Adam Blake Wright
I wave goodbye to my turtle, R2, and walk a mile or so down the road to the grocery store parking lot. The bus is already there. I pile in with everybody else and sit beside my buddy Moses. The smell hits me instantly—dozens of bloody, shit-covered uniforms. The meat factory will smell much, much worse and so I close my eyes and take a big, deep whiff and let it dive into my chest until I’m reminded of everything that’s led me here: the beach, Esmé, the militia, my children, gunshots, the train to Honduras, nights spent starving in the desert, California, Washington, farms, Krista, the factory. Only now the story ends with a new baby and these big red spots on my body. Doesn’t matter. I take this story and tie it up with the smell and let it sink to the bottom of my belly until it disappears and I don’t have to think about anything else except slicing up that one pig in front of me and moving to the next.
“Nice day off, brother?” Moses asks. He’s in the Klickitat tribe but he has dark skin and speaks Spanish so all the big boss gringos think he’s Mexican. I always appreciate that he keeps his mouth shut until I’m finished telling myself that story—after years of working at the meat factory and losing both thumbs, Moses knows you’ve got to survive this place whatever way possible.
“Not bad,” I say. “You?”
“Watched a bunch of wrestling.”
I nod my head and that’s about all we say. The bus stops and we get out, shuffle into the big white warehouse. Machines are everywhere. With all these contraptions and uniforms and horrible smells and strange sounds I might as well be in Star Wars. I zip a white jumpsuit over the coveralls, walk to the station, put on goggles, start up the chainsaw. Pigs are strung upside down on a big belt that rotates above my head. I rev up the saw, slice off the legs, watch all four plop into a giant steel bucket. Moses pushes the button to send down the next. And so it goes. One pig after another: slice, slice, slice, slice. My palms numb up in no time. My back burns. When a leg drops halfway, still dangling from muscle, it takes another slice. Red splatters the jumpsuit. I don’t like to get messy, so I tell myself to shape up—at the end of the day, if I have the cleanest uniform, I win a dollar from the other guys on the line. Then all of a sudden I hit a bone and the chainsaw spins out of my hands. It slashes the ribcage, severs a tendon, swings and swings around the shoulder joint like a goddamn propeller. I duck and hear a terrible retching sound. The saw pops out, sails above my head, lands on the floor, sputters, bounces, shoots up circles of blood.
Moses rushes over. “Where’s your cabeza, Guillermo?”
I stand up, turn off the saw. Shit like this happens all the time. Supervisors don’t care as long as nobody’s hurt. I wipe blood from my goggles and stare at Moses. Got one minute to cool off and then it’s back to the line.
“Better be careful or you’ll get sliced to pieces before that baby pops out,” he whispers.
I turn back to the pigs. “Won’t happen again.”
Moses grabs my shoulder and whips me around. “You’ve been screwing up all week. What’s the problem?”
It’s scary, the way Moses looks at me. He’s not usually like this. Like he’s looking right into me. Like he knows something’s off. He’s right. I’ve been lying for days. It’s a curse to say out loud but Moses is a man to be trusted and so I point to my belly and say it anyway. “La niebla.”
The mist, the other workers call it. Sometimes it goes away. Sometimes it doesn’t.
“Bullshit,” he says. “You’ve been hearing fairy tales.”
“It’s true.”
“And what if it is?” he says, waving his hands in front of me, like leaping frogs with those missing thumbs. “You think they give a fuck about you? Keep quiet or go home.”
I rev up the saw and start slicing. It was a bad idea to tell Moses. A window or some sunshine would be nice right now but all I’ve got are chutes and ladders and dead pigs to look at. It bothers me how I still see terror in their eyes. Large and brown, often with a sliver of blue or green. Almost human. Like they knew what was coming. Most days I just shut it out but now the spots are swimming around my head. Can’t focus so well. I slice up the next pig only I’m in the jungle and gunshots vibrate off the trees and my cousin falls to the ground and I slice the next pig and catch my breath and slice and slice and slice and slice until it’s time to go. My uniform’s a bloody mess—no way I’m getting that dollar.
I meet Moses around back. We walk across the Cable Bridge to Krista’s bar, go right to the counter and she smiles and winks and hands us two PBRs each. Krista leans in, brushes my hand, and I remember when we first met, years ago. Those cute jean shorts and that nose ring and those long purple fingernails. Had no trouble speaking Spanish. Loved the beach, like Esmé. Always talked about turtles and growing up in South America with her missionary parents. One thing led to another and now here we are…
“Somebody keeps asking for you,” Krista says. “Out on the patio. Been waiting all afternoon. Got a weird look on his face too. You expecting somebody?”
I shake my head and take another sip.
“Course not,” Krista says, pushing her elbows off the bar. “Hell, don’t keep him waiting. And better take Moses if you’re in trouble. Nothing he can’t handle.”
I chug the first beer and make my way out back, tell Moses to stay by the door. There’s just one guy, a kid, probably shouldn’t even be here. I take another sip and stare at him. Shaved head, black pants, tattoos all over his neck. He stands up and walks toward me and stops. He wobbles around, half drunk or damn tired or both, and looks at me like he’s scared. Like he’s a pig. Big brown eyes full of fear.
“Papa?” he says.
I jerk my head back and stare at him. I don’t speak but know right away that what he says is true—he has the eyes of Esmé and the same dark skin so there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s mine. He was only a boy when I left El Salvador, no more than four, his sisters barely ten months. All the years that I have missed, and now he is a man, strong and handsome, just as I imagined.
“It’s me,” he says. “Your son. Tito.”
My ribs snap to twigs and poke me in the chest. I don’t know how Tito got here, only hope that he didn’t take the same path as me—hopping trains and hiding in boxes and selling out to some coyote in hopes that he didn’t shoot me in the face and take my money anyway. The journey to America changes a man and surely Tito is no different. I don’t know what to say and so I say the only thing that seems honest. “Why?”
Tito leans forward and points at me, his eyes cold and bloodshot. “Quiero mirarte.”
“How did you even find me?” I say, shaking my head.
“Cousins told me. Besides, you wire us money. Wasn’t hard to figure out.”
Who told? Pia? Maybe her boys? They should be ashamed but so should I—it would be good to hug Tito but I just stick my hands in my pockets instead. “It’s not what you think here.”
“Of course it is. I’ll get a job and live with you.”
“It’s not so easy. You must get a card, you must get—”
Tito spits in my face. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I can’t do it on my own? I’m not the little boy you left.”
Tito is no longer a pig but a monster. He hits me in the face and I know I deserve it. I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him about Krista and Moses and R2 and la niebla yet thousands of miles still separate our souls. Tito hits me again. I don’t fight back, just let him get it all out. Krista screams from inside the bar and then Moses and a few others pull Tito off and he kicks and yells and Moses pops him a good one in the stomach with those four fingers sticking straight out.
“Nobody worry,” I shout, stepping between Moses and Tito.
Krista runs up. “¿Qué carajo?”
Tito laughs and looks me straight in the eyes. “This white bitch yours?”
“Watch your mouth,” Krista says. “Or somebody might rip it out.”
“No problema here,” Tito says. “Just talking to Papa.”
“Papa?” Krista says, rubbing her belly. “Guillermo, what’s he talking about?”
Tito laughs again. “Papa didn’t tell his white bitch!”
Krista stares at Tito and then looks at me and looks back at Tito and looks at me again. I think about our life together, how someday we will move to the beach and splash in the water and play with turtles. But I’ve got these big red spots and a new baby and now an old baby too. What can I ever do to help my poor boy?
~
I can’t go back to sleep and stumble to the living room. Tito is wide-awake and shirtless on the couch. Listening to my tapes and bobbing his head and playing with R2. His tattoos shimmer against the corner lamp: a spider, a deck of cards, a pyramid, his mother’s face, the Grim Reaper, Homer Simpson, a crucifix, an angel, some swirls, his sisters’ names in calligraphy, others I don’t enjoy so much.
Tito feeds R2 a potato chip. “I like your turtle.”
“Don’t give her that,” I say, sitting beside Tito.
“It’s okay,” he says. “She likes them.”
Tito’s eyes are red and I know he’s been huffing glue. A lot of the factory guys started sniffing it on the Death Train from Central America to Mexico. For days now I’ve tried to ask my son about his own journey. I want to know about Esmé and the earthquakes but Tito doesn’t like to talk about these things. All he’s told me is that he left El Salvador seven months ago. Hasn’t spoken to Esmé since. So instead of talking I just sit beside Tito and listen to the Pixies and watch R2 until it’s time to go the factory.
On our break, Moses tells me that I should invite Tito to our soccer game at Chiawana Park. “Might help us win.”
“Don’t know about all that,” I say.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Moses says, holding his sandwich all funny as he bites into it.
“He’s my son,” I say. “I’ll decide.”
“Just saying, cabrón. Could always use more players. Tito should meet some of the guys, start making a life for himself. ”
“Tito’s got a life.”
Moses cocks his head to the side. “You want your son to stay locked up in that cabin forever?”
I drop my bag of pretzels on the table. “Why you so goddamned interested in my son?”
“Maybe you should be asking yourself that.” Moses stuffs his sandwich in his mouth and walks off.
For the rest of the day I slice and slice and think about what Moses said. It’s true, all Tito does is sit around and huff glue. He probably needs some friends. But maybe not the factory kind. I don’t want him to just slice and slice until he becomes someone he doesn’t like. I suppose he could work on the farm with Pia and her boys. But I don’t really know. How can I? I haven’t been a father for awhile so I’m not sure how to make things right.
After my shift, Tito says that he already knows about the soccer game. “Moses told me at the bar last night.”
That goddamn Indian should keep his mouth shut. I worry that he puts stories in Tito’s head. “So? Are you going to play?”
“Sí,” Tito says, nodding. “Why not. Played a little back home.”
When I tell Krista in bed that night she shakes her head. “I thought he was getting a job.”
“Won’t be too much longer,” I say. “Sometime soon.”
Krista turns on her side. I should come clean about la niebla, the checks I still send to Esmé, but she can only handle so much. I worry about the baby.
“Tito moves out or pays rent,” she says. “Unless he’s motherfucking Pelé then he better find something else to do.”
I cradle her in my arms. “Come to the park with us. Please.”
Krista takes my hand. “We’ll see.”
In the days ahead, anticipation for the game changes Tito’s demeanor, only slightly, but still for the better. He goes to bed earlier. Eats a little more. Stops calling Krista a bitch, even makes pupusas with her while I work on Saturday. The smell lingers in the house and reminds me of those brief years with Esmé and my children. I refuse to get too attached because I know these things don’t last. Krista will only tolerate Tito for so long. And with these spots, anything could happen. Mostly I just keep my head down and try to stay out of the way.
On Sunday, rain falls on my face and splatters my cleats as I pass the ball with Moses, Tito, and the rest of the team. Our usual goalie never shows up (sliced his leg) so I volunteer for the position, stretch for a bit until the ref blows the whistle and all hell breaks lose. Tito plays second striker and kicks the ball every which way. Moses and the other guys play strong defense so I only block a few shots. Then right before half-time somebody sails the ball over my head and into the upper left corner of the net. Shit. Now it’s 1-1. I tell Tito to dig deep, fight harder. In the next half he proves to be a goddamn prodigy. Makes two goals in ten minutes and before I know it everybody is jumping around, dumping ice, chanting my son’s name.
Krista kisses me, high-fives Tito. Then everybody starts eating pupusas and tamales under a pavilion by the river. I stuff my face and chug beers and point at Tito and keep telling everybody that he’s my son. Later that night I hug Tito for the first time since he was a boy. I almost cry but don’t have time because Krista takes me by the arm and we dance underneath the stars and I’m so, so happy to be drinking my troubles away.
When we get to the cabin, Krista falls fast asleep and I squeeze Tito’s shoulder while we sit on the couch. “Proud of you, son.”
“Let’s celebrate,” Tito says. He pulls a brown paper bag from his backpack, unscrews a cap, and takes a whiff. “Papa?”
He hands me the bag. I’ve never done something like this but I go ahead and take a whiff. Breathe in real deep like I do every morning on the factory bus. The smell is strong. Takes hold of me real quick. My eyes flutter and we pass that bag and sniff, sniff, laugh, laugh until I get a headache and pass out and wake up right before it’s time to go the factory.
~
In the shower I try to scrub off the spots. It doesn’t work. Instead, I turn on the waterproof radio and listen to my favorite music. I sing and sing and it makes me want to cry. When I first got to America, I went to the flea market and bought all these used cassette tapes of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Radiohead, and then sang along to them, again and again, until I spoke a little English and got a better job because of it. But now this song “Creep” makes me feel like a loser. I guess that’s okay, I’ve always been a loser, but with Tito and these spots it’s hard to make much sense of anything.
I kill the faucet, dry off, pull on a white undershirt, and wrap the towel around my waist. I open the door to our room and Krista is lying there, naked, red hair all over the place. I lay down beside her and put my hand on her pale belly—it’s only been three months but already her body is changing. Krista moves my hand between her thighs. She tries to remove my shirt but I stop her and slide off the bed.
“Won’t it hurt the baby?” I ask.
She sits up, shakes her head, and slides both hands underneath my towel. What else can I do? I turn off the lights. Try to make love but can’t. Krista asks what’s wrong and all I can think about are these spots making my baby sick. I roll off and kiss her forehead, move to her lips, her neck, all the way down her belly, then to the good stuff, and she just shakes and moans and stops and curls up with me. Krista’s breath bounces off my neck until she falls asleep and I’m left here all alone wondering about my Esmé.
I’m not proud of my choice but things were much different then. We married a week before the archbishop’s assassination, just in time for El Salvador to eat itself, as well as our love. Overnight, it seemed, my cousins carried machine guns on their backs, joined the FMLN, spoke only of politics and murder. When Esmé gave birth to Tito and twin girls I tried so hard to run my woodshop and make a life for them. But I couldn’t. Now I chop up meat and send money from America and worry it still isn’t enough. How can I be a father to this new baby if I can’t even provide for Esmé?
These sins and regrets mix with the morning. I climb out of bed and put on the uniform that smells like blood and shit no matter how much washing. I drink orange juice from the carton and smother a banana in peanut butter while R2 looks at me from her glass cage. Sometimes I take R2 and let her crawl on Krista’s pregnant belly and I feel like I am back in Jiquilisco Bay, a magical place where sea turtles crawl from the waves and lay their eggs beneath drooping, moonlit trees. In my earliest memory, I am barely even two and my father plops me right down on the back of a sea turtle and I giggle and giggle as it wobbles across the sand.
When I get home, Krista is standing in the kitchen with an envelope in one hand and a beer in the other. Mascara runs down her face. She sits down in the corner, crosses her legs, wipes her eyes, balls up the envelope, and throws it at me.
“Found this in Tito’s backpack,” she says. “Read it.”
It’s one of my letters to Esmé. This whole time Tito kept his mouth shut about his mother and the money but now Krista’s found the real deal. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her before. She always knew about my past, the war, and yet I was afraid of what might happen if she ever found out the whole truth. Still, I nod my head and do as I’m told:
Mi Corazón —
I hope this money finds you well. I know it isn’t much but school should be starting soon. Please buy Tito and the girls whatever they need. I heard about the earthquake and hope that you are okay, though I like to think that if anything ever happened to you then I would feel it in my soul. Last week I bought a turtle and named her after that robot in Star Wars. When I look at her I think of our wedding night, years ago, surrounded by hatchlings as we camped on the shore and made love with the sunrise.
Está in mis sueños, siempre,
Guillermo
I look around and just now realize that Tito and his things are gone. “What did you do?”
Krista’s face is long and haggard. Her eyes burn with anger. I have only seen her like this when she talks about her parents, the church, moving around. After much silence, she finally speaks. “We’re having a baby—choose our family or get out.”
~
I have no idea where Tito went but I think my cousin Pia knows. Before the meat factory she and I worked together on a hops farm in the Yakima Valley. Sunshine. Fresh air. Like paradise, even when our fingers bled from overuse. Then Pia got me fired so one of her sons could take my place—sometimes I hate her, sometimes I don’t. Still, she’s family.
I pull into the gravel driveway and knock on the faded yellow door of her trailer. A squat woman with large hips and a mole opens the door and frowns at me. “I knew you’d come by soon.”
“Is Tito here?” I say, forcing my head inside. Pia’s boys are huffing glue and fighting over the remote. A life-size statue of the Virgin Mary watches from the corner.
“Let’s go outside,” Pia says. She leads me around back to a sad little excuse for a porch and lights a cigarette. “¿Quieres?”
I shake my head. “Have you seen Tito?”
“No, not for weeks.”
“He’s my son. I just need to know.” And it’s true, it’s the not knowing that bothers me. I don’t care where he went as long as I know. Krista ran him off last night and now I’ve got to fix this.
Pia puts her hands on her hips, cigarette still tucked in her teeth. “If you hadn’t left years ago then maybe he would tell you these things. I told you, Guillermo, someday this would haunt you.”
“And I should be like you?” I say, rocking my feet on the cracked planks. “Dragging three little boys across the border so one can get shot in Arizona? Yes, Pia, that’s what I wanted for mi hijo.”
Pia blows smoke in my face and slaps me. “We all made our choices. Not always the right ones.”
For a long time, silence. Finally I say what I’ve been wanting to. “Why did you tell him where I lived?”
Pia looks at me in a strange way. More disappointed than angry. “My boys never had a father. I would give anything to have Javier and our son back. So count your blessings, primo. Tito deserves to know.”
It’s a bad thing we did, bringing up Javier. I see him in my mind. A little boy with shaggy hair, swinging off ropes and splashing into the water. I see him at his wedding, big grin on his face, dancing with Pia. I see him dead on the ground, both eyes missing, dozens of knives in his body. A man can only see so many dead friends before he snaps. Pigs are squealing in my head. I’m breathing fast and I feel like I’m at the factory and start coughing blood. Red dribbles down my cheek and speckles my hands. My lungs ache. I wipe off with my shirt and see Pia’s eyes get real big because she’s staring right at those spots.
“La niebla!” she says, running into the yard. “Leave, Guillermo. Now!”
“You’ve been hearing fairy tales,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Pia says, already at the front door. “Go home. Think of Tito! Think of the baby!”
I don’t sleep so well that night. Try to keep my head up on the bus. Everyone is talking about funny men with wires walking around the meat factory. Might be a raid. I try not to get too scared. Been through a few already. Moses taught me a real good place to hide. Besides, you leave, you get fired—it’s a risk we’ve all got to take. I see everybody shaking around all nervous so I close my eyes, take a big whiff of blood-shit stains, and try to tell myself that story but the only story I can see is my son cut up with a bunch of chainsaws and knives.
I feel like shit as I’m slicing. Everybody is talking about my son the famous soccer player. All day it’s Tito this and Tito that, Tito, Tito, Tito. I want to feel happy but really I just hate all these people saying my son’s name like he has no choice but to be a part of this place. I slice and slice and tell people, yes, thank you, Tito is a good boy. Maybe if I say it enough I will actually believe it.
“Your son could run this place,” Moses says at the end of our shift.
“But what if he doesn’t want to?” I say.
“Of course he’ll work here,” Moses says, smiling. “What else is he going to do?”
I start to speak but can only cough. Moses frowns and walks away, stops after a few steps then turns around. He stares at me like he’s got something to say so I just cough and cough and stare right back into those big brown eyes. It’s true. Maybe Tito will come back. Maybe there’s no other way. But Tito will have to create his own story, his own fairy tale, until he can no longer tell the difference between an overworked man and a scared little pig.
# #
Adam Blake Wright is a dual degree graduate student at Iowa State University, where he pursues an MFA in Creative Writing and an MS in Sustainable Agriculture. As a Julia Child Foundation national food writing scholar, his work has appeared in Alimentum and Edible: Iowa River Valley. Adam most recently served as the nonfiction editor for Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment, and previously worked as an arts educator in his hometown of Asheville, North Carolina, a majestic mountain oasis where he grew up on a 40-acre apple orchard.