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“Quiet.”
Dad has Lulu perched on one arm. That poor little dog is trembling with her button eyes dodging around from person to person.
“Dad, don’t you think the Mariachi music will freak her out?” I say.
He scratches her behind her pointy ears. “Oh, my baby preciosa. Mi perrita tan linda, probrecita.”
Francesca shakes her head and whispers to me, “They’re inseparable.”
Nate is carrying his iPad, which is illuminated with the faces of Enrique, January, Dante, and two of my uncles smiling back at me on a Zoom call. Dante looks exhausted. I’m a little bummed he couldn’t come, but he says the Fourth of July is one of the busiest towing days of the year. He has to be in LA to make sure everything runs smoothly with his business.
Enrique and January, however, have that honeymoon glow. It’s sunny wherever they are. Probably somewhere in Europe.
We reach the far end of the house, where Abuelo has his room. There’s an entrance from the outside which he always keeps unlocked, but Mom wants to make sure.
“Does anybody have the key?” she stage whispers.
“I have the key,” replies Dad, in an even louder stage whisper. They are the worst at sneaking up on people. Unless Abuelo’s a heavy sleeper, I’m sure he’s heard us by now.
“Empezamos?” asks the leader of the mariachi band.
Abuela nods and waves her hands like she’s about to conduct an orchestra, but mom hisses to wait.
“Check the lock first.”
Dad huffs and jiggles the doorknob.
“It’s not locked.”
Mom shoos him to go in. “Okay, then go!”
Dad opens the door, letting Abuela be the first one inside. The mariachis exchange looks, confused if it’s time to play yet.
Dad growls at them. “¡Oralé. ¡Qué poca madre! Tocan.”
The musicians spring right into ‘Las Mañanitas’, horns blasting, fiddles screeching just slightly out of tune. We all begin to file into Abuelo’s room, Zoom callers and all. Then Abuela pushes us all out, screaming.
“No está. Este hijo del averno.”
“What do you mean, he’s not here?” cries Dad. “No puedo creer. Somebody check the bathroom.”
Tío Enrique rushes into the room and comes right back out.
“No está en el baño.”
“Try the kitchen,” says Francesca. “Maybe he got hungry.”
Everyone is chattering, voicing their theories about where Abuelo could have gone, meanwhile the musicians are still playing.
Dad swats his arms across. “¡Basta ya!”
They stop at different intervals like a sad, deflated balloon and we’re all staring at one another not sure what we should do next.
“So, I’m guessing your grandpa left somewhere?” Olive whispers to me.
“I have no idea. His truck’s here. Sebastian’s searching the house.”
“Who’s that?” She points at a pair of headlights coming up the road. “A neighbor?”
