The American

Chapter Two

A woman is standing by the shore, waiting to take us home. As we exit the boat, the sound of her footsteps fill the vicinity.

"Abuelita," Mario says, overwhelming her in an embrace. He towers over her significantly, his six foot frame no comparison for her petite figure.

Gram shakes her head with laughter. "Eres un gigante, Mario."

The sensation of being a foreigner in my own family creeps up on me as my brother and my grandmother exchange their first words. Physical distance has done little to sever their bond. I listen to their carefree words and the laughter that follows, wondering why Papa never invested in me the way he did with Mario. I had once thought it a blessing, that he had to sit through hours of language class while I could lounge around our neighborhood, creating mischief, but it is now a condemnation, like Papa has banished me from one of the most intimate corners of his heart. 

"Cómo fue el viaje?" Gram asks Mario, taking his luggage. She motions for the mysterious boy beside us to take mine and Sahara's.

"Fue bien, hermosa," Mario replies. They banter for a little bit, speaking in a Spanish that is too fast for me to understand. Eventually, we separate ourselves into two rickshaws, Mario and Gram leading the way in theirs and Sahara, the boy and I sharing another. 

As Sahara and I settle into the back, the unnamed stranger slides into the driver's seat. I don't have time to wonder why he is in the car with us, if he is a distant relative or an outsider, before the car gathers motion. 

We are halfway through the street when Sahara leans into me with an air of secrecy. "Hey Mar?" she whispers, motioning towards the boy. "Do you think he speaks English?"

I observe the periphery of his eyes, focused on the road before us, his unruly hair and his olive skin. "I don't know."

She bites her lip tentatively. "Shouldn't he have addressed us by now? Like, he hasn't said a word."

"I don't know, Sahara. Maybe it's not proper etiquette."

"How can it not be etiquette to address someone? Like, hola motherfucker."

He chuckles, startling the two of us equally. "Hola to you too, bella."

"Bella!" Sahara exclaims. "Did you hear that? Bella."

"It means beautiful in Spanish, I think."

"Me, beautiful—who would have thought?"

"As if you didn't know you are beautiful," I say. "Doesn't Mario remind you everyday?"

"I don't mind the reinforcement."

He laughs at the two of us. There is something about his laugh. I have heard it before, in Papa's stories, the kind of laughter that distends cities with its benevolence. How can laughter be benevolent, Papa? I remember asking as a thirteen year old girl, under an umbrella in Prospect Park. 

The trees forming canopies around us, a small smile appeared on his lips. When you hear it, my sweet Margie, he would say, you will understand. 

"I apologize for being so terse," the boy says. "It has been a long day."

"A long eighteen days," Sahara adds with a sigh. "When Mario mentioned we were going to Spain, I didn't think we would be sailing across the Atlantic on a goddamn boat."

"Ah, yes. Doña Lucia told me it is an old family tradition?"

"Margarita would know. Margie?"

I look out the window, recalling the vague remnants of a memory. But it is incomplete, like there is a hole where there should be clarity. "My father made a vow, many years ago, that when he returns to his hometown, he will do it by boat. He never told us why."