Tortilla Sun (10 page)

“Fireworks!” Mateo shouted.

Maggie dropped her bubble wand on the lawn and dashed toward us.

“Cool,” I said. “You’re allowed to set off your own?”

“Up on the mesa above the village, where there aren’t any trees. The whole village comes to watch. It’s a tradition,” Mateo said.

Mom and I didn’t really have any Fourth of July traditions in California—except eating hot dogs. Every year she had a new plan for how to spend the holiday: We’d watch fireworks at the park, the beach, or even a grocery store parking lot because they were offering free hot dogs that year. The summer we lived on Elm Street, we tried to watch them from our third-floor apartment balcony. I had to lean over the edge and really far to the right just to see the tip-tops of the fireworks. That made Mom nervous, so she made me sit and listen to them, instead, while she tried to grill dinner inside on a new skillet she’d just bought.

Now, the familiar smell of hot dogs smoking on the grill made me miss Mom. She would’ve eaten two, with salsa on top, instead of ketchup or mustard.

After grace, we dug into the dogs, chips and salsa, sliced cucumbers—or what was left of them—and fresh cut watermelon. I watched Nana sprinkle salsa across her dog and smiled.

Tía stood and smoothed her hands over her tight green dress. “This is not at all good for my figure. I look like a
sausage! I have to start exercising.” As she fanned her face her body jiggled like a column of lime Jell-O. Maggie giggled, and a blob of ketchup dribbled from the side of her mouth.

Mateo glanced toward me and grinned. “Why don’t we all have a little game of baseball? That would be good exercise, right, Izzy?”

“But there’s only six of us,” I said.

“It’s enough. I can pitch, you play second and first base.” Mateo turned to Maggie. “You can play the outfield with Frida. And the adults will be the other team.” He stood and began clearing the table. “We can play at the big clearing by the river since the mesa will be full of villagers waiting for the fireworks show.”

Nana snorted. “Are you
loco
? I can barely swing a flyswatter! And your mama? She might break a nail.”

Everyone laughed at this. Except Tía. She tossed her head back with an air of superiority and dabbed at her melting makeup with another napkin. “I’ll have you know I played softball in junior high. I even won a trophy.”

“Well, you’re not going to play in those.” Mateo pointed to her high heels. “Do you even own a pair of tennis shoes?”

I stood and looped my arm through Tía’s. “Maybe a pair of mine will fit.” I led her away from the table, and as I looked over my shoulder at Mateo, I said to Tía, “As a matter of fact, why don’t you be on my team? Mateo can be on Mr. Castillo’s.”

Inside, I collected everything we’d need: a pair of tennis shoes for Tía, Dad’s jersey for me, and the baseball for all of us.

Out in the clearing, Nana stood behind a big flat rock we used for home plate. With the bat held in her left hand and resting on her left shoulder, she made the sign of the cross and kissed her fingertips. Mr. Castillo tossed the ball underhand and when Nana swung, the bat flew from her hands and rocketed toward Frida, who dashed under a bush safely.

Nana snickered. “Slipperier than I thought.” I retrieved the bat and told Nana to keep a firmer grip. She nudged the dirt with the toe of her tennis shoe and reanchored her stance. “I’m ready.”

Mr. Castillo pitched the next three balls high and to the outside.

“Ah, come on, Dad. You’re not going to walk her, are you?” Mateo hollered.

“Just warming up my rusty arm.” Mr. Castillo wound his arm in looping circles and rubbed his shoulder before he threw another high ball.

“That’s the fourth ball.” Tía called from the sidelines. “You get to go to first base now!”

Nana picked up her skirt and marched to first base, smiling wide as if she’d hit a home run.

Tía strolled toward home plate like one of those runway models on TV. Maggie followed.

“What’re you doing,
mija
?” Mr. Castillo asked.

Maggie crouched low and adjusted her backpack. “I’m going to run for her so she won’t get sweaty.”

Mr. Castillo shook his head as Tía planted the bat over her shoulder, bent her knees, and sashayed her hips. “Pitch it right to the center.”

I don’t think Mr. Castillo thought she could hit the ball because he lobbed it right to her. When she pulled the bat back, her raspberry nails glistened in the afternoon sun. She smashed the ball so hard, I worried it might split in two. Up, up, up it flew before crashing down into the outfield.

Maggie bolted toward first base with Frida at her heels. Mateo scooped up the ball and launched it back to Mr. Castillo, who tagged Nana as she scuttled to second.

It was finally my turn. Mr. Castillo wound his arm and pitched the ball underhand.

Strike one.

“Don’t go easy on her, Dad!” Mateo called from center field.

I narrowed my eyes at Mateo. Mr. Castillo threw another underhanded pitch and I smacked the ball right over center field.

Tía cheered, “Run, Izzy, run!” as Maggie rounded second, then third, and made it home for our first score. Within seconds, I’d rounded the first base rock and was sprinting toward second. Mateo ran for the ball, which had flown over his head into a bush. My legs burned as I dashed past third and headed for home. Just as I was about to slide into the plate, I saw Mr. Castillo from the corner of my eye catch the ball and run toward the home base rock.

But he was too late. I made it home before he could catch me.

Mr. Castillo gripped his chest then rolled to the ground dramatically, gasping for air. “You definitely hit like your papa,” he said between gasps. Then he smiled and handed the baseball to me.

The burn in my legs radiated all over my body and I kissed the baseball. “Thanks.”

Nana, Tía, and Maggie hooted and hollered for me.

By the time it was Mateo’s turn to bat, I was warmed up and ready to win.

Standing on the little hill of dirt we made for the pitcher’s mound, I hiked my leg in the air like the players on TV and pitched the ball to Mateo as hard as I could.

Crack!

A gust of wind reached up, caught the ball, and carried it over my head. I watched it sail beyond the shrubs into a cluster of cottonwoods.

“I’ll get it!” I called as I ran toward the trees.

Mateo cheered behind me, “Home run!” And I knew he was right. The ball had zipped too far for me to get it in time to tag Mateo out.

As I plodded through shrubs, a warm wind swept across my back urging me forward.

“Did you lose this?” a voice called out as I scanned the ground.

I glanced up to find a woman standing in front of a small
adobe
house. She had a garden hose in one hand and my baseball in the other.

“Yes,” I answered, unsure of whether she was going to throw it or if she expected me to come get it myself.

Stepping closer, I realized I had found the storyteller’s home.

“Looks like your ball found its way right to my doorstep,” she said as she stared at the words written on the ball. “Magic?”

I wiped a hand across my hot face and swept my tongue over the roof of my dry mouth. “My dad wrote that.”

She handed me the ball. “Do you play?”

“Not really. We were just having a game for fun.”

She nodded and smiled. “I’m Socorro. I know your nana.”

“I’m Izzy.”

“Mateo told me you’d be coming by for a story.”

“With him and Maggie,” I said, gripping the baseball.

“Come tomorrow and make sure to bring your story cards.” She turned back to her garden. “You should hurry back. You don’t want to miss the fireworks show,” she said, glancing toward the dusky sky.

“How did you know?” I stepped back in amazement. “About my story cards?”

With her back to me, she chuckled and said, “I will see you tomorrow.”

As I sprinted back, the first of the fireworks exploded across the sky in sparkling streams of white. And for a moment it looked like a hundred magic baseballs were falling from heaven.

Socorro sat in a rocking chair under the sprawling cottonwood in her backyard. Her long skirt reached past her feet, inching to the wet grass.

“Welcome,” she said as we entered her back gate and crossed the lawn. Her hair hung in a long braid, a few strands curled across her cheek.

Maggie jumped into Socorro’s lap while Mateo and I spread out blankets on the ground in front her. I clutched a small green canvas bag I’d brought from Nana’s that held my story cards and knelt on the blanket next to Mateo.

Socorro wrapped her arms around Maggie, like a momma bear around her cub.

“Now, what type of story would you all like to hear today?” she said.

“Maggie wants to hear a ghost story,” Mateo said. “A true one.”

Before Maggie could protest, Socorro laughed. “Too old to ask for your own ghost stories?”

Mateo leaned back onto his elbows and huffed, “No.”

A flock of gray birds swooped across the sky behind her and settled on a branch above. They had come to hear the story too.

“Very well. Today I will tell you a true story.” Socorro took several deep breaths and closed her eyes. “Many, many years ago a Mexican family lived near this very village.” Her voice rose and fell with the perfect pitch of a bedtime lullaby. She continued to tell us about the family’s home that had been destroyed by a fire. “Only one wall and the floor were left, but they didn’t have the money to rebuild their home. No one in town would take them in, so the mother, father, and the daughter traveled across the desert looking for help until they came to a small
adobe
where two sisters lived. The sisters gave them shelter and over the course of two weeks the young girl became enchanted with their ways. They made strange brews and spoke magical chants at night. One day the sisters told the family to go home and sleep on the floor of their burned house, where they would find the unexpected. The family thought this was a strange request but had come to trust
the sisters and did as they instructed. So they made the journey back. Their first night home they slept on the hard tile floors. The girl woke up in the middle of the night and felt cold hands wrapped around her feet.”

Socorro opened her eyes and spoke slowly. “Cold hands are always the sign of the dead come back to visit.”

Maggie buried her face in Socorro’s neck.

“The next night the girl felt the same cold hands. The family came to find out that the original house had been built by a man who, many believed, got trapped in the wall during the house’s construction and died there, standing straight up. When the house burned down, his spirit was finally set free, but he was restless. The girl felt like he had something to show her. So, she went back to the sisters and asked them what to do. They gave her an ancient chant that could only be used once and told her to recite it by the light of the full moon over the river.”

Socorro closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, as if she were listening to the flutter of an angel in flight.

Finally, she began again.

“Once the spirit was set free, he appeared before the girl and told her to remove six tiles from the floor in her room. After removing them she found a small wooden box filled with silver. The family celebrated their newfound wealth. Now they could rebuild their home and would never have to worry about money
again. The girl was so happy she went back to the sisters in the desert to thank them, but she could not find the house again. It was like it never existed.”

Socorro widened her eyes. “But it was not the silver that possessed the true value.”

“What was it, Socorro? What?” Maggie bounced impatiently.

Socorro studied the sky. “A storm is coming. We can finish the story tomorrow. You should get home.” Maggie stood up and clapped her hands. She hopped from one foot to the other with excitement. “I want to know what happens! Does the girl live happily ever after?”

After folding up our blankets, Mateo nudged me and whispered, “Ask her now.”

Socorro stood up and asked if I liked her story.

I slid the canvas bag over my shoulder and nodded. “Especially how she got to talk to the spirit.” I couldn’t help but think about what it might feel like to talk to my dad. Just once. “Did those things really happen?”

Socorro nodded. “Of course.”

Mateo tugged Maggie by the arm. “Come on, we can wait outside.”

They shuffled out the side gate as I stood alone under the tree with the storyteller. Socorro stepped closer, glancing at my bag.
Her skin was smooth and beautiful. “May I see them? Your story cards?”

After I handed her the cards, she shuffled through them and looked back to me. “You want to know how to tell a story.”

My heart jumped faster than a six-legged cricket. “I get started but can’t seem to finish. To tie all the pieces together.”

“How long do you sit with your stories?”

“Sit?”

“You must be very patient to tell stories. And you must sit with the idea, allowing it to simmer like soup on the stove. You wouldn’t go to all the trouble of cutting up the ingredients, throwing them in the pot and expecting it to cook without fire, right?”

“So I’m supposed to cook the story?” I looked at her quizzically.

She unbraided her hair and let it blow in the breeze. “That is a good way to put it. Here’s what you should do. When you get an idea for a story, write down the idea. Don’t worry about getting anything right. Then think about that idea and let it simmer as you think. Write down ideas, thoughts, anything you can imagine. When I was young I wrote down single words I liked or I’d describe someone I found interesting.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about what comes first and what comes last. Just write. The pieces will come together at the right time.” She threaded her fingers through her hair and motioned toward the house. “Come inside. I have something to show you.”

I tucked my story cards back into the bag and followed her to the screened-in porch, where colored pieces of glass hung suspended by ribbons from the rafters. As she walked by, she ran her hand through them. Their music floated across the porch, jingling like a tambourine.