Every single day of my life I went to bed asking God to make my dad disappear. I didn't pray for him to die, just to leave. If I really wanted him dead, I didn't say it because that would be a sin. A big one. And I couldn't have big sins because I wanted something else from God. Something special. The easiest thing would be for my dad to meet another lady and go away with her because my mom goes crazy whenever he looks at anyone else. The minute Mom catches him sneaking a look, she cusses in Spanish, tells him she's leaving, then walks across town to buy a pack of cigarettes. When she comes back, she sits in the living room smoking every one of them till the pack is gone. My dad likes looking at girls-all kinds, all the time. If a girl he likes has big chiches, he smiles and looks at her like he's about to eat pudding. Nothing makes him happier, though, than a lady with big nalgas. The bigger, the better. If a lady like that walks by, he'll stare at her butt till he practically drills a hole in it. Then he'll turn and tell whoever's standing around how much he loves big women and how he'd like to get his hands on one. "Marci," he'd say jerking his head toward a lady twice his size. "If I could have just one night with something like that." I don't even know what my dad would do with a lady with big nalgas. He's so little he'd probably get crushed if one sat on him. He likes to talk like he's big and tough. But to me, he's just little and mean. And he's always saying how good-looking he is, like, "Did you know that people stop me all the time and ask if I'm Tony Curtis?" My dad's from Colorado. Born in '35 and raised with five brothers in Hermosa, a little town outside of Durango. Grandpa Santos was a cement layer, but he died when Dad was sixteen. After that, my dad had to help out and ended up doing cement, too-on highways mostly. He said he made all kinds of roads, even big freeways, all over Colorado, New Mexico, and some parts of Utah. He hated working Utah. Said it was because "the beer there's like drinking a goddamn can of water." Dad's a lot darker than Mom. Probably because he's been out in the sun so much. His hair is black and his eyes are light green like a cat's. They stand out against his face, so you can always see him watching you, even in a room full of people. His arms are little, but hard. And he can whip off his belt faster than you can say son-of-bitch because that's what you're usually saying when you're about to get it from him. Mom was born in Gallup, New Mexico and started working behind a bar when she was "tall enough to reach the sink." The Coronado was Grandma Flor's bar. Mom's the baby in the family and all the other kids moved out when they got married. When Grandpa Chon ran off with that gabacha, there was no one else to help except Mom, who got up early every morning to clean and put beer in the cooler. Later, after school, she went back to the bar, did her homework, and helped Grandma whenever she got busy. Mom liked being the waitress, but Grandma only let her do it for people she knew. "One day," my mom said, "your daddy was working on a road close by and came into The Coronado for a beer. I was old enough so I poured the drink myself. The second I saw him with his dimpled chin, little butt, and sparkly green eyes, se acabó. That was it. Your daddy was so damn cute I practically knocked your grandma over running up to give him his beer. He quit his job that very day. And in two weeks I became Mrs. Eddie Cruz." They moved to California where Dad got a job making cars at the Chevy plant. He tells everyone he's "making cars no Mexicans will buy." Why not, people ask. "Because their name is Nova, No Va . Get it?" Then he starts laughing like it's the first time he ever heard the joke. We've been living here in San Lorenzo ever since. A lot of people on our street work at Chevy. It might be because our town is close to the factory. My dad drives an Impala, and in five minutes he's at work. On the other side of us, not far from where you get on the freeway, is the refinery. Some of my friend's dads work there, too. When the wind comes our way it can smell bad, like rotten eggs. Most of the time we're lucky because it blows toward the bay. Dad's been working at Chevy for thirteen years, but Mom doesn't work because he won't let her. She doesn't drive either. It's been that way as long as I can remember. Except for Tía Leti, Mom doesn't have any friends. She spends the day cleaning house, doing Jack LaLane, and watching Dialing for Dollars . People might not think eyes talk, but Mom's eyes do. They're two different colors; one's blue and the other's brown. Whenever she sits still and looks like she's thinking, the brown one crinkles up like she's looking into the sun. Mom acts like she's afraid to see anything for herself. I don't know if she does it on purpose, but whatever she sees or thinks seems seen or thought by my dad first. Anything she says is only what he's said, and that goes for what's inside of her, too. Except for getting mad at my dad about other ladies, I never know what she's really feeling. Mom's tall. Tall enough to kiss my dad without him having to bend over. When they do kiss, Dad tells her to close her eyes. Maybe it's because of the colors. You can't look at brown and blue at the same time because your head gets mixed up. You lose your balance. And if you look at just one eye, you won't see what the other one's doing. It wasn't that way with Grandma Flor's dog, Jaime. He had eyes like that, too, but his fur was different colors, so everything matched. A lot of people think my mom is pretty, including me. She looks like she could be part Sophia Loren and part Rita Moreno. Her skin is soft, and her hair is brown; that is until Tía Leti comes to dye it. Tía Leti is Grandma Flor's baby sister. She comes over all the time with her cigarettes and her grouchy dog, Pepito. Tía can't afford the beauty parlor, but she can afford my mom. So every month, the doorbell rings and there she is with her little box of Revlon "Autumn Evening." Then she sits in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and jabbering away while Mom goes to work. Pepito sits in her lap the whole time sneezing from the smell. When they're done, the kitchen looks like a bomb hit it, with all the stained bowls, gloves, towels, and combs lying around. To pay Mom back, Tía dyes her hair "Copper Sunset." And after everything's finished, she has to listen to Dad squawk like a jaybird about the "goddamn puta hairdo" his wife's got. I have a little sister but no brothers. My name's Marcía Cruz, and my sister's name is Corin. Dad named her after a song. It goes: "Corinna, Corinna; Corinna, Corinna; Corinna, Corinna, I love you so." I never heard it, but that's how my dad sings it. Corinna's her real name, but we just call her Corin. When I look at her, the first thing I think of is Wile E. Coyote, because she's sneaky and sad like him. I wish I could read her mind, just so I could be ready for all the crazy things that come out of it. Sometimes those things get us into trouble. I don't know how it happens. We could be playing, yelling, having fun, and the next thing you know, she does something wrong, and there goes my dad. My dad can't go through a single day without worrying. He's nervous, just like Tía Leti's dog. Pepíto's different than most dogs because he's mean. Even if you petted him nice, he'd bite you if he felt like it. Pepíto's part Chihuahua. And my dad, just like Pepito, walks around listening and looking for something to happen, something that will probably make him mad. Dad doesn't smoke. He should, though. Maybe if he did he wouldn't hit me and Corin so much. I've tried leaving cigarettes around the house that I borrow from Tía Leti, since my mom smokes only when she's mad. But it's no use, because Mom just picks them up and throws them away. Once, I left one under his pillow, hoping he'd dream about it, then start wanting to smoke when he woke up. But all that happened was loud screaming when Mom made the bed. Then she threw me and Corin out of the house, yelling about smashed cigarettes, and a mal ojo. Next thing you know, Tía Leti had to come over and scare away the evil eye with her velas and hierbas that she gets from a botánica in San Francisco. Mom likes to do things the old way. You know, using stuff she learned from her grandma to make you better, like soaking sliced potatoes in vinegar, then putting them on a rag and tying it to your head for fevers, or grinding up roots to make a tea that smells like pee if you get diarrhea. But it's Tía Leti who uses the hierbas, and it isn't just when you're sick either. I'm not supposed to know this, but I like to sneak and listen to my tía talk to Mom about her polvos, candles, and hierbas. She uses them, she says, "to give me fuerza to deal with my husband, claridad to deal with work, and suerte when I go to Reno to play the slots." I was going to tell Mom that it was me who left the cigarette underneath the pillow that day, not a mal ojo, but I figured I was better off keeping quiet. Like I do when it comes to asking Tía if she can find me a polvo to get rid of my dad. * * * When night comes, that's when everything is best. Right before I go to sleep, I turn into Supergirl. Don't be surprised. It feels good to be her. When I'm Supergirl I can fly over people's heads, and San Lorenzo, where I live. On TV, George Reeves plays Superman, but he's a fake because he's soft and doughy. Plus, if you look at him sideways, you'll swear his head looks like a ham. I'd make a better Superman because I'm stronger and smarter. They ought to put me on that show. Girls could be on it. They could make me Superman's sister. I watch lots of Superman but I've only seen one girl: Lois Lane. On top of that, she's old and white. If you look at her face hard, though, you can see she might be part Mexican like Rita Hayworth. My dad said Rita Hayworth was really Margarita Carmen Cansino. She changed her name so she could make it in Hollywood. Movie stars are always changing their names, which means they can't sound real, and for sure not Mexican. After my dad told me about Rita Hayworth, I spent the next week thinking of a Hollywood name for myself and nothing I came up with sounded good: Mary Cross, Marci Christa, or maybe Margi Cress. But those names were stupid, so I told my mom and Tía Leti I was dyeing my hair blonde and calling myself Linda Ledoux, since I like both names. Boy, did they laugh. Tía Leti, who has a really big butt (one of the few my dad doesn't look at), was sitting next to my mom and laughed so hard she peed her pants. The spot went right through her dress onto the couch. They were laughing so much they didn't care. I didn't think it was that funny. When Mom could finally talk, she said, "Ay, no. You look too much like one of the Indians from the Texas Rangers . Y, también, being named Linda means you have to be pretty." Tía Leti said I was "too goddamn dark to be running around with blonde hair," which made them laugh again. I held my arm up to the light and looked at it. Who needs blonde hair anyway when it's easier being Supergirl? Every night I dreamed I saved beautiful girls. Usually, a mean man was hurting the girl. I'd beat the man up, then carry her away. She would be so happy I saved her, she'd want to marry me. I'd say yes and the dream would end with me kissing her neck and feeling her chiches. * * * I love going to bed, but the nights aren't always quiet. There are lots of times me and Corin wake up hearing Mom and Dad yelling. "Eddie, por favor!" Me and my sister ran to the living room to find Dad crying and pulling the rifle out of its case. "Que chinga, Delia. I've had it with these fucked-up assholes trying to run my life." He was crying while he talked. There was a box of bullets on the table and we watched him take out four. His hands were shaking but he could still load all the bullets-fast. "They got a goddamn boot on my neck every fucking day." He rubbed his hand softly across the barrel of the rifle. "And I'm just tired of it." He hung his head down and looked at the rifle. Mom grabbed his arm. "Eddie, por favor, hombre. I need you here. The kids need you." `No we don't,' I wanted to say. Mom sounded scared. She looked like she believed my dad. Corin, too. Not me. I looked at how long that rifle was and how long his arms were. Dad was strong, but like I said, he was short. When he had his cowboy boots on he was maybe five-six. At least that's what Mom said. "He can't do it," I whispered to Corin. Mom sent us back to our bedroom where we stood in the doorway watching. "He can't?" Corin asked, her eyes big. "No. That rifle's too long, and his arms are too short to point it to his head," "He could put it in his mouth." "But that would only add maybe two inches. He can't put it in too far, otherwise, he'd throw up." I looked at my dad's arms again. "Uh-uh. He can't do it." My sister turned to go back to bed. "Aren't you coming?" she asked. I sat down on the floor. "No, not yet." "Why not? What about what you just said?" "He can't pull the trigger," I whispered, "on him." I looked at my dad again. He had the rifle in his lap with one hand on the trigger. All of a sudden, he jumped up, still holding the gun. "Delia! Tell Him to come get me!" he cried out, yelling at the ceiling. The muscles on his arms rippled like a rope as he held the gun tight. "Who's he talking to?" Corin asked sitting down next to me. "God, I think." "Estoy listo, Señor! Papá, come get me!" "How come Dad is talking to a señor?" "I think Señor means God. He's talking to both Grandpa Santos and God." "But Grandpa Santos is dead?" "If Dad dies, he can go be with him." "He can't," Corin started laughing like it was the best joke in the world. "Grandpa's in heaven." "Yeah." I laughed, too. But I was worried. "Corin, he can't use the rifle on himself," I whispered. "But he can still use it on Mom." "Oh," she said, and stayed next to me where we both kept watch until he put the gun away. When we woke up Mom was singing and making eggs, same as always. She likes to sing while she cooks, but she never knows all the words. "Mama, looka, booboo ... hmmm, hmmm ... that is your daddy ... Oh, no! My daddy can't be ugly so. Shut your mouth. Go away. Mama looka boo boo day. Huh! Shut your mouth, go away, da da da da, boo boo day." "Mom, what're you singing?" "No sé, some song I heard." Dad was outside changing the oil in the car. "What was wrong with Dad last night?" "Quién sabe?" she said as she dropped two more eggs in the skillet. Continues... Excerpted from What Night Brings by Carla Trujillo Copyright © 2003 by Carla Trujillo Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
