I never thought the answer would be the kitchen pantry. Yeah, the thing is huge for a house that has the washer and dryer in a hall closet and barely any other storage space. But it’s way too small for a bedroom.
Inside, Papi’s built a platform. Thick plywood sitting on strong legs. The thing fills the entire pantry. “That’s your desk, mijo.”
“What about my bed?”
He whips out a paper with detailed sketches and measurements. Another piece of plywood is going to sit right on top of the desk. A mattress will go on that. When I’m working at the desk, the bed will be hanging above from the rafters. I’ll lower it so it sits right on the desk when I need to sleep.
“How long you been working on this?”
“A while, mijo.” We go to the yard out back. He’s got a sheet of plywood on sawhorses. He hands me the power saw. “I started. You finish.”
Papi used to do this stuff with Manny. Then Manny left and he’d work alone. So I never really learned. And I’m a little scared thinking about the damage I could do with this power tool. “You sure, Papi?”
“¿Cómo no?” He acts like it’s no big deal. He says the blade is sharp so I don’t have to push or force it. “Let the machine do its job.”
I pull the trigger. The saw screams to life. I flinch and almost lose my grip.
“Bend your knees,” he says. “Lean in. Look over the blade to your line.”
I cut it real slow. And pretty straight.
“Eso,” Papi says, slapping me on the back.
He grabs one end of the board. I grab the other. We carry it into the house together and place it on top of the desk. Perfect fit.
Papi tells me to get on the platform. He climbs up, too, and we stand, our heads in the pantry rafters.
Papi stomps and hops. I do it, too. He says, “It’s strong, no?”
He shows me how to rig these funky pulleys way up in the corners. I thread rope through, and he shows me how to tie knots onto eyebolts we screwed into the corners of the plywood.
When we’re done, Papi leaves the room. He returns hauling in a twin mattress. He lays that thing on top. He takes the sheets and carefully makes the bed. Hospital corners. No wrinkles. He tells me to climb in. “Comfy?”
“Muy comfy, Papi.”
Then he says, “Prepare to study.”
I get out and re-make the bed just like he did. Then I yank the pulley rope and the bed platform lifts up to the ceiling. It clicks into place and stays up there good.
Papi walks out again and comes back rolling an old office chair. He motions for me to sit. I sit and he wheels me to my desk. He hands me a shiny red toolkit. Pops it open. It’s full of office supplies, including—whoa—the expensive graphing calculator I been needing.
“Papi, how much did all this—”
“No importa, mijo.”
More measuring. More cutting. Nailing, screwing. We make cubbies to put below the table. Papi bought boxes for me to put my clothes and stuff in. I slide the boxes into the cubbies.
Soon, we’re standing there, staring at the bedroom-office that used to be a pantry.
“It’s cool, Papi. It’s strong.”
“If you build something, you make it right,” he says. His smile goes. “Lo siento, mijo. This is the best we can do right now.” He starts putting tools away.
I don’t want this moment to end, so I ask him if he has more ideas for tricky stuff like this.
He taps his head with a finger. “All up here. For someday.”
“I’ll help you out again next time,” I say.
He holds out a hand to shake on it. “You’re good with the saw,” he says.
I can’t help but smile. We shake to seal the deal, then I shove my hand in my pocket. I feel that paper.
I wanna tell him.
But I’m not there yet.
And that’s not what this moment is about.
“It’s really cool,” I say.
“You sure, mijo?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2009
Late night. Quiz in US History tomorrow. Sectionalism and the causes of the Civil War. It’s depressing, but I got all the vocabulary and concepts down.
I put the book in a cubby.
Lower the bed.
Crawl in my covers and close the doors.
And then …
TUE FEB 3 11:36 P.M.
Wendy: You are too far.
Wendy: I want you here.
Wendy: Right now, Teodoro.
T: Right now?
Wendy: Right. Now.
T: This late?
Wendy: Yes.
T: On a school night?
Wendy: On a school night.
T: That would be awesome.
Wendy: Yes it would.
Wendy: Because
Wendy: I
Wendy: Want
Wendy: To
Wendy: Kiss
Wendy: You.
T: Oh man.
Wendy: Just one
Wendy: Soft and juicy
Wendy: Kiss.
Wendy: And I want it now!
T: Kiss me, woman!
Wendy: My lips on
T: Yeah?
Wendy: My lips on your
T: Yeah?
T: YEAH?
T: YOUR LIPS ON WHAT?
T: ON WHAT, WENDY?
T: YOU STILL THERE?
Wendy: My lips on your sweet cheek
T: WHOA NOW, GIRL!!!!
Wendy: Are you stuck on all caps?
T: OOPS.
T: There. What next?????????
Wendy: One soft kiss on that cheek,
that fat, rosy cheek.
T: Clarification: Are we talking
about my fat rosy face cheek?
Wendy: Your fat rosy face cheek.
Right now!!!
Wendy: I wanna taste it!
T: Holy crap, Martinez!!!!!!
Wendy: RIGHT NOW!
Wendy: My mom! Got 2 go
T: Get back soon!
Wendy: ;-)
It’s hard to sleep. Hard to wipe the stupid grin off my face.
Between Wendy and school and grades and Manny coming home. And Wendy, and Wendy and Wendy …
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2009
We’re all in my old room. Manny’s new room. He’ll need it in four days. Four days!
We haul in a bigger bed with a real comforter, a TV, a radio alarm clock—all that stuff. When we’re done, we just stand in Manny’s space. It’s like we can’t wait anymore and this is the closest we can get to him.
Xochitl sits on the bed. We join her. Mami grabs Manny’s pillow and holds it to her chest. Papi sits close, his arm wrapped around her. She starts telling Manny stories. Stories about how smart he was as a kid. How much of a leader. Papi talks about how hard he worked at everything.
Then Xochitl says all this stuff about Manny transitioning to civilian life and about him finding a job in this crappy economy. “War can change people,” she says. “That might make things hard.”
Heads nod. But we got nothing to say. Because Manny’s coming home. And he’s always been strong. And as good as we’ve been lately, and as great as we are in this moment, Manny’s gonna make us even better.
Xochitl gets up to leave for a gig and says, “Just stuff to think about.”
The front door shuts and we sit in silence for a second.
And Mami picks up right where she left off with the stories. Papi, too.
I can’t get enough of those stories.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2009
Sun Feb 08 10:30 P.M.
Wendy: I was less than ladylike the other
night.
T: I was no gentleman.
Wendy: Really? I’ve checked the texts.
T: In my imagination.
Wendy: Oh … well …
Wendy: What did you imagine?
T: I imagined you, uh
Wendy: Don’t say it.
T: You�
��re right. That would be bad.
Wendy: Very bad.
Wendy: Say it.
T: But you just said.
Wendy: Come on, man!
T: I wanna be a gentleman, Wendy.
Wendy: Don’t be a gentleman, Teodoro!
T: Really?
Wendy: YES!
T: I imagined you kissing my
T: Other face cheek.
Wendy: You
Wendy: Are
Wendy: Naughty!
T: You wanna taste that one?
Wendy: Depends on the flavor.
T: It’s berry
Wendy: Which berry?
T: Blue raspberry
Wendy: Get the flip out!
T: Huh-uh, girl.
Wendy: Blue razz is my all-time
favorite berry.
T: That makes us both lucky
then, don’t it?
Wendy: Yes it does.
T: I think there’s a word for
situations like this.
Wendy: Kismet!
T: Not the word I was thinking of
but that one sounds real good.
Wendy: I have to run. Good night, T.
T: Good night, Wendy.
Wendy: I’m going to dream about
blue Skittles tonight, mister.
T: Me too.
Wendy: Not M&M’s?
T: No Wendy. Tonight is all
about the Skittles.
Wendy: Sigh …
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2009
Manny’s flight doesn’t get in till 4:13 p.m., but we’re standing at the bottom of the baggage claim escalator by three thirty. I got butterflies in my gut, and I can’t stop hopping up and down. Xochitl’s holding Mami and Papi close. Papi’s wringing his hands. We’re all looking at each other and we can’t stop giggling.
Finally, Mami points and shouts, “Manuel!”
He’s at the top of the escalator!
We go crazy—all of us jumping now—hooting and hollering, watching him glide down.
He puts on an act like he doesn’t even know us. He turns and looks up at the people behind him, like What celebrity is back there? When he looks at us again, he bugs his eyes out and points at himself. Then he cracks a smile and starts laughing and jumping up and down, clapping and screaming like an idiot—just like we been doing.
He finally makes it to us and we tackle him. Everybody gets a piece of Manny. Holding his hand. His face. Wrapping arms around him. You’re home. I can’t believe it’s you. It’s me. It’s really me. You’ve grown, T. You, too, Papi. Xoch, what’s with the purple stripe in your hair? Mami, I missed you most of all.
In the car, Manny says, “I have one wish for my first meal home.”
“You can count on your mamá,” Papi says.
At the rental Manny says it’s way better than what he was expecting after Papi’s description. He calls my room the Captain’s Quarters. Says he likes it so much he might wanna trade at some point. Manny is so positive it makes me reconsider my attitude about the rental. And that makes me remember why I love Manny so much.
We talk and laugh and devour our green chile cheeseburgers. Manny jokes and tells our old stories. He has a million questions and keeps saying, “This is so good, Mami.” He seems so happy it’s hard to imagine he just got back from a war.
There’s a part of me that’s there, with everyone, enjoying it all. But another part of me is floating above the table. I’m seeing how we look and hearing how we sound, counting us and thinking, Finally, this is us.
“Ay, mijo, I forgot to toast!” Papi says.
We raise glasses in the air. Papi opens his mouth to start.
But there’s a sound.
A rattling sound.
We all look.
Ice cubes are dancing in Manny’s glass. The tablecloth is soaked. Manny’s smile is gone. He squeezes his glass till his hand turns white, but he can’t stop the shakes.
Manny sets the glass down and puts his smile back on. “So, if you were watching very closely there, you may have noticed my hands now have a mind of their own.”
“No importa, mijo,” Papi says. “Mine been doing that for a while, too.” Then he raises his glass higher and says, “To our son, and brother. Welcome home, Manuel.”
To being home. To having you home. To watching Mami and Papi dance. To Manny’s snoring. To brother-sister movie nights with both my brothers. To more of these burgers …
We finally clink glasses. Manny tries, but he can’t control that trembling hand.
Then Xochitl starts shaking her glass. “Damn, Manny! It’s contagious!”
What the heck, Xochitl?
Manny smirks and snorts a laugh.
So I do it, too. “Look what you’ve done to me, bro!”
Manny says, “I must be quarantined before it takes over the neighborhood!”
Mami and Papi have no choice.
“Oh my God!” Manny says. “It’s got Mami and Papi! AAAAGH!”
We all scream and shout and turn into hideous, trembling, glass-clinking monsters. We soak that tablecloth and we laugh and keep each other laughing for a long time.
Except for the shakes, and except for looking like he’s thirty-five, Manny is awesome. He’s funny. He’s thoughtful. He’s my same old brother. Manny is home. And he’s strong.
I catch Xochitl’s eye and nod toward Manny like, See? I told you.
Xochitl nods back like she’s telling me I was right. And she and Manny were wrong. And everything is gonna be good.
I give Xochitl a thumbs-up, and she knows I mean thanks for getting us ready.
She smiles and mouths the words, No problem.
Papi’s still talking. I look and see Manny’s hand on his lap. I reach and give it a squeeze.
Manny looks at our hands. He squeezes back. He looks at me. Smiles. Nods. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe it, either. He squeezes hard, and he doesn’t let go till he’s wiping his eyes.
* * *
When Mami, Papi, and Xochitl finally go to bed, I get up and dig through my backpack. I grab the paper and head over to Manny’s room. Knock on the door.
He opens up. And we’re looking each other right in the eyes. Manny’s wider than me, but I’m just as tall. Manny notices, too.
“You got big,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “And I grew up.”
I show him my report card. I tell him I got a job to pay for a tutor. I tell him how hard I studied with Caleb the whole semester and that’s why I did so well on my finals.
“After what I heard, I was worried about you,” he says.
“I was worried about you,” I say. “Bad. For a long time.”
“Tell you what, T: I’ll quit worrying about you and you quit worrying about me. Deal?”
We shake on it. Then I say, “I still might need some help with math. I know you got the grades and all that, so…”
“Of course, T,” he says. “Anytime. I’m home now.”
WED FEB 11 8:38 P.M.
T: He’s home! And he’s great.
Wendy: YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!
T: I’m feeling … I don’t know. It’s
too big, I can’t describe it.
Wendy: Wow, Teodoro. Hugs to Manuel
and to you and the whole family.
T: Don’t know if I could have
survived the waiting without
you. Thanks, Wendy.
Wendy: You are welcome. And I love
that comma there, Teodoro.
T: And the period.
Wendy: Yes, Teodoro. I’ve been
loving ALL the punctuation.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 2009
I get home from studying at Caleb’s and head for Manny’s room. The door is closed. Reality TV is blasting. I don’t want to bug him, but he’s been back a couple weeks and we’ve hardly spent any time together—just us. Every day, Papi takes him to check out his old favorite spots. Dick’s Drive-In. Pike Place Market. Ivar’s on
the Seattle waterfront. When Mami’s off work, she drags him to Highline Community College and U-Dub and Seattle University.
Tonight, I got my shot, so I knock. “Hey, Manny. Can I come in?”
“Hey, T. What’s up?”
I walk in and close the door. And I ask him to be my adult-like parental-figure tomorrow night for these student-led conferences at Puget. I’m supposed to share my portfolio with my parents and set goals for the new semester.
Manny runs a hand through his hair. “Shouldn’t Mami and Papi go?”
I remind him about my sixth-grade conference. Papi had to work overtime for a big deadline at Fauntleroy and Mami was in Yakima with our sick abuela, Abita. So seventeen-year-old Manny stepped in. He asked all the right questions and my teacher loved him. Then he took me out for ice cream.
I tell him it’d be cool if he could do it again, ice cream and all.
And I tell him I never mentioned it to Mami and Papi. “They been so stressed. Now it’s last minute and I don’t wanna piss them off.”
“Geez, T. I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Xochitl.”
I laugh at that. Manny cracks a smile, then gets serious quick. “T, it’s just … It’s been a long time. You know what I mean?”
I don’t know what he means, but I tell him it’s all right. No worries.
He turns back to the TV.
I head to the Quarters. Crack open my chemistry notebook and try to take in some new vocab. But Manny keeps turning up the volume. It’s been a thing, him staying up way late watching TV. We share a paper-thin wall, so it’s annoying.
But it’s a small price to pay because I finally got my brother back. And he’s doing fine. Yes, there are small things. Like the TV. And Manny brushing his teeth like he’s trying to sand them down to nothing. Like how he always adjusts himself so he’s facing the open part of the room. He’ll ask to trade chairs or, if I’m standing, he’ll move toward me and I know to switch places with him. But that’s pretty much it. Minor stuff.
I can’t concentrate. So I clear my desk. I reach up and grab the rope and lower my bed from the rafters. I climb in and pull up covers. Close my eyes.
* * *
It’s a clicking sound that wakes me. A lamp switch or something. Something loud.
American Road Trip Page 5
