Gramma doesn’t stop making masa even after I say, “Quit Gramma, you got too many tortillas already.”

            She stares at me with her gray eye.  The other she lost in a fight with Granpa when they were teenagers.  I try not to stare but it freaks me out especially against the backdrop of her copper skin.

            I think of a cloud on a sunless day.

            The eye closes then opens.

            “What are you staring at?” she says.  “Why do you always stare at me like that?”

            I shift my body away from her, bump into her cutting board table then pull a chair from the butcher-block dinner table.

            Granpa made it.  It never sets level but always shifts on one leg or another.  My small nieces and nephews think its haunted.

            “Don’t sit down,” Gramma says.  “Go check on your Granpa.”

            I sigh.

            “Gramma, stop making those tortillas.  You must have a hundred already.  Stop, okay?  Your arthritis.”

            Again, her eyelid covers the cloud in her head.

            “Go check on him.”

            I get up, take two steps to the door that leads to our driveway, open it and stare at Granpa slouched in his truck – a faded white ‘74 Ford with rusted out fenders.  Grandpa’s head rests on the top of the bench seat with his mouth open and eyes closed.

            For a second, I wonder if he’s dead.

            “Gramma,” I say.  “He looks dead.”

            “Go wake him up,” she says.  “You look like Hay-soos with all that long hair.  Wake him up.”

            “Jesus, Gramma.  Why do you always got to say I look like Jesus?  I don't look like Jesus.  I’m a Mexican.  Jesus was a Christian.”

            “Get a haircut and I won't say that,” she says.  “Anyway, you’re not a Mexican.  You don't even speak Spanish.  And Hay-soos was a Chew.”

            I open the screen door, walk to the truck and tap the hood.

            “Granpa,” I say.  “Wake up.”

            He doesn’t stir.  I move closer to him and tap the window.

            “Wake up,” I say.  “Why the hell didn’t you come in the house?  Come on Granpa, wake up.”  His eyes open to reddish brown slits.  I think of an old wolf.

            “Any good ones?” he says.  “Huh?  Any good ones?”

            “Granpa, Gramma’s freaking out on you.  She’s in the house making tortillas and she won’t stop.  Go inside so she'll stop.”

            “Huh?”

            “She’s making a bunch of tortillas.  She’s all mad.”

            “Oh.  Do you want a Kent?”

            Granpa smokes Kents because he lives on Kent street.

            “Yeah,” I say.

            “No good ones?” he says.  “No good words at all?”

            “Yeah, Granpa,” I say.  “I got good words.  It's a beautiful morning.  What about that Kent?”

            He hands me a Kent.

            I stick it in my mouth then dig in my pockets searching for a lighter or matches.

            “Do you need a light?” Granpa says.

            “Yeah.”

            He takes some matches from the dashboard and hands them to me.

            “Last night,” he says.  “Last night I won some candy.”

            “What?”

            “Candy.  I won some candy.  Here.”

            He leans forward, grabs a grocery bag from the truck floor then hands it to me.  I look inside and see all kinds of candy.  Starbursts, Hot Tamales, Goobers, Tootsie Rolls and a whole bunch of other stuff.

            “You played pool last night,” I say.

            “Yeah.  Those goddamn guys never have any money.  I ask them to bet their cars but they’re afraid I think.  But I did win some money.”

            He lies back, reaches in his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to me.

            “Here,” he says.  “You're a good boy.”

            I stick the money in my pocket.

            “Granpa, let’s go inside.  Gramma’s all mad.”

            “Aye,” he says then opens the door.  “Your gramma’s always mad.”

            We walk inside and Gramma ignores us.

            “Gramma,” I say putting the candy bag on the butcher block table.  “He’s not dead.”

            “Too bad,” she says.

            Granpa sits at the table.  It shifts on him.

            “Julia,” he says.  “Any good ones?”

            She keeps rolling tortillas.

            “Hey, Julie,” he says.  “Any good ones?”

            Gramma turns and looks at him.

            “Do you want your egg with chorizo or with no chorizo?”

            “Chorizo.”

            Gramma opens the fridge and grabs an egg carton.

            “How many?”

            “Two,” Granpa says.

            I compare their voices and decide I like Granpa’s better.  It’s not like Gramma’s.  She screeches.  Granpa talks soft.  But you can hear his voice everywhere.  It’s weird.”

            “Esteban,” Gramma says.  “Do you want chorizo?”

            “Yeah,” I say.  “And three eggs.”

            I notice Granpa falling asleep so I rock the table.

            “Granpa,” I say.  “Tell Gramma about the candy you won.”

            “I won some candy, Julie” he says.  “I won you some candy.”

            Gramma drops an egg in a frying pan.  It sizzles.

            “Did you hear that, Julie,” Granpa says.  “I won some candy.”

            Gramma keeps cooking.

            Granpa reaches for the candy bag, pulls out a package of Starbursts, opens it, finds a cherry Starburst, unwraps it then puts it in his mouth.

            “Are my teeth coming out?” he says to me as he chews.

            “Nuh uh,” I say.  “Gramma, what are you gonna do with all those tortillas?”

            Gramma says nothing.

            I get up, grab an ashtray, sit then put out my Kent.

            “Nuther one?” Granpa says holding his Kents and lighter toward me.

            I take one and light it.

            My stomach starts to rumble so I drag on the Kent.

            “Gramma,” I say.  “Will you get me some coffee please?”

            Gramma floats over with a cup of coffee.

            As she hands it to me, I hear the screen door open. 

            I turn, see my dad and exhale a cloud of smoke.

            My dad walks to the table, sits between Granpa and me then stares at me.

            “Didn't I tell you not to smoke in front of your Grandparents?” he says.

            I feel afraid so lift the Kent to my lips and drag on it.  My dad reaches over and slaps me.  The cigarette flies from my mouth and sparks against the wall.  I stand and notice Gramma staring at me holding a cup of coffee that she fetched for my dad.

            My dad stands and on his way up smacks me again.

            “Sit down,” he says.

            I feel my eye swelling then hear Granpa's voice, grainy and soft, but everywhere.

            “Steve,” he says.  “You sit down.  Or leave.”

            I look at him and think of the desert.  Then I look at my dad and don’t think of anything. 

            He doesn't move;  just stares at me with blackness in his eyes.

            Granpa rises.

            “Steve.”

            His voice becomes the air.

            “Steve.  Sit down and eat breakfast.”

            My dad sits.

            Granpa reaches toward my shoulder.  Before he touches me, I walk toward the screen door then down the steps to the basement.  When I reach the bottom step, I listen to see if anyone says anything but only hear Gramma setting the table then forks touching plates.

            I walk to the bathroom , lock myself in and inspect my eye.  It’s not too bad.  A little purple, mostly red.  Then I lie on the cold tile  until I fall asleep.