“They’re my best friends.”
A dry, exhausted chuckle falls from my father’s lips and I brace myself for what I know will come next, a lecture of some sort, but to my surprise, he walks in the opposite direction to a bench near the pitcher’s mound. I follow, taking a seat next to him.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Let me rephrase, what was your motivation to get into a fight for money this time?”
I don’t want to say, but if there’s one thing about my father, it’s that once he’s onto something, he won’t let it go. My options are that I tell him now, or he’ll pry it out of me eventually.
“Art lessons.”
He perks up, seemingly surprised by my response.
“Lessons?”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks. “Yeah, you know how I like to draw. I want to take lessons so that I can become…”
“An artist?” he interrupts with a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Yes.”
He mutters under his breath.
“Is that a problem?”
The muttering continues until it eventually reaches an audible volume.
“It’s just that I thought you wanted to become a lawyer.”
My head juts back, recalling my own words. I mean, I’ve mentioned it in passing that it would be nice to become one. Though I’ve always wondered if I had the intellect to pursue it. I do okay in school. I’d be lying to myself if I said that I’d likely do a lot better if I applied myself, but I haven’t given it much thought. Though with me about to enter my senior year in high school, I guess I need to start putting more thought into my future.
The mumbling continues and I’m not quite sure where to jump in. It’s not until he mentions my mom and sister as tears stream down his cheeks that, as confused as I am, I take it as my cue to speak.
“Pops, what’s wrong?”
“They are going to need you, Tomás,” he says, vague and cryptic.
I shake my head. “Who is going to need me?” Worry captures my throat, tightening it as he bows his head, and the tears are no longer silent in a singular flow, they are pouring down.
“I thought I’d have more time,” he mumbles.
“Dad.” I say his name as a plea. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
I grab onto his shoulder to shake him, needing him to look up at me, to tell me what’s wrong, but instead he falls forward, wailing. I catch him, bringing him back onto the bench, and for the first time in my life, I see my dad cry. He buries his head into my shoulders, unable to speak.
Not sure what’s happening and afraid to know, I hold him as he cries.
I lose track of time, and it isn’t until the church bells go off in the distance as they usually do at six p.m. sharp that I’m aware of how long we’ve been here.
An hour.
One whole hour.
Sixty minutes of uncertainty.
Finally, he grabs the handkerchief he keeps in his back pocket and wipes away his tears, composing himself enough to speak.
“I’m going to need you to do me a favor.”
“Yes, Pops, of course. Anything you need. Just please, tell me what’s wrong.”
