I didn’t notice it so much on the way to the mercado, but the truck is a bumpy ride.
“Take a right.”
“No, the café is this way.”
“Go right at the next intersection.”
“But that won’t take us to the coffee shop. Pancho is expecting us. He told me to bring you directly to the café.”
The look.
Sometimes words aren’t necessary.
I took a right.
The truck kicked up so much dust at that intersection that the cloud was visible from Santa Cruz.
“Luisa will be happy to see you.”
“Sí.”
We rode in silence for the rest of the ride as the truck trailed a plume of dust.
Before I got a chance to put the truck into park, Claudia was halfway to the door. She stopped and turned around.
“You’re welcome to join us, Pip.”
“And the bags? Pancho?”
Luisa opened the screen door and walked out to greet Claudia.
“Mama!”
They embraced as Luisa looked past me, to the fields, smiling.
Inside, at the kitchen table, worn through generations, Luisa had prepared plates of empanadas and elote.
“Mama makes the best empanadas. ¿Y Eduardo?”
“Si no está en la hamaca, anda por ahí con Pedro y esos muchachos.”
“Pip, go keep an eye on the truck.”
My self-imposed obligation to periodically contribute awkwardly to the conversation had been suspended. Squished? Who uses that word?
The truck, a sanctuary. Temporarily.