Page 34 of Sombra
She plucks at the bedspread. “I haven’t done any of that either.”
“Hombre, but you must. What have you been doing in America?”
“Not that.” She props her cheek on her fist. “Sounds like what I want to do in Spain. Go see Madrid and Barcelona and maybe Morocco or Portugalor France.”
“We can do that,” I say. But then I wonder about how much that will cost. The idea of traveling with her, though, is too sweet. We’ll have to do it.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She claps and gives me a crisp nod. “That’s wonderful. My mom and dad backpacked together in Europe for a summer right after they got married. They figured that it was the only chance they’dhave to do that—and they were right. For the rest of their lives, they talked about it, but never took me anywhere, except to the Iowa state fair. You should go, I’ll take you. There’s a cow made out of butter.”
“For real?”
“There’s a lot of butter in Iowa. And corn.”
“I don’t understand why you eat the corn. Here, it’s for the pigs.”
“We wouldn’t exist without cornin Iowa. ‘Knee high by the Fourth of July.’”
I cock my head. “What does that mean?”
“It’s a saying my grandparents used to say. It just means that the corn has to be in the ground and up to your knees by July fourth. Nowadays, corn is much higher than that by then.”
“Do you live on a farm?”
“No. Just a regular house. People worry about farms nowadays. They think thatthey’re disappearing and agriculture is too corporate. I only see the country stuff at the fair.”
A twinge of guilt hits me. Farms are disappearing because people like me don’t want to carry them on. I change the subject. “The fair? Is that where they have a, what do you call it, Ferris wheel?”
“Yes! Have you been on one?”
“The London Eye. Once. With my father.”
Bitingher lip, she asks, “I don’t mean to pry, and you don’t have to tell me. But where is he? What happened to him?”
I stare down at my empty hands. “He died in a farm accident with a tractor. It was two years ago. He got hurt, and we could not save him.”
“I’m so sorry.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder. Her simple kindness takes me somewhere I haven’t been in a while. A placeI normally don’t go.
“Thanks,” I say automatically. “He taught me how to play guitar.”
“That’s incredible! I wish I knew how to play.”
“I’ll teach you.” And as I say those words, I think of carrying on his tradition. And how I’ve never taught anyone how to play the guitar. But that there’s no one I’d want to teach more than this enthusiastic American.
Her eyes growbig. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Me playing is a connection to him. I play the songs he taught me.” And then I offer what I usually don’t say. “I’m mad about him dying. It’s a waste. He shouldn’t have been hurt like that. And I miss him. I resent that he’s gone. Ever since he died, I’ve been doing what everyone wants. I’m not sure I want to do that anymore, though.” Her hand on my shouldergives me a squeeze and withdraws.
“I know the feeling.” She holds the pillow closer to her.
“You do?”
“I have both my parents, but before coming here, I felt like my entire life was based on a schedule that someone else made up.”
