Each Tiny Spark

by Pablo Cartaya

  It’s cool to think about how people travel in and out of a place. The streets don’t change, but the feet walking on them do. I wonder if it’s the same with laws when towns change. Do they have to stay the same?

  * * *

  Shaney’s is an antique costume store, but what it’s known for is its awesome metallic jewelry. A lady named Ms. Marci owns Shaney’s. It’s named after her daughter.

  I hurry over to a section of the store filled with Tolkien memorabilia. There’s a replica of Sting, the blade Frodo uses in the Lord of the Rings. Abuela says I can’t buy it even though Papi and I play with it. He starts acting like Shelob, the giant spider from the book, while I aim the sword at him to fend him off.

  “Van a romper algo,” Abuela says, even though I’ve never broken anything at Shaney’s.

  “It’s fine,” Papi says, lunging for an attack. He wraps his arms around me and Sting falls to my side.

  “Arrghh!” Papi digs his face into my shoulder and pretends to bite down. I squirm because his face tickles my neck.

  “Papi! Your stubble!”

  He releases his grip and starts tickling my ribs. I fall and Sting goes crashing to the floor, sending a bell-like sound through the store.

  “Every warrior needs a weapon!” Papi says, picking up the sword and handing it to me.

  Abuela takes the sword and gives it to Ms. Marci, who places it back in the display case.

  “He’s right, though,” Ms. Marci says, winking. “You never know when a giant spider is going to attack.”

  My dad moves to another display case. He’s like a kid.

  “I love this stuff. Always have.” He marvels at a double-edged sword. “Isn’t this cool?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  I grab a feathered quill and parchment paper that appears ancient and point it at my dad.

  “This is mightier, right, Papi?”

  He nods. “Well, mostly, yes,” he says, putting the sword back on display. “Where’d you learn that phrase anyway?”

  “Ms. McKennen taught it to us. It was an English author named Edward Bulwer-Lytton. He said that in 1839.”

  My dad shakes his head and laughs a little. “Chispita, you have such a good memory.”

  “Not for everything,” I say, thinking about Clarissa’s party.

  I take out my phone, hoping to see a message from Gus. I haven’t heard from Clarissa, either.

  The jewelry section is my next stop, and I find a few cool bracelets and necklaces. Abuela browses the gold-plated ones with saint pendants. I like the metallic necklaces with thick chain mail. I end up buying one with a pendant of a dragon curled around a black ball.

  “That’s pretty awesome,” Papi says.

  Abuela buys me a bracelet with a cross and an oval-shaped pendant featuring Saint Teresa.

  “Ese dragón no te va protejer,” Abuela says, fastening the bracelet around my wrist. She points to her pendant and says, “Esto sí.”

  “Gracias, Abuela.” What else am I supposed to say? I want to tell her that the dragon will protect me too. I really believe that.

  On the ride back, Abuela can’t stop talking about my quinceañera. My dad mostly doesn’t chime in and just drives her truck.

  “La quinceañera is what a young woman dreams of her whole childhood.”

  “Abuela, I’m twelve and a half years old,” I tell her, staring out the window. “I’ve never dreamed about it once. And besides, I don’t care if I even have a party.”

  Abuela flips the visor down on the passenger seat and pops open the little mirror so she can glare at me.

  “¿Tienes fiebre?”

  “I don’t have a fever, Abuela,” I say, although the sudden talk of my quince is warming up my blood vessels.

  “How can you not care about your quince?” She doesn’t even pause for me to answer before she continues, “Everyone will come to celebrate your path to womanhood.”

  “Abuela, please don’t say ‘womanhood’ again. Can’t we just take a trip instead? I’ll even go to Cuba if you want.”

  Abuela is quiet.

  “Emilia, tú sabes que mis padres se fueron de Cuba cuando yo era niña.”

  “I know our family fled, Abuela,” I tell her. “But things have changed. The island is different now. People can visit.”

  “Not me. Not ever. I will die in the United States.”

  “Abuela, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not that bad.”

  I can feel Abuela’s anger vibrating off her.

  “Mi’ja, there have been tremendous sacrifices made for you to enjoy the life you have in this country. You cannot forget that.”

  “If that’s true, then why do I have to have a quince?” I ask. “They don’t do that in ‘this country.’”

  For the third time in sixty seconds, I’ve left Abuela speechless. She flips the visor and her face disappears along with any further discussion of my quinceañera.

  I text Mom to let her know what’s going on. Nobody else has called or sent a message. I wish Gus would answer my texts or at least call me so we can talk about it.

  “Wanna work on the Green Hornet a bit?” Dad asks me.

  “Sure.”

  I take all my new gear, put it into my brand-new duffel bag, and follow him to the back lot at the shop.

  “So, since you’re such a history buff, wanna learn a little about the 1968 Shelby GT 350?” Papi slowly peels back the blue tarp concealing the car.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling a little burst of electricity again.

  “Didn’t think I was going to have a chance to build it,” he says. “But things happen for a reason, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not sure what he’s getting at. I place my welding duffel bag down and begin to suit up. After I fix the goggles on my head, I secure the gloves in the pockets of my coveralls and carry the helmet like I’m about to go on a mission to Mars to fix a space station. I don’t know if there’s actually a space station on Mars but if there was, I would totally look like someone ready to fly up there.

  “If I had started it years ago,” Papi starts, “I wouldn’t get the opportunity to fix it up with you.”

  I can’t stop my lips from curling into a smile.

  “I like working on the Green Hornet together, Chispita.”

  I nod and grin. “So do I, Papi.”

  He tells me that Carroll Shelby, the designer of the Shelby, made one of the greatest American cars of all time.

  “You know that cobra emblem?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “It came to him in a dream.”

  “So cool.”

  Dad lifts the hood. There’s an empty space, and I can see right through to the ground.

  “Gotta get the engine parts,” he says. “Sand the body, weld the hinge pillars, the axles, get some custom tires. Lots of things to put together.”

  Papi rubs the inside of the hood with one hand and inspects the grooves in the metal.

  “You know the word resilience was originally a metallurgical term?” he says, gently dropping the hood closed. “When you bang metal with, say, a hammer, or even melt it with a welder, resilient metal shifts around and bends to absorb the force and the heat.”

  This is pretty amazing.

  “But sometimes metal just gives out when it’s put under too much pressure,” he says. “Even big strong vehicles like Humvees have a breaking point.”

  We clear out some space and Papi and I move the welder outside. We run a long extension cord and set up a workbench. Dad brings welper pliers to keep the pieces we’re going to weld in place, and then grabs a dead blow hammer to straighten out any uneven metal.

  “All right,” he says after he suits up. “Can you bring me that panel over there?”

  There are a few panels leaning against the frame of the car.
They don’t look like anything, but I know that every piece matters. Every piece is important to put the whole car back together.

  “Where do you want it, Papi?” I ask, lifting the panel over my head.

  “Right over here.”

  We continue to work until Abuela comes out.

  “¿Qué hacen?” she asks.

  “She’s going to help me with the Shelby,” Dad replies.

  Abuela appears totally confused.

  “She doesn’t want to work on a car, Toni,” she says. “And besides, do you want her getting grease and grime under her fingernails and on her clothes?”

  “I want to help, Abuela.” I try to sound defiant, but I don’t do a good job.

  “Aye, mi’ja,” Abuela says. “This isn’t a LEGO set. Fixing cars is very dangerous.”

  “I know, Abuela,” I say, a little irritated. But before I continue, my dad interrupts.

  “Mami,” he says. “It’s fine. She’s a natural.”

  “She’s going to get tetanus from messing around with this machinery.”

  “She’s not going to get tetanus, Mami. And besides, she likes this. Right, Emilia?”

  I nod and tell Abuela, again, that I prefer to stay.

  “I was going to ask you to prepare dinner with me,” she says. “We have to go to the grocery store. You can do more research for your social studies project, eh?”

  “I think I have what I need, Abuela.”

  “Mami,” Papi says in a stern voice. “She’ll catch up with you later. I want her here with me.”

  Abuela is silent. Her lips go straight like they did the night Mami told her she was going out west for a conference the same day my dad was returning from deployment. “If she gets hurt . . .” she says.

  “She’s not going to get hurt,” he says. “I’m her dad. I don’t ever want her to get hurt.”

  Abuela is done with the conversation. She storms out to her truck and the engine goes rev-rev-rev like an angry growling dog. Then there’s the sound of tires kicking up gravel as she backs out of the garage.

  “Like I said last time, don’t stare at the welding arc,” Dad says, turning on the welder and pulling his helmet down to start working. Soon there are metal sparks in its reflection. I look away.

  “Listen,” he says all of a sudden, lifting his helmet. “I used to really dislike one of my commanding officers. Guy was such a jerk. Never cracked a joke. Never smiled. I didn’t like some of the tactical decisions he made either, but I listened. That’s a chain of command. And the truth is, he was a good leader. Got the unit safely through each of our patrols. Families can be like that. You don’t always like the order, but you’ve got to trust the commanding officer to do the job.”

  He refastens his helmet and pulls the trigger on the welding gun again. After finishing a bead weld, he places the gun back on the workbench.

  “So Abuela is the commanding officer now?” I say sarcastically.

  Dad lifts his helmet to look at me. I can see Abuela in his face.

  “I can’t be the commanding officer right now,” he says. “And your mom is away.”

  I don’t say anything. Instead I just stare at him.

  “Listen, you’re upset,” he says. “I get it. I used to make that same face when I got mad. But don’t be disrespectful. She’s only looking out for what’s best for her unit, you know?”

  “Fine,” I tell him, not willing to let my frustration with Abuela mess up the really awesome day with my dad.

  In between welds, he pauses to talk about being out on patrol. He says that time, he barely knew what month it was. After about an hour the Shelby doesn’t look any better. It barely resembles the super-fast classic Mustang it’s supposed to be. It’s not like working on my LEGOs. I can build a whole model in the same amount of time.

  “Next up, we’ll get the axles. She’ll come back together in no time.”

  “How long do you think, Papi? Before the Shelby can run again?”

  “Not sure, Chispita. But we’ll do it,” he says. “You and me.”

  The parts of this old car will take time to find. But we know what we need, at least. We have the puzzle mapped out on paper and the instructions on how to reassemble it. I wish I had a blueprint for my dad. I don’t know the pieces Papi’s keeping inside. How can I help him put anything back together if he doesn’t share the pieces?

  After some more time passes, I work up the courage to ask him about my videos again.

  “Papi?” My voice wobbles.

  “Hmm?” He’s focused on the car.

  “But why?”

  “Why what, Chispita?”

  “Why didn’t you ever respond to the videos I sent you?”

  Papi stops what he’s doing and stares at the ground. He exhales loudly and turns to me slowly.

  “You know,” he says, “I’m trying my best, Emilia.”

  He lowers his head.

  “That’s all I can do for you right now.”

  Papi puts his hammer down and walks off, leaving me with the shell of an old car and a welder that’s still on.

  * * *

  The rest of the evening is quiet. Gus still hasn’t responded to my texts and I’m worried he’s really angry. I even sent Clarissa a text telling her I’m sorry I didn’t go to her party. She didn’t respond either. Papi has been in his room, watching TV. Mom called him a while ago and they talked for a little bit. I could hear snippets of the conversation from my dad’s responses.

  “Sure. I know. I am trying. No, I don’t need to make an appointment. I’m fine. Okay. Yes, I know she is. I know she is. Man, she’s got a ridiculous memory! Takes after you, that’s for sure. Ha. Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you in a few days. Cool, can’t wait to hear. I love you. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

  * * *

  I have a memory for things that matter to me. I’m not giving up on my dad, not by a long shot. But he’s going to have to talk to me, even if it makes him uncomfortable. Actually, everyone needs to start doing that around here.

  I wake up Sunday morning to my phone pinging like a million times.

  Abuela: ¿Dónde estás, mi’ja?

  She repeats some variation of “Where are you?” in six different texts and two languages. She’s waiting for me at church.

  I think about all the times Abuela has forced me to go with her to church even though Mami said I didn’t have to. Thanking God for all our blessings is as important as hanging out with friends and playing, according to Abuela. I get that, but the level of involvement she has at church is supernova. She volunteers for food drives, organizes bingo nights. If Abuela is not at the shop, at the grocery store, or at home, she’s likely at church, even if it isn’t Sunday.

  More often than not, Mami would join us, even though she always says she’s more spiritual than religious. I guess that means she doesn’t need a church to be close to God. That also makes sense to me. Papi has never seemed to care either way, but if he was in town on a Sunday, you better believe he’d go with us. I think we all just wanted to make Abuela happy. Actually, she gave us this really heartfelt speech on her birthday a few years ago about how all she wanted was for her family to accompany her to Mass. She’s the master of guilt-tripping.

  Abuela texts me a few more times and I tell her that I’m on my way. I finish getting ready and head downstairs, where my dad is finishing his breakfast at the dining table. His phone pings a few times as well, but he just flips it over.

  “Good morning, Papi,” I tell him, trying to not think about what happened at the garage yesterday. It doesn’t seem like that’s on his mind either, because he’s all cheery.

  “Hey, Chispita! Sleep well?”

  “Yep,” I say. “You?”

  “Yeah. Talked to Mom last night. She’ll be home in a few days.”

  “She called me after you two talked
.”

  My phone pings again. Then Papi’s.

  “Has she always been like this?” I ask, referring to Abuela.

  My dad laughs. “She’s just hardwired that way. She managed so much after your abuelo passed away that she’s just used to being in control.”

  My abuelo passed when my dad was only thirteen, barely older than I am now. I don’t know what I would do without my papi.

  “Emilia?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You okay?” he asks, patting my arm.

  I say yes, but inside I’m not okay. I miss him even though he’s here, and I’m still mad about what happened at the garage yesterday. I don’t mention it because I don’t want to start the day upset at each other again.

  “Are you coming to church too?”

  Papi shifts uncomfortably. “You go,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you tonight.”

  “But Abuela’s wish.”

  “I’m not really up for seeing all our neighbors today, you know?” he says. “Tell her next week for sure.”

  “Okay,” I say, not knowing how else to respond. “See you later, I guess.”

  “Bye, Chispita.”

  I can’t believe he’s not coming to church. What if I didn’t want to go? Nobody would let me skip it. It doesn’t seem fair.

  * * *

  The parking lot of St. Francis of Assisi is already full. There are a few pines surrounding the property and they always remind me of the way Clarissa and I used to hide behind them to scare each other.

  United Methodist across the street has an equally large parking lot, and I can see churchgoers filing in and out. People wave at each other from a distance—everyone is especially nice to each other on Sundays. Clarissa’s mom and her grandparents used to take Clarissa to church every Sunday. She would cross the street and we’d play together while our moms chatted or Abuela made small talk with Clarissa’s nana. That seems like a long time ago. I don’t see Clarissa, but I spot Mr. Renter getting out of his truck.

  Past the pine trees, Abuela has set up a long table with all my old toys. A few people browse the bins. It’s weird to see people touching my old things.