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Sea Creatures
by Lisa Lopez Snyder
The first time they saw him sitting on their stoop, on their way to the bus, Gloria whispered to her little brother, “tranquilo,” and Carlitos’ tiny brown fingers squeezed her palm, his curious eyes turned upward. “Tranquilo,” he repeated. Gloria glanced at the man’s face when they passed him. He sat hunched in a worn jean jacket in the cold rush of the early spring, his hands tucked in pockets ripped at the side openings, his skin dark like her ceiling at night.
“Good morning,” she says to him now, for he is like a friend who cherishes the greeting with quiet acknowledgment. He nods when she and Carlitos walk by.
“Good morning,” Carlitos echoes.
Gloria imagines that the man is waiting on a friend, maybe someone down the street who will give him work on the old houses they are knocking down at the end of the block. Mamá says there are plans for some new shops and restaurants, and that very soon they’ll have to move. There’s a big university with lots of college kids around the corner, and Gloria knows that has something to do with it. She and Carlitos see them when they get off the bus at the end of the day, gathered around the brick courtyards like flocks of pigeons.
This morning is just like all the others as the two of them walk to the corner, their backpack straps flapping in rhythm to a tune Gloria has made up in her head, the one about the feel of rain on her skin. High above them the moon is just a sliver of a nail tip in the sky.
When Gloria and Carlitos get home, the kitchen is hot with the frying of frozen potato slices Mamá bought from Safeway and the pork chops she got at the Mexican tienda. Gloria is trying to tell Mamá about the upcoming class field trip to the city science center and what Mrs. Price has told them about the deep-sea creatures and the movie that will be shown on the big screen.
“They’re amazing,” Gloria says, twisting at the waist, her sticky hands on the counter. “I can’t wait!” She hops up and down, and her stomach growls with the hot snaps of the frying pork. She pictures the photographs in her science book as they might appear, the sea creatures with their bizarre skins and appendages, on the big movie screen. She wonders if they’ll show the see-through worms floating in long pink tissue coils and the big jellyfish with strands of flashing color. Mrs. Price said that everyone will get a permission slip mailed to their homes, and Gloria makes a mental note to check the box every day.
“They live at the very bottom of the ocean where it’s so deep no light ever shines on them,” she tells Mamá. “Some of them are fishes with big bug eyes.”
“Big bug eyes,” says Carlitos, and he waves his small airplane from under the kitchen table.
Mamá is usually a careful listener, and she sometimes sings when she fries the pork, but today she neither sings nor smiles. “Basta!” she says, wiping a strand of hair from her face, and when she says that Gloria knows it’s time to take Carlitos outside until dinner is ready.
The backyard is mostly dirt and Carlitos jumps on an old plastic yellow slide that he and Gloria found by the curb. They had scrubbed it clean with dishwashing soap and with their father’s help, they fastened it with thick ropes to the slats of the small deck off the back door. Gloria sees Papá’s head under the hood, a greasy hand bracing the edge, and she moves her shoulders in time to the quick lusty pump of accordion as Los Tigres del Norte sing from the small portable radio on the gravel drive.
The heavy sounds of bulldozers have stopped for the day. In her head she is floating on clouds around her father, asking him her questions: When will we move? And where? Will we have a house or apartment? But he is silent and furious at his task, wiping his hands on his work towel with an awkward vigor, all of which now makes the evening sun, a color he teasingly calls “Gloria” because of its purple and orange tinge, have a rather dull shine about it.
She squats before a flat dusty spot of earth, and with a used popsicle stick maps the contours of the neighborhood—the park, the main street, their street and the Safeway. The man on the stoop comes to mind and Gloria wonders if he’ll still keep watch when the new shops are built, and if their backyard, with its bits of weed, dirt and gravel, will be dug and churned by the big machines and smoothed with tar until it is a parking lot with black asphalt and bright white lines. She draws the make-believe lot in the dirt and places twigs down to make spaces for the lines and pebbles for the cars, and when she’s finished she studies it for a while, its abacus pattern near a patch of weeds. Carlitos is calling to her, but she stands and brushes her hands on her jeans and walks toward her father, her fingers toying with the worn popsicle stick.
She leans under the hood and breathes in the familiar comforts that define this space--her Papá’s sweat, the oily rags and the open can of beer. Her father lifts his face and the stubble from his rough beard glistens when it catches a glint of sun.
In a soft voice she asks, “Will we have a mailbox?”
by Lisa Lopez Snyder
The first time they saw him sitting on their stoop, on their way to the bus, Gloria whispered to her little brother, “tranquilo,” and Carlitos’ tiny brown fingers squeezed her palm, his curious eyes turned upward. “Tranquilo,” he repeated. Gloria glanced at the man’s face when they passed him. He sat hunched in a worn jean jacket in the cold rush of the early spring, his hands tucked in pockets ripped at the side openings, his skin dark like her ceiling at night.
“Good morning,” she says to him now, for he is like a friend who cherishes the greeting with quiet acknowledgment. He nods when she and Carlitos walk by.
“Good morning,” Carlitos echoes.
Gloria imagines that the man is waiting on a friend, maybe someone down the street who will give him work on the old houses they are knocking down at the end of the block. Mamá says there are plans for some new shops and restaurants, and that very soon they’ll have to move. There’s a big university with lots of college kids around the corner, and Gloria knows that has something to do with it. She and Carlitos see them when they get off the bus at the end of the day, gathered around the brick courtyards like flocks of pigeons.
This morning is just like all the others as the two of them walk to the corner, their backpack straps flapping in rhythm to a tune Gloria has made up in her head, the one about the feel of rain on her skin. High above them the moon is just a sliver of a nail tip in the sky.
When Gloria and Carlitos get home, the kitchen is hot with the frying of frozen potato slices Mamá bought from Safeway and the pork chops she got at the Mexican tienda. Gloria is trying to tell Mamá about the upcoming class field trip to the city science center and what Mrs. Price has told them about the deep-sea creatures and the movie that will be shown on the big screen.
“They’re amazing,” Gloria says, twisting at the waist, her sticky hands on the counter. “I can’t wait!” She hops up and down, and her stomach growls with the hot snaps of the frying pork. She pictures the photographs in her science book as they might appear, the sea creatures with their bizarre skins and appendages, on the big movie screen. She wonders if they’ll show the see-through worms floating in long pink tissue coils and the big jellyfish with strands of flashing color. Mrs. Price said that everyone will get a permission slip mailed to their homes, and Gloria makes a mental note to check the box every day.
“They live at the very bottom of the ocean where it’s so deep no light ever shines on them,” she tells Mamá. “Some of them are fishes with big bug eyes.”
“Big bug eyes,” says Carlitos, and he waves his small airplane from under the kitchen table.
Mamá is usually a careful listener, and she sometimes sings when she fries the pork, but today she neither sings nor smiles. “Basta!” she says, wiping a strand of hair from her face, and when she says that Gloria knows it’s time to take Carlitos outside until dinner is ready.
The backyard is mostly dirt and Carlitos jumps on an old plastic yellow slide that he and Gloria found by the curb. They had scrubbed it clean with dishwashing soap and with their father’s help, they fastened it with thick ropes to the slats of the small deck off the back door. Gloria sees Papá’s head under the hood, a greasy hand bracing the edge, and she moves her shoulders in time to the quick lusty pump of accordion as Los Tigres del Norte sing from the small portable radio on the gravel drive.
The heavy sounds of bulldozers have stopped for the day. In her head she is floating on clouds around her father, asking him her questions: When will we move? And where? Will we have a house or apartment? But he is silent and furious at his task, wiping his hands on his work towel with an awkward vigor, all of which now makes the evening sun, a color he teasingly calls “Gloria” because of its purple and orange tinge, have a rather dull shine about it.
She squats before a flat dusty spot of earth, and with a used popsicle stick maps the contours of the neighborhood—the park, the main street, their street and the Safeway. The man on the stoop comes to mind and Gloria wonders if he’ll still keep watch when the new shops are built, and if their backyard, with its bits of weed, dirt and gravel, will be dug and churned by the big machines and smoothed with tar until it is a parking lot with black asphalt and bright white lines. She draws the make-believe lot in the dirt and places twigs down to make spaces for the lines and pebbles for the cars, and when she’s finished she studies it for a while, its abacus pattern near a patch of weeds. Carlitos is calling to her, but she stands and brushes her hands on her jeans and walks toward her father, her fingers toying with the worn popsicle stick.
She leans under the hood and breathes in the familiar comforts that define this space--her Papá’s sweat, the oily rags and the open can of beer. Her father lifts his face and the stubble from his rough beard glistens when it catches a glint of sun.
In a soft voice she asks, “Will we have a mailbox?”
