by Sheri Duff
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I clock in ten minutes early for my shift. Gaby doesn’t argue, only because she has a date with the guy who owns the enormous black truck, otherwise known as Sam. Sam is standing by the register waiting for Gaby to get her things. He’s tall and muscular. Five-foot-seven Gaby looks tiny in comparison. Sam’s blonde eyebrows match his perfectly trimmed goatee; I can’t see the color of his hair under his cowboy hat. His jeans are dark blue and it looks like he irons them. Weird.
“Sam, this is my Massie,” Gaby says. She’s wearing a short, light-pink skirt with black leggings that reach just below her knees. She has on a slim lime-green shirt that reads Johnny Loves New York. I don’t know who Johnny is. She’s chosen sparkly silver flats and a chunky pewter bracelet to finish the look. Her hair is a mess. She calls it the Deborah Harry a.k.a. Blondie look. I know who this is because I looked her up on the Internet. Blondie was bad ass, but Gaby and Sam don’t match.
I plop my bag on the front counter.
Sam tips his hat with his fingers. “Pleasure.” His voice is deep like the sports guy on the radio. Sam’s not a bad looking man, but he’s still old, so I can’t really be the best judge.
“Nice to meet you.” I put my hand out. Sam’s shake is perfect, firm, and in control without breaking my bones.
“Nice handshake,” he says.
Gaby laughs. “Oh, she was testing you, honey.” She looks at me and winks.
“Did I pass?” Sam asks.
“Not bad.” I nod at Gaby.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” She pauses before grabbing her bag and her black sweater.
“Go.” I point at the door. “Have fun.”
Gaby kisses my cheek and then puts her arm through Sam’s.
I look at this man who is taking my Gaby out and give him that look when parents are checking out your date. “She’s like another mom to me, only a much younger version. I love her. So you know. If anything happens to her, I will hunt you down.”
“Got it,” he says. “I’ll treat her like a lady.” He holds the door open for her and they’re off. Gaby deserves someone nice.
The first hour at work feels like watching a nature channel episode of how a plant grows. No customers, nothing new came into today for me to put out on the floor, and Gaby has cleaned every inch of the store. I can’t even get into my book. I’m reading a novel about a girl with cancer. I bought it because I thought it would make my life seem better. The book’s incredible, but I can’t get my mind off my dad not showing after school. My father never strays from his routine. The bells on the door dangle. I hear the clicking of a woman’s heels.
I’m deep in a trance, elbows on the counter and staring at the wall, and I don’t notice it’s Alicia until she speaks. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? I brought you some dinner.”
I jump back.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She slides the small glass storage container filled with food toward me.
“I’m not hungry.” I don’t touch the container.
Alicia doesn’t pull the food back. Not bothered by my rudeness, she ignores my comment. She surveys the store. “This place is fabulous. I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”
My stomach churns, not because she’s making me ill. My stomach aches because whatever’s trapped in that plastic container will taste wonderful. Seriously, she doesn’t need to do this. Why does she keep trying to be nice to me when I’m such a pain in the ass? Really, if she would stop and think about it, she’d see that I’m trying to make it easier on her. She can honestly say that I’m a big pain in the ass and my dad can then take her side and let me go.
I bet the food in that container tastes good.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I had a crappy day at work.” Alicia’s eyes glaze over.
Oh no, not again. I can’t deal with all this crying. I do enough of it on my own.
“And I can’t even talk about it right now, so that makes it worse,” she says.
“So now I’m the bad guy because you can’t talk about your work?” I can’t deal with this today. Instead of her bringing me food and making up excuses, wouldn’t it be easier for her to pit my dad against me? I would rather it just be done. I wish I could fast forward through all of this so I don’t have to feel the pain. I turn my away from her and walk to the back of the store to try to find something to make it look like I’m busy.
She follows. “No, you’re not the bad guy. Your dad was wrong. And by the time I told him you had already left. He called everyone looking for you last night. He finally called your mom.”
“What?” I don’t believe her.
“I forced him,” Alicia says. “He wasn’t going to do it on his own. Admit defeat or admit that he had made a mistake.”
Alicia’s right. My father retreats when he’s the bad guy, when he messes up. When my parents separated, he kept his distance for over two months. He barely spoke to us. I took his absence as rejection. My mom said it was him, not us. Yeah, it’s always him. I’m sick of him. As my father would say, this is getting old.
“He feels horrible, if it makes you feel better.” Alicia stops at a rack of tops. She shuffles through the shirts.
“I doubt it. And even if he does, it doesn’t make me feel better.” I follow her around the rack, straightening what she rummages through.
“He didn’t sleep last night.” She stops like she’s not sure if she should give me any more details—or maybe she’s found something she likes. Then she spills. “Even after he went to your mom’s. He came back to tell me you were there and to grab a sleeping bag. Then he left again. He slept in his car across the street so he could see your room.”
A single tear falls. I didn’t even feel it coming. My effort to hold it back fails miserably. I won’t turn to look at Alicia and she doesn’t push.
“We hope you come back home. So does Buster. He didn’t sleep last night either.”
Great, she even has to bring the dog into the picture.
But it will never be my home.
Even so, I cave. After work I drive to my father’s house, only because the wind is so bad today and because of the dog. I hate the wind howling around the house; I can’t face it alone. I love the dog.
Okay, and because my mom called me shortly after Alicia left the store.
She told me that she wouldn’t get any work done worrying about me. “I should get the next ticket home.”
I really miss my mom and I desperately need her home, but my mom needs this trip. She hasn’t gone anywhere in years. The break’s good for her. I’m her universe and I’ll be leaving for college in a few years. She needs to get herself out there.
I still want her home.
To be selfish or not to be selfish. “At least you finally called me,” I told her.
“I haven’t deserted you, Sweet Pea. I’m here. You need to spend time with your dad. Can you please keep your little tushy there so I can quit worrying?” It wasn’t really a question.
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Love you, baby girl.”
“Love you.”
As I roll into the garage, the thought of my father sleeping in his car for the next few weeks amuses me, but even I’m not that mean. The house takes on a silence and coolness, but mostly between my father and his wife. My dad doesn’t like to say he’s sorry. I’m completely innocent, so he’s not going to hear that word from my mouth. I can stay mad, too—another trait I’ve inherited from my dear father.
The house smells like chilies, good ones, not like the red chili my mother makes from a can when it’s cold. The remnants of my tears left me with a stuffy nose, but it clears when I enter the kitchen. The intoxicating scent fills the house. Alicia’s dad turns fresh green chilies on a cookie sheet. He’s wearing an apron over his button-down shirt that I’m assuming is his daughter’s—my dad wouldn’t wear anything with ruffles and cherries.
“I’m going to roast some outside on the grill tomor
row, but I love the smell,” he comments without turning around. “If anyone has a cold this will clear it.”
I stand next to the stools by the island and the dogs stay underfoot, patiently watching the floor for scraps to fall. Mr. Morales turns toward me, holding a piece of a chili on a fork. “Taste.”
I close my eyes and savor the flavor. The roasted spice isn’t too hot or too mild.
“Those are the best,” he says. “I bought three bushels from Brighton.” He places a small plate with two chilies in front of me. “The small ones are called Dynamite. Don’t let Alicia trick you into eating one. And don’t let her trick your father either. Unless he deserves it.” Mr. Morales winks.
“He deserves it,” I say, pushing aside the large chili on the plate and tasting the smaller chili. The flavor is perfect. I love the heat. He’s right, my father couldn’t handle it.
“I’m sure you think your padre deserves to be punished right now. We all get what we deserve in the end. Hijita, don’t spend your time worrying about revenge, especially when it will only hurt you in the end.”
“I don’t want to get revenge on my father.” I eat the large chili. It’s mild but it has a wonderful flavor, too.
“Then don’t give him the hot chili. At least not while you’re mad. Do it as a prank, a broma. Then we can laugh.” Mr. Morales puts another one of the small hot chilies on the plate. “Besides, you don’t want to waste the good stuff on people you’re mad at.”
He’s got a point.
“I don’t think we’ll ever laugh again.” I sit on the stool.
Mr. Morales hands me a pair of gloves and shows me how to skin the roasted chilies while he tells me a story—Once Upon a Time…
“Alicia’s mother died when she was three years old. I remarried two years later. My second wife was Alicia’s mother’s best friend from high school. I know, it’s confusing.” He shakes his head.
“Sounds like a great a new reality series in the making,” I say, watching him carefully peel the skin away from the chili.
Mr. Morales had known his second wife since they were kids. What he didn’t know was his new wife hated Alicia’s mom. “That crazy woman. I found out she liked me since high school, but I only had eyes for my Camilla, Alicia’s beautiful mother. My Camilla had black eyes and perfect skin. Soft, perfect skin. She was the love of my life,” he says. His hand clutches a gold ring that hangs alongside the crucifix on the chain around his neck. He sniffles.
I don’t know what to do here. My dad doesn’t cry.
“I’ve never stopped loving my Camilla. I missed her so much. I still miss her, every day I miss her. I worried that Alicia would be lost without a mother. I rushed too fast. I missed all the warning signs. The jealousy. Who gets jealous of a child?”
“Stepmothers,” I say without thinking, forgetting that my stepmother is this man’s daughter.
“Alicia looked like her mother. She still looks like her mother, so beautiful.” Mr. Morales pauses as if he can see the face of his Camilla. Then his face sours. “That crazy woman made Alicia’s life miserable. But I didn’t see it. She would act one way around me, and then another away around my angel.”
Alicia tried to tell her father how hateful and mean the crazy woman was but he never believed her.
“It ended when I came home early one day. Alicia was ten.” He stops peeling the chili. Now he crushes it, seeds flying and juice draining like blood from nasty gash. “She had locked Alicia in the basement. That wasn’t the worst. That crazy puta.” He stops and looks at me. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. As long as you don’t do to me what you are doing to that chili, you can swear all you want.” The chili twists between his fingers. “I don’t know what puta means anyway,” I say.
He sets the chili down. “That puta told my angel that she would lose her looks one day even if it meant she had to help with the process. When I heard those words come out of her evil soul, I wanted to kill her. Alicia stood between us after I set her free from the basement. Alicia didn’t want to lose me. If I hurt that crazy woman, Alicia would lose me. Even at ten, my angel was so smart. That’s why she works with kids in the system. She says they need someone to listen when others won’t.”
“Proves my theory,” I say.
Mr. Morales looks at me.
“There’s no such thing as happily ever after.” Now it’s my turn to tug at the skin of the chili. Tearing the skin away from the chili without taking the meat is harder than it looks.
“Why not, hijita?” Mr. Morales watches me.
“Fairy tales don’t exist,” I say.
“I wouldn’t agree with that. I had my fairy tale with Camilla.”
“Yeah, but then you met the monster.” I stop peeling. The aroma finds its way to my lungs. I sit back and breathe slowly.
“She was more like a dragon who spit fire.” Mr. Morales hisses.
I laugh. “At least you got rid of her.”
“Yes, hijita, and my daughter forgave me. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but she gave it to me anyway.” He sits on the other stool.
“What is a hijita?” I ask, mangling the word and the chili I’m trying to peel at the same time.
“It means many things. But for you it is my granddaughter.” He takes the chili and shows me how to hold on to the stem so that the skin falls away, like a snake shedding its skin.
The heels that I heard clicking in the shop have now been replaced with pink slippers. Alicia walks into the room. Her work attire has been changed to navy yoga pants and a heather tunic. “Papi.” Alicia’s eyes light up when she sees her father. She kisses him on the cheek. “That smells so yummy. Are you making rellenos for dinner?”
“Yes, I am.” He turns toward the refrigerator and pulls out a tray of peppers covered in batter, then slides them into the preheated oven. “Mazzie, you’re in for a treat."
“Papi, her name is Massie,” Alicia says. “With an s, not a z.”
“Don’t tell me what I can call her.”
The garage door shakes the wall.
“I can fix that if you let me, mija.”
“Joel said he’d fix it, Papi.”
I shake my head. “Not during football, he won’t.”
Mr. Morales laughs and I feel a tiny twinge—no, I don’t feel guilty at all. Nothing happens during football except football. I shouldn’t feel guilty for telling it like it is.
My father glides into the kitchen and nudges me with his shoulder. I can feel the cold on his jacket. “Is Alicia’s dad cooking his famous rellenos?” he asks.
I don’t answer. When the food is ready we eat. Everyone at the table talks to each other except me and my father. The silence between us will linger. My dad won’t say he’s sorry. I won’t back down either. He’ll give me stupid looks and nudges like all is all better. In “his world,” maybe—not mine. Not this time. I have always forgiven him when he decides to come around. I first deserve an apology this time.
Only three more pans to hand-wash, and then I’m out the door—or I’ll hibernate in my room. I dig with the dish brush. The cheese that’s baked onto the pan flings into the sink.
“Have you met the new linebacker? That kid can move.” My father dishes the last of the chilies onto his plate. He stands next to me as I scrub. “He’s the kid I was telling you about. Alicia’s friend’s brother.”
I finish cleaning the pan, wash my hands, dry them with the damp towel, and then slap the towel into the sink. I don’t look at my father on the way out. But I do answer his question. “Actually, I’d like to meet his lips. They look pretty tasty.”
As my father’s plate shatters on the kitchen floor, I realize Jack will end up running laps tomorrow. For this I’m sorry.
