Colonel Franco’s basement. Stacey grabbed hold of the wheelbarrow, and Casey squeezed her body inside it. The wheelbarrow’s wheels squealed in protest. Stacey pushed hard and kept up the pace. She panted, but held her head up high like she was doing something very important.

  “They’re like two great big toads on parade,” Josefina snarled under her breath.

  I smothered a smile with my hand. Casey did look like a great big toad. At least they were wearing regular jeans and T-shirts this time.

  Colonel Franco’s basement was dark and humid. A fluorescent bulb and two small windows didn’t brighten the room. The small oscillating fan blew air with all the power of a pinwheel.

  It was just how a person might imagine. There were medals—commendations for service in several wars—all along one wall.

  Colonel Franco ripped a dartboard from the opposite wall and took a case of beer out of the refrigerator—I assume to keep it out of reach. He carried everything away and returned with a large whiteboard. He hung it on the wall in place of the dartboard.

  Casey and Stacey collapsed on the sagging couch in the corner. Josefina and I sat on the leftover stools around a card table.

  “We need permits to build. You will help me fill out the paperwork. You’ll fill out applications to file,” Colonel Franco said. I swallowed and heard the saliva making its way down my throat. It was that quiet. I looked to Josefina. Her face was a perfect emoticon of anger. Her lips pursed tight until they curved downward into a downward parenthesis.

  “We don’t even know how we’re building it yet,” I said.

  “I suppose that would be a problem. I’m about done drawing up the plans. You can write letters to government officials so they know that we’re real people asking for real things, meanwhile. This is just as important as lugging bricks. I won’t ask you to like it, but that’s what you’ll do,” Colonel Franco said. He cracked his neck.

  He moved to his desk. He pushed the big button on his computer. The fat screen hummed and vibrated, struggling to reanimate. Several minutes passed. He pulled out a box of pencils, paper, and a list of names and addresses and slid them across the table in front of us. “There is only one computer anyway.”

  “Can we at least get a radio or a TV?” I asked. We needed something to cut the tension.

  “Please.” Josefina finally opened her mouth.

  “Please. Please,” Casey and Stacey joined in.

  “We’ll see,” he grumbled. He disappeared. He reappeared after a minute with one of those antique televisions sets with rabbit ear antennas. I could see what Iker meant about his grandpa never throwing anything away. He put the TV down and disappeared again.

  I flipped through a series of fuzzy channels and settled on the black and white movie station.

  A movie called The Devil and Daniel Webster came on. I’d seen it before. A man cuts a deal with the devil in order to get rich. He becomes filthy rich at his town’s expense. Little by little, he loses control. The devil comes to collect. Daniel Webster, the hero, sues the devil for the man’s soul on the basis of his American citizenship.

  “Would any of you ever sell your souls?” I asked.

  “Sure, to be rich.” Stacey answered. “Besides I got a God-given American right to sell anything I want.”

  “You don’t have any rights. Look at yourself. Not with a name like Sanchez,” Casey said.

  “This isn’t Arizona—or Alabama,” Stacey shot back. I had opened a can of Sanchez. They bickered like two old ladies over coffee. I was sorry I’d asked.

  “We better do some work if we ever want to get out of here,” I interrupted. I’m not sure why Casey and Stacey listened to me, but neither muttered another word. The pair leaned over their stacks of papers and scribbled.

  “Wish it had been that easy an hour ago,” Josefina said.

  I shrugged. My toes danced against the linoleum below. I stared at the paper in front of me. My fingers were warm and moist around the pencil. I looked over at Josefina’s letter. She’d written a standard Please help us / Thank you letter. I wondered how many Please help us / Thank you letters anyone should ever have to read. I tapped the tip of the eraser against my forehead until the words rattled out, and I began writing.

  My name is Masi Burciaga. I am fifteen years old, and I have lived in Pig Park my whole life. My family owns a bakery here. We are among the few who didn’t move away when the American Lard Company closed down. That may change soon if we don’t find a way to bring people back.

  So a bunch of us want to hang out, build a pyramid in the middle of Pig Park and save our neighborhood. Are you in?

  I was rambling, but I didn’t care. I copied the text onto a clean sheet. I copied it again and again, changing the ‘dear whomever’ part each time. My knuckles turned white and a soft bump began to form on my middle finger.

  When Colonel Franco came in and announced that we could go home, I jumped up and placed my stack of letters on his desk. I rushed upstairs and breathed in the thick hot air.

  Josefina stood outside. She patted her face and winced. “I told you. It’s time to throw in the towel. This feels more like summer school than summer camp. These letters aren’t going to do anything. Who even reads letters written in pencil anymore? This isn’t nineteen ninety-two.”

  “At least your skin will have time to heal,” I said. Once again, I didn’t know what else to say to her. I could see her point. She was right about the letters. I was sure they would end up under a pile of coffee-stained papers that everyone would forget.

  I hadn’t escaped the bakery for this. If that boy from the park was real and came back, I would miss it. It was a silly thi
ng to suddenly think about, so I didn’t say anything to Josefina. As much as I couldn’t bear to sit in Colonel Franco’s basement one more day, I also didn’t want Josefina to have another reason to throw in the towel. At least we were still together.

  We walked to the south end of the park where we found the boys clearing the overgrown grass from an area marked off by blue duct tape, about eighty by eighty feet, a perfect square. It looked to be about one eighth of the park. They were also digging a trench along the tape.

  Marcos looked up and jogged over to us. I caught myself eyeballing his biceps—the way they strained against the cotton of his shirt as he ran. What was it with me? Maybe the summer heat was making me boy crazy. I told myself not to stare.

  “Did you miss me today, Masi?” His hand shot up and tucked his hair behind his ear.

  “About as much as I missed scrubbing dishes,” I said, a little too quick.

  “I think that’s a yes.”

  Red inched up my cheeks. I changed the subject. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “We’re digging out the rest of the trench along each side of the pyramid,” he said. Marcos grinned and ran back to where the other boys were still working.

  “Your brother is weird.”

  “Ugh. I can’t believe we’re related sometimes.” Josefina crossed her arms over her chest and paced back and forth. “Masi, I don’t want to shovel dirt any more than I want to write letters, but it would serve Casey and Stacey right if we figured out a way to get Colonel Franco to let us work outside again. They’re not going to be the reason everything changes for me. I get to decide.”

  A smile crept onto my face. I didn’t care about Casey and Stacey. It only mattered that it made Josefina want to stick around for the time being. Everything would go back to normal once we saved Pig Park.

  Chapter 8

  My fingers tightened around the extra cookie cutter. I was tired of sweeping up crumbs and doing things that didn’t seem to matter, like writing. I waved the aluminum pig outline high in the air. “Can I help you, Dad? I already scrubbed the dishes?” I begged.

  “Are your hands clean?” he asked.

  I pushed my free hand up to his face. “My hands are just about clean. We’re only writing letters.” I couldn’t help complaining.

  “Letters?”

  “Yeah, boring stuff.”

  “I’m sure Colonel Franco has his reasons.”

  I looked at my dad for a second. I wanted to tell him all about Casey and the homemade neck brace, but I decided not to. I didn’t want to put the idea of me getting hurt in his head. It would just worry him. Then he wouldn’t want us at the park either.

  “Don’t just stand there. Wash your hands.” My dad waved his rolling pin in a shoo away motion. “La, de, da…”

  I moved to the sink.

  The bell we put out when we left the front room unattended rang. My dad hurried out. I pushed the door a crack to see. Colonel Franco stood a few feet from my dad.

  “Good afternoon, Tomás.” He nudged someone toward my dad. “This is a student of Dr. Vidales Casal. He’ll be staying with Jorge Peregrino at his warehouse for the summer.” I pinched myself. The boy from the park stood in the middle of the room wearing a red polo shirt this time.

  “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Felix Diaz.” Felix said. He grabbed my dad’s hand between his two hands and shook it. His voice was soft, not like Colonel Franco’s grating consonants and vowels.

  “Dr. Vidales Casal’s university in New Mexico will give Felix school credit for volunteering. A couple of kids will be coming up from the school,” Colonel Franco continued.

  “Masi, come here.” My dad pulled the door open. I was leaning against it. I lost my balance and stumbled into the room. “This is my daughter, Masi.”

  I nodded at Colonel Franco, then wiped my moist palm on the leg of my pants. I pushed it toward Felix. My nose aligned with the tiny embroidered lizard on his shirt. I looked up. He was very good looking up close. He had cat eyes—pupils so large it was hard to tell what color his irises were. He blinked. Two curtains of lashes floated against his cheeks.

  Felix squeezed my hand. He sauntered across the room, looking through the glass cases at the bread on the trays. The labels on the shelves read: conchas, cuernitos, bolillos, marranitos—aka conch-shaped sugar- topped loaves, croissants, white baguette style rolls, and ginger pigs.

  “Have a taste, Felix,” my dad said.

  Felix picked up a large fluffy conch. He tore off pieces and stuffed them in his mouth until it was nothing but sugar dust on his shirt. “Delicious. I wish I could make this myself.”

  “You bake?” my dad asked with a grin.

  Felix laughed. “I try every now and then. Nothing this good.” Felix went on about how he could make out the taste of lemon rind. He listed out other spices I was surprised he’d even heard of, like anise and cloves. “I decided to minor in chemistry when I discovered an ability to decipher the ingredients in almost anything, but my major is business.”

  “Very nice. Speaking of business, will you kids excuse us for a minute?” My dad ushered Colonel Franco toward the door. “What’s all this business about these kids writing letters?”

  “We’re reaching out to some of our public officials,” Colonel Franco said.

  “Can’t Jorge Peregrino just make some phone calls? I know he knows some people in the Mayor’s office.” My dad was right. Peregrino was more than connected, and he was more than doing okay moneywise. He the richest man in Pig Park. He had made a fortune importing and distributing herbal supplements from south of the border. His customers and friends were everywhere. Big cities, small ones. Rich neighborhoods, poor ones.

  Felix walked towards me. “You have an interesting name,” he said.

  “My mom wanted to name me Tomasina after my dad. My dad didn’t like it, so they named me Masi for short. Spelled M-A-S-I, but pronounced Mah-see.” His lips parted. He smiled a bleached-tooth smile. Heat rose up my spine. I was suddenly nervous—or some other thing.

  “So it’s a family name.”

  “Yep. After my dad.”

  “How long have you been in business?”

  “Since before I was born. Well, my parents have been. I mean.” My voice cracked. It was city asphalt in the spring.

  I excused myself and ran back to the kitchen. The kitchen door swung closed. I pressed my back against the nearby wall. The voices in the front room carried on a few more minutes.

  I waited until I was sure that they were gone and walked back into the room.

  My dad smiled like his face was about to split in two. He washed his hands and wrapped up the ball of masa sitting on the counter. “This thing seems to be catching speed,” he said.

  “Yes.” I wiped down his work area.

  My mom entered the room and headed for the register. I glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes past seven: closing time. “We had company?” she asked.

  “Colonel Franco was here.” My dad drew the blinds. He turned the deadbolt on the door. “Dr. Vidales Casal sent a boy to help. Colonel Franco came to introduce him. He seemed nice.”

  “You didn’t call me. I would like to have met him.”

  “You were taking a nap,” my dad said.

  “I was tired.” My mom pulled out the register’s tray with such force that a coin flew out. There were ten singles, two fives, four quarters and a roll of dimes in there—no more than we kept to make change.

  I don’t know if it was from just waking up, but I could tell she was in a mood. I backed away and tiptoed upstairs.

  I lay in my bed staring at my bedroom ceiling. I thought about Felix’s eyes, his lips and his skin the color of toast.

  Chapter 9

  “That’s my pencil,” Casey said.

  “No it’s not,” Stacey said.

  “I bought it!”

  “No you didn’t!”

  They talked non-stop, back and forth, their words flying everywhere, crowding the already sm
all basement. I leaned into Josefina. “Did Colonel Franco visit you guys yesterday?” I asked.

  “Sure did,” she said. “Colonel Franco walked HIM up and down the street and introduced him to my parents. Do you think the rest of them are that cute?”

  “The rest of who?”

  “He said more students would be coming to help us.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are New Mexicans supposed to be cute?”

  “Same as old Mexicans.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I know.”

  “Old Mexicans like the Colonel?” Casey interrupted.

  “Ew. This is a conversation between two, not three,” Josefina said. She made a big to-do about turning her chair around so that she was facing me and giving her back to the Sanchez sisters. “That boy sure is something to look at. Even more reason to get outside.”

  I nodded, relieved at Josefina’s changing attitude. Her good mood was contagious. I smiled. Stacey smiled. The Colonel burst into the room. Even he smiled.

  He stood in front of us and held up a large paper for us to see. “Okay, girls. I’ve finished the blueprints. Now, someone dial Jorge Peregrino’s number for me.”

  Josefina grabbed the phone, punched in the number and handed it to him. Colonel Franco didn’t waste time with small talk. “Jorge, can you call some of those construction friends of yours? Yes. Tell them that we still want to use the salvaged materials the kids hauled.” Colonel Franco nodded, uttered a few mmms, and hung up.

  The phone rang a couple minutes later. Colonel Franco reached for the phone and pressed it against his ear. “Done,” he said. He put down the receiver and sat at his desk. He smiled. “A construction company has just offered to donate and build the support beams for La Gran Pirámide’s structure.”

  It all looked so easy. Maybe it was because Peregrino was important or because our pyramid was so extraordinary, but people just wanted to be a part of it like Peregrino had promised. It didn’t matter much as long as it got done.