YELLOWJACKET

“Manny, I’m telling you, we gotta get together sometime. Drink some beers, shoot the shit— it’s been too long,” said Cliff, his voice made fuzzy from the phone’s speakers. “And I could really use some time away from Niecey— love her to death, but these pregnancy hormones got her actin’ up something fierce!”

“I hear you, man. Sometime soon, for sure.” I flipped the turn signal on as I made a right at the intersection. “Hey, it’s been great catching up, but I gotta go. Cleo’s making me take her to some dumb fuckin’ art museum for one of her school projects. Tried to get out of it, but no one else will take her, so obviously, it falls on me, right?”

Cliff let out a sympathetic ‘woof’. “I’ll keep you in my prayers, buddy. Oh— you outta take her to that, er, that sculpture center— Nasher? I wanna say it’s the Nasher Center. We took Savannah there a while back on a free day, and honest to God, Manny, I never laughed so hard in my life! The things people get paid to make! Makes me wonder why I ever joined the force.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I tapped the screen of my phone and pulled up the GPS, typing until something that sounded like it came up. “Who knows, maybe she’ll find something worth writing about there.”

“Here’s hoping,” he said. “Y’all have fun, now.”

“Thanks, man. See ya.” I tapped the End Call button and swiveled back to the GPS before sliding my truck up to the sidewalk beside Mercy’s house.

It was a cool, sunny Saturday morning, cold in a way you didn’t see often in Texas. Squatting on the steps of the porch outside was Cleo, bundled up in a puffer jacket so dense it made her look like a marshmallow on toothpicks. Her beanie rounded out her head until it formed a near perfect circle, and she huddled tightly against herself.

Rolling down my window, I shouted for her. “Cleo! Let’s roll!”

In a flash, Cleo perked up. She wiped her face on her sleeve quickly and bounded up to my car in seconds. Once she locked herself into the passenger’s side, I noticed that her freckled cheeks seemed very wet.

“Everything good, pecosita?” I put my hand on her head, which pulled her hat back just a little to reveal her eyes, red and shiny. “Hey, what’s all this?”

“It’s nothing…” She wiped her cheeks on her sleeve again. “Just Mamá and Tía fighting again. Feels like they fight all the time these days.”

“Yeah? What’s it about this time?” I swiveled the wheel to get back out onto the road again. “Jo spending all your money on Hennessey and tattoos?”

Cleo let out a brief giggle, but her amusement was short lived. “Just the same stuff as usual. Money, the state of the house, who’s looking after Abuela… blah, blah, blah. Feels like every day’s the same with them…”

I frowned sympathetically. Mercy and Joanna had always been at each other’s throats, but I resented that they had to do so in front of Cleo, as it reminded me of my own youth: lots of yelling and lots of uncertainty, yet nowhere to go. Admittedly, I was at a loss for words, knowing nothing I’d say would’ve made me feel better at Cleo’s age, either.

“Eh, forget all about that,” I said encouragingly. “Let’s go out and find your perfect project.”

“Yeah!” She pumped her fists in the air, revitalized. “It’s gonna be great!”

During the drive to the museum, Cleo cycled through what seemed like every radio station offered in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. By the third go-around, I tapped her hand off of the controls, changing it back to 97.1 where it belonged. From the corner of my eye, I saw her pout, but she made no attempt to change it again.

Once I parked my truck in the San Jacinto garage, I took Cleo’s hand into mine to guide her through the streets. As we walked, she droned on aimlessly about her school project: something to do with ‘expanding horizons’ and ‘arguing interpretations’ and other kinds of vague, artsy stuff. It surprised me that her school even tried to encourage kids to think so deeply given that it wasn’t exactly St. Mark’s, but if she was excited about it, I tried to be excited for her.

Sitting near the corner of the upcoming crosswalk was a figure slumped over, sporting a grizzled denim jacket and well-worn sneakers. He had a little tin can beside him, and his dog - some gray-black mixed breed - rested its head on his leg. Upon closer inspection, his left sleeve hung empty at his side, and his black hat had bright yellow military embroidery woven into the brim.

As we drew nearer, Cleo stopped in her tracks to pry open her little pink wallet. All she had in there was a single ten dollar bill, which, upon arriving in front of the man, she handed to him in earnest. “It’s so cold out today, you should go get something warm to drink!” She smiled. broadly. “And get something for your dog, too!”

The man, humbled, shook his head. “I can’t take that from you, little lady. You go on and keep it for yourself, now.”

“Cleo, keep your money.” I rested my hand on her shoulder and nodded toward the man. “Here, man. I got you.”

I pulled my wallet out from my back pocket and split it open to dig through the cash, offering twice what she had tried to give. Though Cleo seemed a little frustrated to be overruled, I felt that the man and I had an understanding, as he accepted my money in place of hers.

“God bless both y’all,” said the man. As he put his hand on his dog, it lifted its head and yawned sleepily. “You stay warm, too.”

With a friendly wave goodbye, I guided Cleo back to the crosswalk and took her further into the city toward the museum.

“You got a good heart in you, pecosita,” I said as we moved quickly through the streets. “How do you fit all of it in you when you’re so damn short?”

Cleo giggled. “You know, Mamá has this little wallet she keeps with her just in case we see homeless people. Whenever we get change, she puts some of it in there so we’ll always have a little something. I was thinking of getting one, too! What do you think?”

Such a good kid. Her sunny demeanor was so infectious that as we passed over a crosswalk, I had a smile I couldn’t contain. “Well, maybe we’ll see something cool at the gift shop you can use.”

When we finally got to the museum, it had countless people flowing in and out through the entrance. Inside, my stomach lurched; crowds had a way of making me feel anxious and exposed even on days I didn’t feel chewed up by a wood chipper. As if detecting a growing tension within me, Cleo squeezed my hand and gazed up at me sweetly. I tried not to feel pathetic for needing a thirteen-year-old to comfort me, but it was a lost cause.

Throughout the building, we approached a variety of different pieces, though usually prompted by Cleo’s interest and not mine. She guided me over to an exhibit that reminded me of a refrigerator decorated with kid’s doodles, pointing enthusiastically at the display before letting go of me to examine it.

Cliff was right - the lack of talent it took to have your shit propped up for a ten dollar admission fee was shocking. In thinly-veiled confusion, I watched an animation that featured little cut-out garbage characters wiggling to bad punk music. “Jesus,” I uttered. “Please don’t tell me you like this.”

“It’s not really my thing,” Cleo said after studying the exhibit, “But I think it has style! What do you think, Tío?”

I tilted my head to the side. “Looks like the kind of stuff you’d let Simba rip up for his kitty litter.”

“Really?” Staring flatly, she raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have anything to say beyond that?”

I drummed my fingers along my chin. “Well, I think the guy should be honored to hear that, actually. Simba’s pretty picky about his litter, which is ironic for a former street cat.”

With obvious frustration, Cleo frowned and pulled my sleeve to lead us away from the exhibit.

Weaving through the rest of the museum, our trip essentially turned into a string of arguments about art, her annoyance at me growing with each exhibit. She was so smart for her age, it made me wonder if I’d actually been dumber as a kid than I thought I’d been. Growing up, I cared less about the impact of art and more about customizing my bike, R-rated movies and impressing older girls, so trying to see things from Cleo’s perspective was a challenge - one I was clearly losing.

One of the worst traits Cleo had inherited from Mercy and Joanna was her absolute stubbornness: she couldn’t simply agree to disagree; it was always a debate, like if she’d framed things in just the right way, my mind would change completely. By the time we’d gotten halfway through, I was practically begging her to pick a piece to write about just so that we could leave already.

Eventually, we came across one of the most bizarre pieces of art in the whole place standing tall in the garden. It resembled some kind of monster made of tarmac, gross and deformed. I couldn’t even see its merit as a coat rack, much less something you’d want to show the world.

“Oh! Tío, Tío!” Cleo bounced, ecstatic. “Look at this! Wow!”

“Ugh, I am looking at it,” I groaned. “Jesus, this has to be the worst one yet.”

Tuning out my reply, she remained in awe. “This is so crazy looking… Do you think it’s, like, a commentary on self image? Something like that?”

I was truly impressed by her ability to craft such bullshit out of nowhere. “I think you’re giving the guy more credit than he deserves, chiquita…”

“Ugh! Of course you’d say that!” Cleo glared at me. “Honestly, you just can’t appreciate art!”

“Ay, you watch yourself. That ain’t fair.” I took a more serious tone with her. “I like plenty of artsy stuff just fine. You just don’t care about the stuff I do like.”

“Oh, come on, nobody thinks Die Hard counts as art!” She snapped. “Like— I don’t care about Big Trouble in Little China or Roadhouse! I wanna know what you think about stuff that actually means something!”

“Haven’t I spent this whole time telling you what I think?” I scoffed. “You just don’t like what I think.”

“No, you’re just making fun of stuff, and that’s not the same thing.” With a great big sigh, Cleo turned away from me and stared soulfully upward at the misshapen sculpture. “Sometimes it feels like… like you’re afraid to say if something makes you feel things, so you’d rather just make jokes instead. Like you’re afraid of feeling things in the first place.”

“Wait, are you saying secondhand embarrassment isn’t a feeling?” I smiled. “’Cause I’ve been feeling that for the last hour and a half.”

Clearly that wasn’t the tack Cleo wanted me to take, because if she was still paying any attention to me, she made no show of it, turning away like she was prepared to give me the silent treatment for the rest of the day. With an exasperated sigh, I glanced back at this tall, looming figure that now seemed to represent something more than just a difference in our aesthetics.

As the daylight shined above us in the garden, the statue’s blue shadow stretched between us like a stark, yawning scar in the earth. On one side I stood, and on the other side was Cleo, her back turned toward me, saying nothing. I opened my mouth to speak, but I knew I had nothing worthwhile to say.

All I wanted was to make Cleo happy, but I had to wonder if that was something I could even do; she was such a sensitive little thing, heart worn on her sleeve and still tender enough to feel every poke and prod. She made it easy to feel like a bull in a china shop, even if it was completely by accident.

Gently, I set my hand on Cleo’s shoulder, and when she tore her eyes away from the statue to look up at me, the genuine hurt in her features made my heart sink in my chest.

“You know what? This should be your piece,” I said softly. “I mean, the whole point of your little paper’s to make a case for something you believe in, right?”

Cleo nodded. “Right.”

“And you gotta stand up for what you believe in, even if nobody else gets it,” I continued. “You see what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” she said. Her demeanor shifted, as if becoming more confident. “Yeah!”

“And…” I tried not to get too sentimental, so I went back and forth between looking at Cleo and looking at the statue. “And it’s okay if I don’t get it, ‘cause there’s gonna be lots of stuff I don’t get, and as long as you’re happy, that’s what matters, okay?”

Finally, a smile worked its way onto Cleo’s face, her freckled cheeks rounding out. Pulling out her phone from her little purse, she stepped away from me, snapping pictures at all kinds of angles before coming back to hold my hand. Her fingers interlaced warmly with mine, like she hoped to never let me go.

“Alright, enough with the paparazzi stuff— let’s get going,” I said, hoping to clear the air further. “Don’t know about you, but all this thinking’s worked me up an appetite.”

“Oh, there’s this new little place that opened up a few blocks from here!” Cleo beamed. “Can we go there? I see it on Instagram all the time!”

I pursed my lips. “I dunno, you already spent all my money on bums and parking. I might not have money for anything better than fish heads out of a sushi joint’s dumpster.”

“Fish heads? Not again!” She giggled - one of the most contagious things on the planet. “Okay, maybe we can get burgers instead?”

I shrugged. “Fish heads are my final offer. Take it or starve.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind about what I’ll write my paper on,” she said with an air of authority. “I’ll write about child starvation instead.”

“You wanna write about artists, you gotta live like an artist,” I replied, offering my hand to her. “They’re called ‘starving’ for a reason.”

As Cleo took my hand into hers and we began to walk away, I glanced over my shoulder one last time at the funny little sculpture.

When Cleo caught me looking back, her eyes twinkled.

･ ･ ･

After lunch, we loaded up into my truck to head back home, and the first thing Cleo did when we’d begun driving was take out the journal I bought for her at the gift shop. It practically gave me a hernia to spend twenty-six dollars on a notebook, but when I saw how happy it made her, it was a no-brainer.

In the middle of the traffic heading towards her house, Cleo shut off the radio, filling the air with only the sound of my truck’s heater working overtime. “Hey! I like that song,” I said, my brows flattening.

“Sorry, Tío, but…” Cleo pursed her lips. “I wanted to talk to you about something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

“If it’s about boys, your mamá said no boys ‘til you’re 30.” I took the sunglasses that hung off of my visor and set them over my eyes. “Don’t you go getting teen pregnant on me now.”

“Ugh, you’re so gross! Stop it!” She huffed. “I’m being serious!”

“Alright, alright, okay,” I replied. “What’s on your mind?”

At first, Cleo’s silence was measured, hesitant. Then, she finally asked softly: “What was my dad like?”

In an instant, a heaviness cloaked itself across my body. Out of instinct, my hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.

“Your mamá’s told you all there is to know about him, hasn’t she?” As I spoke, I wondered if she’d notice my nervousness. “That one time with the Mentos volcano sums him up pretty well, if you ask me.”

“Sure, I’ve heard funny stories here and there, but…” Cleo fiddled with the bookmark on her notebook. “I still don’t feel like I really know him. Not like I should. All my friends know about their dads, but I’m the odd one out. I always have been.”

I nodded, staring blankly ahead at the road. My throat burned.

“Sometimes I get the sense that, like, nobody wants to talk about him. And the people who could talk about him don’t talk to us anymore.” A disappointment - a sense of rejection, even - clouded her features. “So I’m just left with this memory— this shape of him, but with none of the details filled in.”

When I breathed in, I held it in my lungs for longer than I should’ve. We never spoke of it explicitly with Cleo, but Feliz’s family had always thought poorly of Mercy when we were growing up. To them, she was a barrio bike who wasn’t good enough for their son. Even when Feliz did the honorable thing and married her, they weren’t happy: she was about eight months too pregnant in her wedding dress for them to find anything but shame when she walked down that aisle.

In the wake of Feliz’s death, they washed their hands of Cleo and Mercy completely. I’d also lost touch with them, but that was my choice, not theirs - if they felt too good for either of them, then they were clearly too good for me, too. I’d have it no other way.

“Tío?” Cleo’s tender little voice interrupted. “Do you think my dad would’ve liked the museum?”

“Mmm…” I hummed, trying to buy time to think of an answer that wasn’t a resounding ‘no.’ “He would’ve liked taking you, but he didn’t like this sorta stuff in general.”

She put her journal back into the shopping bag. “What did he like?”

“Anything that involved a lot of people,” I said. “Your papá was the life of the party. He was always smiling, laughing, making jokes. That’s why we called him Feliz– but he actually hated it as a name.”

Cleo blinked curiously. “What’s wrong with it? I like it better than Felipe!”

“Well, he thought it sounded too girly.” I smiled even though it hurt. “Then when he met your mamá, she thought it was the cutest thing in the world, so he never went by anything else ever again. Coming from her, it was perfect.”

The longer I dwelled on his memory, the harder it was to speak. My throat tightened painfully.

“And he loved music— he’d play, like, System of a Down so loud, his boombox would make tables shake. There were times I thought he was gonna make me go deaf.”

The ringing in my ears is so loud…

“And he was a real motormouth, he could go on a tangent about anything. His mamá was always telling him to shut up, and he’d just keep going and going and going…”

His mouth is moving but I

can’t

hear

him.

“But she loved him anyway. God, he was such a mama’s boy. She’s the one that started calling him Feliz in the first place. When we were overseas, he called her all the time, saved every letter she ever wrote. He worshiped the ground she walked on.”

You can’t let your mamá bury her only son.

“Actually, to be honest with you… I think it was hard for your abuela to visit after he passed ’cause you take after him a lot. Your laugh, the way you smile… you’re the spittin’ image of him. I see it in your eyes.”

I look into his eyes

and I see nothing behind them.

Nothing,

nothing–

“Tío?”

My hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. I hadn’t even realized how hard I’d been breathing. When I looked at Cleo in the passenger’s seat, her brows were pressed together in worry.

“Isn’t it your turn to go?” She pointed to the stoplight. “The light’s green, and everyone’s honking behind us.”

In my rearview mirror, I saw several cars from behind maneuver past me, various drivers responding with colorful insults and gestures as they left me in the dust. I shook my head to clear my mind, pressing the pedal and refocusing on the road.

“Sorry,” I said, ashamed. “Um, look, you should ask your mamá more about him when you get home, okay? She’s got all kinds of pictures and videos of him. She’s, uh, she’s better to talk to about him.”

She flattened her mouth into a thin, awkward line. “… Okay.”

With that, a silence fell between us, and I couldn’t shake just how trapped I felt in the car; it was suffocating like a freshly closed tomb, the oxygen inside draining quickly.

Everything was so fucked up. It shouldn’t be like this. I wasn’t the one who should be taking Cleo to museums, or paying for her braces, or giving her guidance on her life. Feliz should’ve been sitting where I sat, watching Cleo grow up to become a smart, beautiful young woman who had a big enough heart to change the world - and instead, I let him bleed out in Afghanistan.

With a trembling lip, I looked at Cleo in the passenger’s seat.

Take me instead.