Little Pieces was first published in Trampset in May 2023.
Photo by Hans Hamann on Unsplash
I rest my head against Mamá’s side, tucking myself under her arm as she knits. Her warm body shifts back and forth as I sway along, content.
“Mamá,” I say. “Why are you making Lalo a sweater? It’s so hot.”
Mamá laughs.
“Mija,” she says, unraveling a stretch of yarn from the skein. “My children are my pedacitos, my little pieces. It’s my job to make sure you’re always warm, and safe, and fed.”
“Oh,” I say, smiling. I like being one of her pedacitos. There are nine of us, and I’m the smallest.
The evening light enters the room in shades of gold. I watch a column of dust float through its amber haze. As the streetlights come on, my brothers Lalo, Junior and Andrés bust through the front door. Noisy and sweaty, they spill across the room. Little pieces everywhere.
Papá comes in from the garage as Mamá gets up to fix dinner. We sit down for a meal of frijoles and tortillas.
The next morning, Papá leaves for work at 5:00 a.m. and Mamá catches the 6:30 a.m. bus for her shift at Butterfield Soaps. Mamá always doubles up on deodorant because it’s pinche hot inside the factory, especially on the days when soap is boiled in large vats and the air is filled with steamy aromas of roses, lavender, and spring meadows. She once tried talking to the plant manager about the suffocating heat.
“Mr. Kearns,” I can hear her say in broken English. “We, the workers, we very hot when soap is boil, please, it’s possible you put fans for us?”
Mr. Kearns is a tall thin man with black rimmed glasses and a permanent scowl.
“Tomasa, do you know what you and the workers are? You’re like bars of soap on the assembly line. If one is no good, there’s another one right behind to take its place. Now get back to work!”
My four oldest siblings also head out early for school and work. My brothers Manolo and Auggie take classes at Cerritos Community College. Manolo wants to be an engineer, and Auggie a nurse who works with viejitos. My sister Lourdes is a secretary at an insurance company, and my other sister Isabella is the family Einstein. She is in summer school at Excelsior High School not because she has to be, but by choice. The rest of us are wrapped like cocoons in San Marcos blankets, dreaming about our first day of summer.
Mamá leaves our allowance in five stacks on the table, one dollar bill and one quarter for each of us. She has told us a million times not to walk to Kmart, and to stay away from Donna at B&B Pharmacy who slapped my sister Julieta and accused her of stealing. Julieta likes to inspect things when she’s shopping. We know we’re not supposed to touch anything, but she can’t help herself. She likes to feel the soft “Get Well” teddy bears, the rubbery bouncy balls, and the colorful packages of candy that crinkle when you hold them. Donna must have thought Julieta was a no-good lousy thief, and she smacked her for picking up a box of chocolates. Mamá was mortified and said she regrets that she must leave us on our own while she goes to work. We don’t mind, we like the freedom, but we do have to be home before the streetlights come on because the frijoles get cold and Mamá says she’s not a waitress running a 24-hour diner.
Andrés wakes up first and eats all the Sugar Smacks so Junior, Lalo, Julieta and I are stuck eating refried bean tacos. We catch an episode of the Twilight Zone then go out for the day. The asphalt simmers from the heat of the sun as we travel down Rosecrans Boulevard inhaling waves of thick exhaust from passing cars. Junior is the oldest, he’ll be in 9th grade next year. He leads the way on his Mongoose BMX in case Rick the bully tries to ambush us. On the last day of school, Rick and his brother called me and Lalo stupid beaners and threw dirt at us. We don’t know why he hates us. Julieta, Lalo, and I walk behind Junior while Andrés brings up the rear on his Alva skateboard.
To get to Kmart we cross the riverbed next to the 605 freeway walking single file along a narrow dirt and gravel path. A slip and fall to the left and we could end up like that white boy who drowned last year. A fall to the right and we will get run over by cars racing to reach the freeway onramp. We don’t think about these things as we make our way across.
We enter Kmart through sliding doors and are blasted with cold air as we fan out across the store. Beneath fluorescent lights are acres of clothes and sparkling jewelry, furniture, fancy cosmetics that smell good and other things we can’t afford. We’ve come to Kmart for fresh-popped popcorn with melted butter and salt, and cherry ICEEs that coat our tongues and stain them red. We stalk the payphones looking for dimes and marvel at television sets shaped like an astronaut’s helmet. We toss a football in Sporting Goods until the manager who looks like Charles Bronson from that Death Wish movie tells us to leave his store.
On our way back, we stop at the overpass to throw rocks in the water. Cars blow past as Julieta winds up like she’s Mexican Sandy Koufax. She pitches a stone with all her strength and slips on the gravel. She starts to fall forward when I fly like Superman and throw my arms around her waist. We roll on the ground like a burrito as Andrés, Lalo, and Junior pile on top of us. We laugh and hold each other tight.
With our legs dangling over the water, we drink apple soda and talk about how when we grow up, we’ll have so much money we can buy anything we want. We’ll have refrigerators full of food like the ones in the Sears catalog. Junior says he will buy Mamá a big house so she can quit her job and tell Mr. Kearns where to stick it. We nod. We hate that guy.
The light of the setting sun dances across the water as the sky changes into hues of pink and orange. The air has started to cool and feels good on our skin. On our way back we pass B&B Pharmacy and see Donna standing at the register. We go inside and tell her to never touch any of us again, and by the way, Julieta isn’t a thief. Donna crosses her arms and glares at us. We do the same and stare her down. It’s a standoff. Through the windows we see the streetlights start to awaken, flickering on for the night. We bolt out of the pharmacy and race home, Mamá’s little pieces, bigger than when the day started.