My mom tells me that my phone rang while I was out. She points to the coffee table. I say ok but keep walking to my room. I swivel in my chair, check my email, look around at the motionless room. I pet my cat, who purrs quietly for a minute before leaving. For what, who knows. Only when I hear the shower turn on and the water start dripping do I stand up and check my phone. Hey bud, it says. Today is Tito’s birthday. A picture of him was right under it. He is a short man, with wrinkled and baggy skin on his face to go with a smile wide like his sombrero. He’s standing underneath his square clock with the Dallas Star in the center. I start to type, asking when we would call him, glancing at the fly across the room. My mom always that it’s my fault we have them. I don’t remember why. I decide against killing it, it’ll die in a day anyway. I click send but cancel immediately. He died last year.
I
finally got to see him earlier that year, the first time since my sister was
born. Earlier it was decided we didn’t want to have Luna fly there so young.
Actually my step-mom decided, but my dad went along with it, and I didn’t say
anything. My dad said Tito would be in the hospital a lot, but everyone else –
Tita, my Tíos Roel and Rica, and my cousins – would be there. I go to my seat.
22A, a window seat on a 6-hour flight. The plane is crowded, and I step forward
methodically, not bumping into anyone. I can see an empty overhead compartment
right over where my seat is, the cool air from the overhead nozzle blowing onto
my arm. I step to put my bag over my seat, and the tall woman in front of me
reaches back to put her suitcase there. When I get to my seat, I look out to
see a wing.
The days
were long, but we were forced to spend most of them inside to avoid the humid
heat of the valley summer. So we waited for the precious time between the sun
beginning to set and darkness where all of us young and healthy enough to do so
went to play baseball. I thought of when I was younger and played with a
broomstick in a covered area next to Tito’s house. When I hit the ball Tito
would say something to me. I don’t remember what it was. I would tell him don’t
say that. Don’t say that he would repeat back to me. It’s getting dark my dad
says after a strikeout. Let’s go in.
When
Tito is not in the hospital he is in his green chair. It’s a lounge chair but
it also rocks and also has an extendable footrest. There he drinks, dozes off,
or watches old westerns. Today he watches one starring an old man and his
entourage of brave young kids defend themselves and their herd from bandits. On
the way to stopping them once and for all one of the kids falls into a
stampeding herd of cattle retrieving another’s glasses. But they must keep
moving or risk an attack by the nearby Indian tribe, and he is given nothing
but a cross and a quick burial.
I used
to think he’d die like in a storybook, with the whole family surrounding his
bed. He would look around and tell us he loved us in a low raspy voice.
Probably in Spanish, actually. Then he would close his eyes and breathe slowly
until he stopped.
I got
the call when I was walking back from school. Your Tito died he said. The flu
he said. His body couldn’t fight it during the cancer treatment. The funeral is
next weekend. Ok I said. Later that day I started to get calls and messages
from relatives. He was a good man, they said. It’s a shame you lost him. I
didn’t respond if I could get away with it. When I did I had nothing to say. Maybe
a yeah or if I got bored of that, I would say yeah, it’s really sad.
