Tandem 

Miguel’s arms were short. Too short. He was always rolling up his cuffs, and he was never picked for basketball. Why couldn’t he have arms like Jack? Instead he had inherited his mother’s short stature and his grandfather’s thick eyebrows. Jack, on the other hand, had gotten the best of everything. Long legs, long arms, and black hair that hung in soft ringlets when it grew past his ears. 

His chest and legs were getting wet now, and as he strained and stretched, he tried to remember something about his father beyond a tall frame and wavy hair. He had forgotten the sound of his father’s voice ages ago, and now a sort of fog covered the memory of his face. Did Papa have a moustache? Miguel had thought so, until last week. On Wednesday night, he dreamed that he and his father were riding a rusty two-seater bike. They rode for miles, pedaling along a narrow lane past rows of crops and the occasional shabby barn. The bike clattered and shook. The air was warm, and it smelled like cups of tea with too much honey. The fields bloomed in odd yellows, oranges and reds. 

His father was laughing and telling a strange story, but most of his words were going forward. Only a few stray phrases drifted to the back seat. Miguel heard “walk along the river,” “stolen ears of corn,” and “fierce tongue lashing.” But when his father laughed, Miguel heard all of that. And every few miles when Papa glanced over his shoulder, he was smiling. The enchantment ended when Jack speared him awake with a jab to the ribs and yelled, “Mama! Make Miquel get up and help me look for my other shoe!” 

It was starting to get dark now and Miguel could see the reflection of the corner lamppost in the puddle near his face. He reached forward farther, but all he felt were mud and leaves, and they stank. The iron bars of the grate were digging into his armpit and the top of his shoulder. An automobile passed, and the driver blew the horn and shouted, “Get out of the street, gum head! Do you want to get yourself killed?” 

The stones in the culvert dug into his knees. “Please, God,” he whispered into the muck. “Please.” Miguel winced as he pressed his shoulder between the bars and his arm moved forward the last painful, possible inch. His fingernail caught the rim of the coin, and he was able to slide it toward him just a bit and onto a flat stone. As he pushed down gently, the other end of the coin lifted up like the seesaw in the park. He pinched it between two fingers and slowly rocked and wriggled his arm into freedom. 

When he wiped the mud from the face of the coin, he drew in a sharp breath. It wasn’t a half dollar after all. It was a dollar. A whole dollar. An entire dollar. He closed his fist around it and started walking toward Delgado’s. Tonight there would be bread and cheese and beans and tea. And if Mrs. Delgado happened to be behind the counter, she would give him three peppermints for the price of two. Miguel rubbed his sore shoulder and squeezed some water from his coat. As he reached the corner, he remembered the sound of his father’s voice. It was low and soft. And his face was kind and clean-shaven. 

Nancy S. Huffine