by Wendy Dunham
I turn to Dad and Carlos. “What was that about?”
“It’s me,” says Carlos. “Most people don’t know how to react when they see me.”
Dad’s eyebrows touch each other. “You guys stay here. I’m finding the manager.”
Carlos puts his hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Don’t,” he says. “Trying to address it makes it more awkward for everyone.” He holds the color sample up and smiles. “ ‘Shades of Blue’ for the Meadowlark River. What do you think?”
I smile back. “Perfect for the study.” Then I hold up a color sample. “And how about ‘Sunny Rays of Hope’ for the kitchen?”
Dad nods. “Perfect.”
The three of us finish Dad’s study in no time. It’s a beautiful shade of river blue. The kitchen takes longer since there are cupboards, doors, and more windows to paint around. It’s hard for Carlos to reach high or low, so he paints the middle. Dad paints the top, and I get the bottom.
While I paint around the door, I notice something silver sticking out from under the molding. I try pulling it, but it’s stuck. It looks like a piece of jewelry. I try prying it out with a fork.
Carlos sees me and asks, “What are you doing?”
“I found something—maybe jewelry. I’m trying to get it out.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Don’t give up. It might be something special.”
I try again, and it comes free. I rub it on my shirt, wiping off the dust.
Carlos comes over. “What did you find?”
“A butterfly charm.” I hold it up for him, then tuck it deep in my pocket.
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
I shake my head.
“A butterfly in the house is a sign of a wedding.”
Now everything makes sense. I was meant to find the butterfly—it’s a sign. It won’t be long before my dad and mom are married again. Everything will be like it was meant to be.
Dad must have heard. “A wedding? We’ll have to see.”
Just then the front door opens. It’s Rosa. “Hello! Anyone home?”
Dad calls back, “Come in. I wondered if you’d stop by.” Then he looks at me and quickly adds, “Since Carlos is here and all.”
Rosa steps into the kitchen. “Wow, love the color. Warm, sunny, makes me smile.”
“See, Dad? Rosa’s already smiling. Maybe we should paint over your sad gray.”
Dad shakes his head and laughs. “It’s not about warm, fuzzy feelings, River. It’s about the reflection factor. If the color of the studio didn’t matter, I’d let you paint rainbows. But it’s staying gray.”
“Okay, Dad, I got it.”
Rosa smiles. “I stopped by to see if the painters are hungry.” She turns to my dad. “I thought you and River might like to join us for dinner. You could finish up while I run home and throw a meal together.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Dad turns to me. “What do you think, River?”
“Sounds good.” Since I found the butterfly, everything is good.
When Rosa leaves, Dad says to Carlos, “You’ve got quite a mom.”
Dad, me, and Carlos hurry to finish. I clean our brushes and rollers in the sink and rinse the last “sunny rays of hope” down the drain.
Dad and I follow Carlos up his apartment steps when Rosa comes to the door. “Welcome!” she says. “You must be hungry.”
Dad pats his stomach. “Wow, whatever you’re cooking smells amazing.”
Rosa blushes. “Thank you. It’s tortillas stuffed with cheesy chicken and Spanish rice.”
Rosa looks so beautiful that I can’t stop staring at her. She waves her hand in front of me. “Hello, River. Is everything all right?”
“You look different or something.” She’s wearing jeans, a red and purple blouse, and long, dangly earrings.
Dad turns toward me. “You’ve probably only seen Rosa in her nurse’s uniform.”
“Yes,” says Rosa, “that’s it. Now come to the kitchen. We have food to eat.”
Once we’re seated, Rosa says to Carlos, “Will you do the honors?”
He nods. “Dear God, thank you for new friends and for my mom, who makes the best cheesy chicken Spanish rice tortillas in the world. Amen.”
Rosa looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “Carlos!”
After we eat tortillas, Rosa teaches us how to make Mexican buñuelos for dessert (that’s the authentic name for dough fritters like the kind you get at carnivals).
Rosa takes a fistful of dough, forms it into a ball, and then rolls it with a rolling pin so it’s as flat as a pancake and about the size of a Frisbee. She sets it aside. Then she breaks off three more pieces of dough—one for Dad, me, and Carlos—and hands Dad the rolling pin.
Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t used a rolling pin in years.” He forms his dough into a ball, then tries rolling it. When it sticks to the rolling pin, Rosa sprinkles flour on it. He tries again, but only half gets flat. Carlos and I laugh.
Even though Rosa looks like she’s trying not to laugh, she says, “Carlos, you know better than to laugh. And you,” she says, pointing to me, “don’t you laugh until you’ve had a turn. It’s harder than it looks.” Dad’s still trying to roll it evenly when Rosa puts her hands over his. “Like this, she says, “forward, backward, with nice, even pressure.”
Dad smiles at Rosa. “You have a magic touch.”
Carlos and I have a turn next (we don’t have any trouble).
After we deep fry them, we completely cover them with powdered sugar. Mexican buñuelos are delicious.
When we finish, Rosa tells Carlos to show me the family room while she cleans the kitchen.
“Come on, River,” he says. “It’s downstairs. It’s like my personal hangout spot.”
Rosa laughs. “Just remember it’s not,” she says, “but when someone keeps a room messy enough, they’ll likely keep others away.”
Carlos grins. “Exactly.”
21
Red-Billed Firefinch
The family room’s small but nice. There’s a couch, two chairs, a TV, and a green Ping-Pong table pushed up against the wall. And except for the fact there are Ping-Pong balls all over the place, it’s really not messy.
Carlos points to the couch. “Have a seat. Or sit on a chair.”
I choose the chair. But as soon as I sit, I jump up and reach under by bottom. “I just sat on a Ping-Pong ball!”
“Or you laid an egg!” Carlos says, laughing. “Seriously, sorry about the balls.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?”
“Playing Ping-Pong helps me keep moving. Most of my joints are stiff, so I can’t move and react that fast.”
“Want to play a game?”
Carlos shakes his head. “I’m not ready for that, but I’ll take a rain check. Right now I’ve got the Ping-Pong table against the wall and play against myself. If I don’t hit too hard, I don’t have to react as fast,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
Carlos ties a carpenter apron around his waist (the kind with pockets to hold nails), but his pockets are filled with Ping-Pong balls. He bounces a ball once, hits it gently against the wall so that when it comes back, he can hit it again.
He counts the hits, making it to eighteen. “The most I’ve gotten is twenty-seven. I’m shooting for fifty by the end of the month.”
“You got it,” I say. “But I’ve got one question—why so many balls?”
“Honest answer—it’s hard to bend down and pick them up. So if I have a lot of balls, I can play all day and not have to rely on my mom to pick them up as often.”
“I’ll pick them up,” I say. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
Carlos tosses a ball up in the air to catch but misses. “You certainly don’t have to, but that would be nice. Then my mom won’t have to. She already does so much for me.”
“Do you have a bucket or something to put them in?”
Carlos points to the chair. “Just pile them on the ch
air. I can reach them.”
“Okay, but don’t let me stop you from practicing.”
“You sure?”
I nod and then start gathering the balls.
It’s when I dump the first load onto the chair that I see it—the framed photograph hanging on the wall. It’s of three people. Rosa’s one of them. Then there’s a man (about Dad’s age) with his arm around Rosa. And right between them is a boy (maybe about twelve years old like Billy) wearing a soccer uniform.
All of a sudden the rap-tapping of the Ping-Pong ball stops and I realize Carlos is beside me.
“That’s my dad—” he says, “or was my dad.”
I look at the picture, realizing now who the boy is.
“And that was me,” he says. “I was pretty good at soccer.”
I try to think of something to say, like maybe, “I didn’t realize that was you,” or “I wondered who that kid was,” or “you look so different now,” but thankfully Carlos says something.
He taps the ball against his paddle. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I pick up a ball from the floor and toss it on the chair. “Not possible,” I say, “because I’m not thinking.”
Carlos laughs. “But you are,” he says. “You’re thinking about how good looking I was.”
I turn to face him. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Besides, I wasn’t thinking—I was wondering. And if you really want to know what I was wondering, I’ll tell you.”
Carlos grins. “Let’s hear it.”
“I was wondering what position you played. And I was wondering about your dad.”
“First things first,” he says. “You’re a horrible liar. You weren’t wondering what position I played—you were seriously thinking about how good looking I was.”
I throw a Ping-Pong ball at him. “Will you stop? You have no way of knowing what I’m thinking!” I throw another ball at him.
Carlos puts his arms up. “Okay, okay,” he says, “I surrender! I played center forward, so not only was I good looking, I was fast!”
“I get it, hotshot, you can stop bragging.”
“And if you want to know about my dad, I’ll tell you.” Carlos sits on the chair (the one without the Ping-Pong balls). I sit on the couch. “Okay, I’m done bragging,” he says. “A year and a half ago, my scout troop planned a father-son winter campout. Dad and I couldn’t wait. But at the last minute, he got sick with a sore throat and fever. He said it wasn’t a good idea to go, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so we went. The last night of the campout was especially cold, so we kept the propane heater on in our tent all night. We’d been sleeping for a while when I smelled smoke, but I thought I was dreaming. In my dream my dad was coughing. When I started coughing, my dream led me to believe that I was sick like Dad. I remember hearing him call my name between coughs—I tried answering him, but my throat was too dry. I felt hot, like I was burning up, but in my dream I just thought I had a fever.
“When I felt someone shake my cot, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Even though there was so much smoke, I saw Dad on the floor. It was him shaking my cot. He was trying to pull me onto the floor with him. Flames were all around us. I rolled off my cot and then crawled around the tent trying to find the door. It took forever since I couldn’t see. But once I found the zipper, it was stuck. When I finally got it open enough for us to fit through, I wrapped my arm around Dad to take him out with me. That’s when someone reached in, grabbed my other arm, and pulled me out so hard that I couldn’t keep hold of my dad. The last thing I remember was the explosion. My dad was still inside.”
I sit motionless on the couch. My whole body is tight. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says. “After everything you’ve been through with your mom and then losing Billy, I thought you’d understand.”
Carlos leans forward and rests his arm on his leg. “It’s hard enough missing my dad, but on top of that, I have to deal with the guilt. It’s like everything’s my fault. Since he was sick, I shouldn’t have begged to go. If I hadn’t, he’d still be here.” Carlos leans back against the chair. “I try not to think about it.”
“I know what you mean. The day Billy died, everything would have been fine if it wasn’t for me.”
Carlos raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Billy wanted me to go to the birding place with him that day—our plants were dry and needed water. But I did something with Gram instead. If I’d have gone with Billy, Robert never would have pushed him—I’d have stopped him.”
Carlos wipes his eyes. “How do you deal with it?”
“Pastor Henry helped me. When Billy died,” I explain, “I didn’t know Pastor Henry was my uncle, so that’s why I called him Pastor Henry. He helped me realize I’m not in charge of life and death, but God is. He said we all make choices, but in the end, God has the final say. So even though I think about how things could have been different if I went with Billy, I remind myself God knew what was happening every second. He could’ve changed things. So, if I believe God is God, then I have to believe he knows what he’s doing… even if it’s not what I would have done.”
“Wow,” says Carlos, “that’s what I do. But I have to remind myself every day.” Then he smiles. “But you know what?”
I sneak a ball in my hand just in case he starts bragging again. “What?”
“It won’t be so hard now, knowing I have a friend who understands.” He takes a deep breath. “Did you ever wonder if your whole life was planned out even before you were born?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m guessing you have.”
“I have, and here’s what got me thinking about it. Do you know my last name?”
“Okay,” I say, “that’s a random question, but yes, it’s Amaranta.”
Carlos leans toward me. “And do you know what Amaranta means in Spanish?”
I shake my head.
“It’s the name of a bird that lives in Africa—the Amaranta Senegalesa, also known as the red-billed firefinch… and the male firefinch has bright, red plumage over its entire head and breast.” He looks at me. “Now tell me that isn’t strange. So if my life wasn’t planned from the beginning, how likely is it that I’d end up with a last name that means firefinch?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Somehow it seems my life was destined to be affected by fire.”
“That is strange” (so strange I’ve got goosebumps on my arms).
“What’s your last name mean?” he asks, and then he hits himself on the head. “Wow, I don’t even know your last name.”
“It’s Starling, but you don’t have to hit yourself over it. And I don’t know its meaning, except that it’s a type of bird too.”
“Let’s find out.” Carlos goes to a bookshelf and grabs a book. “This book’s incredible. It has all the information you’d ever want to know about birds.” He brings it to the couch. “Okay,” he says, flipping through the index, “page one eighty-seven. Starling… an old world songbird with a straight bill.” Carlos turns and looks at my nose. “Yep! Nice straight bill—or nose,” he says. He keeps reading, “Typically with dark, lustrous plumage.” He takes hold of my braid and wiggles it. “Yep!” he says, “dark plumage.” Then he reads the last bit of information, “Often considered a pest.”
Since I still have the ball in my hand, I take aim.
“Hold on there,” he says. “I didn’t say you were a pest. The book said a starling is often considered a pest.” But before I can stop him, Carlos grabs the ball from me and laughs. “Actually,” he says, “I haven’t known you long enough to know if you are a pest.”
“Well, I assure you, I’m not!” Then I jump up, grab a handful of balls, and dump them over his head.
Carlos scrunches his nose at me. “On second thought,” he says, “Starling suits you well.”
I give it right back. “Well, how about you—reading a book about a mouse?”
“Ahhh,” he says, “so you’re not only a pest, you’re a snoop.”
&nb
sp; I shove my hands on my hips. “I am not! It’s not snooping when you read something right in front of you! You left your book on the table!”
“But you felt like you were snooping, or you wouldn’t be so defensive.”
“I’m not a snoop, and I am not defensive!”
Carlos laughs. “Not defensive? Look at you! With your hands on your hips, yelling at high decibels, eyebrows pushed against each other—that’s defensive.”
I sit down and take a deep breath. “Well, I’m not,” I say calmly. “Besides, you’re using an avoidance tactic, trying to avoid my original question as to why you’re reading about a fictitious mouse.”
“Okay, River-Starling-the-pest,” he says, “I can see where this conversation’s going. If you were well read, however, you would clearly know that Abel is not just any mouse. He’s a character who portrays worthy virtues. And he’s actually had a significant impact on how I’ve dealt with life since the fire.”
After I think for a moment, I say, “That being the case, please forgive my ignorance. And if you’d be so inclined, I’d like to learn more of this so-called mouse you call Abel.”
Carlos nods. “Very well,” he says. “When I was in the hospital, my favorite nurse gave me that book. But since my hands were covered with burns and skin grafts, I couldn’t hold it. My mom read it to me. It was like therapy for both of us. It helped get our minds off our sadness. And funny as it might seem, Abel helped me feel like I could get through anything.”
I smile. “He must be quite a mouse.”
“He is,” says Carlos. “He helped me realize I could survive. So every now and then, I reread it to remind myself.”
Just then Rosa yells down the stairs, “Carlos, come on up. River and her dad have to leave.”
“Okay, Mom.” Carlos leans toward me. “You know, River,” he whispers, “I think our parents like each other.”
“What are you talking about?”
Carlos seems surprised. “You seriously don’t know?”
A rush of anger bursts through me. “Yes, I’m serious!”
