aren’t.
Sometimes he’ll just watch his family interact in the living room. The half-Spanish jokes and the bottle of tequila being passed around with a shot glass and salt. The laughing and carrying on. Always eating the best food and playing the coolest games and telling the funniest stories. His uncles always sending the smallest kid at the party to get them a cold sixer out of the fridge and then sneaking him the first sip when Grandma isn’t looking. But even when she turns around suddenly, catches them red-handed and shouts, “
Ray! Mijo,
what are you
doing
?” everybody just falls over laughing. Including Grandma.
And it makes him so happy just watching. Doesn’t even matter that he’s not really involved. Because what he’s doing is getting a sneak peek inside his dad’s life.
Danny looks up at his uncles and cousins from the table, pencil dangling in his right hand. Ray is standing up now, telling a story about the construction site he’s currently working at in Point Loma. How some fat Mexican dude, straight off a border crossing, fell into a small ditch and couldn’t get out. They threw him a rope, and everybody had to pull. All ten of them. And still they could barely pull him out. And everybody’s laughing. Including Danny. Because nobody’s better at telling a story than his uncle Ray. Nobody.
But then Rico shouts something in Spanish. Everybody laughs even harder. Uncle Tommy yells something back in Spanish.
And all Danny can do is go back to his uncle’s letter.
Call from San Francisco
1
A couple mornings later Sofia walks into the living room, where Danny’s eating a bowl of cornflakes. She cups the phone and mouths: “Your
madre
.”
The three previous times his mom has called, Danny’s waved Sofia off, told her to say he wasn’t around. But this time Danny rolls his eyes and takes the phone. He puts the receiver to his ear, mumbles: “Hello?”
“Oh, Danny boy. It’s so good to finally hear your voice. How are you, hon? Good, I hope. We miss you so much up here. Me and Julia and Randy. You might not believe me about Randy, being that he’s only met you once, but just last night he turned to me at dinner, swear to God—we were at this real nice Chinese place near the marina, the best General Tso’s chicken ever! Anyway, he said: ‘So, how’s my boy Danny making out in National City? He getting along okay with his aunt and uncle?’ It moved me, hon. Because you and Julia are my life and here’s this beautiful, well-established man who wants to
share
that with me. I said, ‘Well, I don’t know because he never seems to be there when I call. Either that or he’s mad at me and purposely ducking my calls.’ I hope you’re not mad at your mom, Danny boy. Anyway, how are
you,
pumpkin?”
Danny stares at his cornflakes, literally growing soggy in front of his eyes. “Good,” he mumbles.
“That’s what I like to hear. Make sure you help out around the house, hon. And Randy, bless his heart, he’s gonna start sending down money for
you,
too. He already gives Tommy a couple hundred a month, which I’m pretty sure you’re aware of. But he thinks you should have some kicking-around money. Pretty nice gesture, right? He doesn’t
have
to do it. Anyway, look for a letter from him, Danny boy. Every other week. First one should be there by Saturday, I would think.”
“Okay.”
“Things couldn’t be better up here, if you wanna know the truth. San Francisco is such a gorgeous city. My God. The fog rolling through the hills, Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, the amazing shopping, all the different restaurants. And the culture, hon. You realize real quick how little San Diego has in the way of culture. The problem with San Diego is that all the races live in different pockets of the city. The blacks are in the southeast or in Oceanside. The Mexicans are by the border. Or else they’re working in somebody’s kitchen or yard. That always got me about San Diego. Mexicans are
Sometimes he’ll just watch his family interact in the living room. The half-Spanish jokes and the bottle of tequila being passed around with a shot glass and salt. The laughing and carrying on. Always eating the best food and playing the coolest games and telling the funniest stories. His uncles always sending the smallest kid at the party to get them a cold sixer out of the fridge and then sneaking him the first sip when Grandma isn’t looking. But even when she turns around suddenly, catches them red-handed and shouts, “
Ray! Mijo,
what are you
doing
?” everybody just falls over laughing. Including Grandma.
And it makes him so happy just watching. Doesn’t even matter that he’s not really involved. Because what he’s doing is getting a sneak peek inside his dad’s life.
Danny looks up at his uncles and cousins from the table, pencil dangling in his right hand. Ray is standing up now, telling a story about the construction site he’s currently working at in Point Loma. How some fat Mexican dude, straight off a border crossing, fell into a small ditch and couldn’t get out. They threw him a rope, and everybody had to pull. All ten of them. And still they could barely pull him out. And everybody’s laughing. Including Danny. Because nobody’s better at telling a story than his uncle Ray. Nobody.
But then Rico shouts something in Spanish. Everybody laughs even harder. Uncle Tommy yells something back in Spanish.
And all Danny can do is go back to his uncle’s letter.
Call from San Francisco
1
A couple mornings later Sofia walks into the living room, where Danny’s eating a bowl of cornflakes. She cups the phone and mouths: “Your
madre
.”
The three previous times his mom has called, Danny’s waved Sofia off, told her to say he wasn’t around. But this time Danny rolls his eyes and takes the phone. He puts the receiver to his ear, mumbles: “Hello?”
“Oh, Danny boy. It’s so good to finally hear your voice. How are you, hon? Good, I hope. We miss you so much up here. Me and Julia and Randy. You might not believe me about Randy, being that he’s only met you once, but just last night he turned to me at dinner, swear to God—we were at this real nice Chinese place near the marina, the best General Tso’s chicken ever! Anyway, he said: ‘So, how’s my boy Danny making out in National City? He getting along okay with his aunt and uncle?’ It moved me, hon. Because you and Julia are my life and here’s this beautiful, well-established man who wants to
share
that with me. I said, ‘Well, I don’t know because he never seems to be there when I call. Either that or he’s mad at me and purposely ducking my calls.’ I hope you’re not mad at your mom, Danny boy. Anyway, how are
you,
pumpkin?”
Danny stares at his cornflakes, literally growing soggy in front of his eyes. “Good,” he mumbles.
“That’s what I like to hear. Make sure you help out around the house, hon. And Randy, bless his heart, he’s gonna start sending down money for
you,
too. He already gives Tommy a couple hundred a month, which I’m pretty sure you’re aware of. But he thinks you should have some kicking-around money. Pretty nice gesture, right? He doesn’t
have
to do it. Anyway, look for a letter from him, Danny boy. Every other week. First one should be there by Saturday, I would think.”
“Okay.”
“Things couldn’t be better up here, if you wanna know the truth. San Francisco is such a gorgeous city. My God. The fog rolling through the hills, Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, the amazing shopping, all the different restaurants. And the culture, hon. You realize real quick how little San Diego has in the way of culture. The problem with San Diego is that all the races live in different pockets of the city. The blacks are in the southeast or in Oceanside. The Mexicans are by the border. Or else they’re working in somebody’s kitchen or yard. That always got me about San Diego. Mexicans are
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