I wake up to Granpa's voice on the other side of the door. 

            “Come out, Hijo.  Your dad left.”

            “I'll be out in a second, Granpa,” I say.        

            “What are you doing in there?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Well come out then.  You’ve been in there a long time.” 

            “Okay,” I say and come out.

            “I'm going to Hugh M. Woods,” he says.  “Come on, let's go.”

            I don't look him in the eyes;  just follow him to his truck.

            On the way to Hugh M. Woods, Granpa asks how my eye feels.

            “It’s okay,” I say.  “He can’t hit that hard.”

            “I don’t understand,” Granpa says.  “Your dad seems kind of mad, doesn’t he?  All the time he seems mad about something.  He doesn’t have anything to be mad about.  I only hit him one time.”

            “How come?”

            “He was just a little boy.  I told him to get my hammer and he said no.”

            “Did you ever hit Gramma?”  I already know the answer but I like the story. 

            Granpa smiles.

            “Only once.  When we were young.”

            “How old?”

            “I don’t know.  Fourteen, fifteen.  She saw me holding another girl’s hand.  She walked up to me and spit on me.”

            “So you hit her?”

            “Yes,” he says and I think of a soft wind.  “I hit her.  But not when she spit on me.  And I didn’t really hit her.  She spit on me and I just kept walking, holding the girl’s hand, and she, your Gramma, she just kept walking.  She was on her way home.  We used to live in a box car in Wyoming.  We moved out there so I could work in the mines but I quit my job after the first day.”

            “How come?”

            He smiles.

            “I was afraid.  I didn’t like it.  It was too dark.”

            “So when did you hit Gramma?”

            “When I got home, she was cooking beans.  I had made a little stove inside the box car out of an old metal drum with a flue and everything.  She used to cook on it.  Your dad was just a little boy.  I got home and she threw the pan of beans at me.  She burned me and started hitting me with the spoon.  I told her to stop.”

            “So what happened?”

            “She wouldn't stop so I pushed her and she fell.  Her eye hit the handle on the stove I made and I had to take her to the doctor.”

            “Is that how she lost her eye?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “What happened after that?”

            “She lost her eye.”

            “I mean what happened?  You know, how come she didn’t leave you?”

            “You’re Gramma’s a good woman.  She loved your dad and she loved me.  She made me sleep outside for a year and she didn’t have relations with me.”

            “Do you mean sex?” I say.

            Granpa just looks at me.

            I squirm, open the window then say,  “Why did she let you start sleeping inside again?”

            “I started working in the mine again.” he says.  “And I sang to her every Friday night for the whole year.”

            “So she was mad at you because you stopped working in the mine?”

            “I don't think so but I think it was a good thing that I had a job that paid so well.”

            “What kind of songs did you sing?”

            “Love songs,” Granpa says looking at me like he just told me a secret.

            “So that’s why she let you back in?”

            “I don’t know.  She says she let me back in because she wanted another baby.  But she must’ve loved me.  Don’t you think?”

            I think about it.  Gramma seems like she’s always mad at Granpa, an old mad from a long time ago, and I wonder if it’s because of her eye.  When I see her cooking for Granpa, doing the laundry and cleaning the house, I feel this old mad coming off of her.  It feels like she has it under control, like she won’t let it control her actions but like it controls her heart.

            “I don't know,” I say as Granpa pulls into the Hugh M. Woods parking lot.  “I’m gonna ask her.”

            I stay close to Granpa in Hugh M. Woods.  The store is in a kind of ghetto neighborhood where a bunch of illegal aliens live.  Sometimes when we come here, I notice some of the younger ones giving me and Granpa dirty looks.  I always grab a hammer as soon as we walk in, usually a hammer from the discount bin.  If anyone messes with Granpa, I want to be ready.

            Granpa leads us to the plumbing section.

            “They moved the bowl waxes,” he says.  “Do see any bowl waxes?”

            “We came here for a bowl wax?” I say.  “There’s three in the garage.  Who needs a bowl wax?”

            “Your aunt Zenida,” he says.  

            He looks mad.  He keeps muttering under his breath and leading me all around the store like he’s looking for something.

            “What are you looking for?” I say.

            “Can you think of anything I need?” he says.

            “You can always use some nails,” I say.  “Plus, you keep talking about buying one of those Milwaukee Sawz-All things.  Let’s get one of those.”

            “Do you think they cost too much?” he says.

            “They only cost a couple hundred, I think.”

            “Too much,” he says.

            We leave Hugh M. Woods with a box of nails.  On the way to the truck we pass some illegal aliens who give us dirty looks.  I don’t say anything until we get in Granpa’s truck.

            “I hate those fucking wetbacks,” I say to Granpa.  “What’s their fucking problem?”

            “Don’t use that word in front of me,” Granpa says.  “Okay?”

            “Okay,” I say feeling like a little boy.  I’m thinking that I’ve heard my dad use “fuck” in front of Granpa without Granpa getting mad.

            “Did you notice them staring?” I say.

            “Who?” Granpa says backing out of the parking space.

            “The wetbacks,” I say.

            “I said don’t use that word.  Half your relatives are from Mexico.  Do you call them wetbacks?”

            “Oh,” I say laughing.  “I thought you didn’t want me to say ‘fuck.’ ”

            “That either,” he says.  “Use only good words.”

            “Okay,” I say groaning.  “But do you notice them, the ILLEGALS, staring at us all the time?  It bugs me.  Why do they hate us?”

            “How do you know they hate us?  Have you asked them?”

            “Never mind,” I say feeling stupid.

            Granpa turns onto Federal Boulevard and accelerates.

            “Granpa,” I say.  “Do you and Gramma still have relations?”

            He stares at me, turns on the radio, tunes in a Mexican station, turns up the volume and doesn’t say a word to me until we get home and sit at the table.

            At the table, he lights a Kent.

            “Where’s your Gramma?” he says.

            “Don’t you hear her?” I say.  “SheÕs in the basement doing laundry.”

            Granpa shakes his head no.

            “I know you hear her,” I say.

            He shakes his head no again.

            “I don’t hear so good anymore.”

            “Yeah you do,” I say.  “You just don’t hear when you don’t want to.”

            “Aye,” he says then Gramma’s voice echoes up from the basement.

            “Esteban, come here, I need your help.”

            “Coming,” I say getting up.  “Granpa, I’m gonna see what Gramma wants.  Are we gonna do that bowl wax today?”

            “Yeah,” he says.  “We’ll do it when Nida gets home.”

            “Okay,” I say then head down the stairs.

            I find Gramma in the laundry room ironing Granpa’s cover-alls.

            “Hey, Grams,” I say.  “What kind of help do you need.”

            “Get that soap for me,” she says pointing to a box of tide on a shelf.  “I wish you wouldn’t put it there when you put away groceries.  It’s hard to reach and it’s too heavy for me to get down.”

            “Do you want me to put it on the floor?”

            “No, it’ll get wet if the washer floods.”

            “When was the last time the washer flooded?”
            Gramma stops ironing and turns to me.

            “Don’t get smart.  You sound like your Granpa.”

            Her saying that makes me feel good.

            “Should I put the soap on the dryer?” I say.

            “No.  It might fall off.”

            “How?”

            “When the dryer shakes.”

            “Well where do you want it?”

            Gramma eyes the laundry room and points to a different shelf.

            “Over there.”

            “How’s that different from where it was?”

            “Don’t get smart,” she says and starts ironing again.

            “Gramma,” I say.  “Did Granpa used to sing to you every night?”

            She stops ironing, folds GranpaÕs cover-alls then grabs another pair from the dryer and starts on them.

            “Gramma?”

            “What?”
            “Did Granpa used to sing to you every night?”

            “Yes.”

            “What kind of songs?”

            “He thought he was a troubadouro.”

            “A what?”

            “A love singer.”

            “So he sang you love songs?”

            “Yes.”

            “So thatÕs why you let him  back in the box car?”

            “Shit,” she says and stops ironing.  “Hijo, get me some starch from that shelf.  This one’s empty.”

            I grab the starch and give it to her.

            “So you let him back in because of the love songs?”

            “I need some water,” she says.  “Go get me some.”

            I sigh.  I think that Gramma likes to tell me what to do because she does everything for everyone else, like she has to or something, even though no one ever tells her to.

            “All right,” I say then get her some water from the bathroom.

            When I come back, she’s ironing Granpa’s tee shirts.

            “Why do you iron his tee shirts?” I say.  “Who’s gonna see ‘em?”
            “Why do you ask so many questions?” she says then says something in Spanish. 

            “What’s that mean?” I say.

            “It’s a prayer to God.”

            “What did you ask for?”
            “I asked him to take care of you and all your questions.”

            “Oh,” I say thinking that what she said didn’t sound like a prayer.  “Ask him to give me a wish.”

            “God isn’t Santa Claus,” she says.  “He gives you what he gives you.”

            “Don’t you think he listens to you?”

            “He hears me but that doesn’t mean he’s listening.”

            This makes me feel a little sad.  I think God should listen to Gramma.

            I sit on the washing machine.

            “Grams, what did you say to God when you and Granpa got in that fight?”

            “What fight?”

            “You know, that fight in the box car.”

            “I asked for something bad.”

            “What?”

            “HE doesn’t want me to tell you.”

            “How do you know.  I thought you said he didn’t listen to you.”

            She stops ironing, begins folding a tee-shirt and looks at me like I’m stupid.

            “That doesn’t mean HE doesn’t talk to me,” she says then says something in Spanish again.

            “Are you praying again?” I say.

            “No.  I’m cussing.”

            “Oh.  Why?”

            “Because my arthritis hurts and I have all these clothes to iron.”

            “I’ll iron them.”

            “Nope,” she says.  “It’s my job.”

            I think about going back upstairs then decide I should try to get the answer to my question one more time.

            “When Granpa lived outside, did you iron for him them?”

            “No.  I didnÕt have an iron.”

            “Did you cook for him?”

            “I would leave him a plate outside.”

            “How come?”

            “Because he was hungry.”

             “Why did you let him back inside?  Was it because of the love songs?”

            “Why does your Granpa tell you these lies?”

            “He didn’t lie,” I say.  “He said he thinks you let him in because you loved him but he didn’t say he knows.”

            “It’s still a lie,” she says.  “He makes himself look good with his stories.”

            “No sir, he just says he sang you songs and took his job in the mine again.”

            She finishes ironing the tee-shirts and starts on his blue cotton work shirts.

            “Does he say that whenever he sang he was drunk?”

            “No, he never said that.”

            “Does he say that he kept seeing that girl even after the fight?  For three months!”

            “No.”

            “Does he say she got pregnant?”

            She stops ironing, closes her eye and says something soft in Spanish.

            “Pregnant?” I say.  “What do you mean?”

            She starts ironing again.

            “Never mind,” she says.

            Because she looks like she’s going to cry and I’ve never seen her look like this, I don’t ask about the girl anymore.  I feel like I should leave but sit quiet on the washing machine.  Gramma keeps ironing.  It feels like a long time goes by then Gramma starts talking.

            “She got pregnant and didn’t tell your Granpa.  But I knew.  All the women I knew knew.  Then she went to Mexico and your Granpa just thought she left him.  He doesn’t even know now about this so don’t tell him.  Understand?”

            I don’t say anything.

            “Understand?”
            “Yes, I understand,” I say thinking I understand why she seems so mad all the time.  “I won’t say nothing.”

            “Good.  God doesn’t want you to say anything.”

            I stare at Gramma and feel like crying.

            “Don’t feel sad, Hijo,” she says.  “Your Granpa is still your Granpa.”

            My throat feels all tight and my stomach hurts.

            “How come you let him back in?”

            Gramma stops ironing, walks to me and squeezes my knee.

            “I let him back in because I asked God to kill him.  Then God told me that he gives you what he gives you and its a gift.  And if you spit on the gift then you spit on him, on God.”