Word Spreads

My Dad is my hero. To me, he is like a superhero. Like the good guys that stop the bad guys and bank robbers. Or the man of La Mancha with the impossible dream. Here in Quito, there isn’t much to do except maybe kick a can around and hope it doesn’t get sucked into a gutter. But my Dad, he found a way to make a living. No, my Dad found a way to make us the richest people in our town. Oil rigging was his passion. See, my Dad had three daughters. He also taught his three daughters how to be adventurous and courageous. He taught by example. At work, my Dad was the wildcatter, the one who treks out into the unknown to find the oil. No easy task. That is why he makes a fortune in our little town. Ecuador is the smallest country in South America if you don’t count the islands around Central America. Here, everyone knows each other. Even the President of Ecuador and Porfirio Diaz up in Mexico know the name Sancho Morello. That’s my Dad. Why would two of the most important people in history know an oil wildcatter like my Dad? That’s because my Dad fixed our economy all while being blind.

My Dad wears those blackout glasses to tell people he is blind. However, his Hoover cane is not swung back and forth. Rather he uses it like a hiking stick, slamming really hard on the ground and then walking towards the noise. This is how my Dad found more oil than any country in history. It takes him a week of trekking, and when he returns, it is his job to lead the boys back to the oil trace. He treks for day and night, sleeping in little outposts he would build throughout the journey, until he finds the soft spots on the dirt; triple-checking if what is under his feet is too good to be true or a money mine made from liquid. For that and all his hard work, we are given a nice big two-story house in the edges of Quito, next to the oil riggers. It’s everything a girl could dream of. I never had money problems like the other girls in my town. Some of them don’t eat on some days. They think I am snotty and uptight, but those are my sisters. Usually, when I talk to my sisters about the people who have less than us, they just scold me and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. I guess they do have a point. The worst way to help someone is to feel sorry for them. 

One day my Dad came in with a friend from work. My sisters, Fira and Prisina were beside me. They came in with a metal buggy that seemed to move by itself. I was amazed to see such magic unfold between my eyes. My Dad and his friend stepped out, his friend took out a key from a department of the thing. Then my Dad spoke. 

“Hello girls”

He looked happy. As if he was about to give good news. Little did I know, he was going to deliver bad news.

“I have good news.” He lied. “We are now the owners of the town’s very first automobile.”

“A what?” said Prisina.

“It’s called an automobile. Transportation of the future. We can now get places faster than ever before.”

“Why would we want to do that?” Fira remarked.

Then my Dad came over to me, asked his friend to let go of the keys in his palm, and handed over his automobile key to me.

“I want you to take good care of it, Jenita.” 

“What!” My sisters yelled in unison. Fira continued the rant, “How come she gets to have it? She’s not even a teenager!”

It was true. I did indeed not turn thirteen yet. Out of my sisters, I was the youngest. Only by a year or so. Fira was the oldest. See, my Mother, she had my sister Fira right at the beginning of the century, and then two years later, a couple months later, Prisina. She died shortly after giving birth to me. The doctor said if I was born a boy I would have been blind like my Dad. I would prefer being blind over still having a Mom. I still get the blame for everything though. As if I’m cursed.

My Dad handed me the keys as my sisters pouted in the doorway to the house. I didn’t want this thing. I didn’t even know it existed until now. As my Dad got in the back of a stagewagon, his friend rode the steering from the front of the stagecoach, used the reins of the horse, and headed off to work. My Dad trusted me with this thing. I wondered why? It was here that my sisters leaned in and told me something.

“Drive it”

“What?” I answered.

“We dare you to drive it. Right now.” Said Fira.

“Yeah! We dare you to drive it. Right now.” Said Prisina

“And if I don’t.” I was already dreading saying that as soon as it left my mouth.

“Then we’ll tell everyone how you still sleep with dolls.” Threatened Fira.

Now that wouldn’t be too embarrassing, but I had to keep my reputation of being tough and courageous, like my Dad. I got into the seat made of rubber, and it smelled like something new. Almost like a new word had to be invented in order to describe it. I put the key where my Dad’s work friend had it and the car, without warning, sped backwards after turning the key. I panicked. I started flailing my arms around and in the midst of the chaos, I moved the stick in the middle of the automobile. I started moving forward, jerking me back to the rubber seat. I heard a crash, because I had my eyes closed.

When I got out of the automobile, I saw the entire scene. I crashed into Ms. Roberta’s flower cart. The car was completely broken. As was the flower cart. And soon to be Ms. Roberta’s heart when she finds this mess.

My sisters. Eventually caught up with me. They gave their condolences.

“What did you do!” Said Prisina.

“What did I do? Why did you tell me to do it?” I retorted.

“I’m telling Dad.” Said Fira.

I put a blanket over the automobile wreck. It now looked like the flower stand. As if nothing had happened. However, there were still my sisters who were right behind me, already savoring the trouble I’m in.

“Please. Please don’t tell Dad. I’ll do anything!” I already regretted saying this, too.

From that moment on, I was the hand fan, the lemonade maid, the page turner, the puppet to my devious sisters. Every command was at my expense. Whenever there was a spill, I had to be there to clean it up. Where they were hungry, I had to be there to cook it up. Whenever they needed this, I had to do that. Whatever they wanted, I had to do it. For a week straight, it was work, work, work. No play, just work. And I had to do it. Because Fira was older than me. And she was in charge.

At the end of the week, I was exhausted from belonging to my sisters. I had to find a way out. So I decided to head out to the oil rig site on foot to tell my Dad I crashed his automobile. I was going to be in a lot of trouble, but anything was better than being a servant lemon maid to Fira and Prisina. 

When I got there, the other workers told me my Dad still hasn’t been back yet. They have already sent a search crew for him. Wildcatters always know the way home, but usually, he is back by this time today. I asked which direction he was seen going, and they pointed north.

So I trekked out to the unknown, searching for my Dad. If he can do this job with no sight, so can I. All I have to do is find the marks on the ground. There was one right where the gentleman pointed north from. Then two. Then three. That trail would lead directly to. I trekked the desert mountains, full of dirt bushes and sounds of wind and wildlife. There was never any visible, I used to say they did not exist because I never saw one. I still haven’t. Well, it seems that the trail led to a small shack. This must be my Dad’s outpost. I open the tarp door and inside is just bare dark green tarp walls and a sheet on the floor with a small book with my Mom’s name and my name on the cover. Inside, it reads as follows.

Entry 07071917,

I have gone to meditate. Everyone looks to me for guidance. The irony in my blindness is not lost on me. But all the fame, fortunes in the world cannot fill a man’s heart. Not money and attention but only a life can do so. As my wife passes through my cold heavy shoulders like angels tugging on strings, I realize the greatest gift she has ever given me is my Jenita. Though I miss her with every passing day, I refuse to let God’s heavenly sacrifice be in vain. For I am willing to trade my own rights for any of my daughter’s. For they are the one’s who will change the world, not I. But them alone. Your death will not be forgotten, and I will not let you, Ema, leave my sight, mind, and heart. These are the words that guide me through the treacherous treks of this forsaken journey. A hero’s journey. No amount of walking is too much for a daughter’s love. I will say it again. No amount of walking is too much for a daughter’s love. This is my legacy. This is what I’ll be remembered for. Not the oil. But my care as a father. I love you Ema too much to let your death mean nothing. My faith will not allow it. I am not getting younger. My back is giving out by each trek. Soon we will be together. And our daughters will live a fruitful life.

And so on and so on and so forth. Every piece, every page in this journal was full of heart-melting words for me and my Mother. I started to cry fountains.

“Jenita!” Said voices in the distance. It was the search crew. I replied.

“Where is my Dad.”

“What are you doing out here. We have to take you back to town.”

“No, I have to find my Dad.” But the sun started to set, and the glowing light throughout the orange dirt started to dim.

“Your Dad is not out there. We can’t leave you here. Come on.” I fought back. I was not going back. I needed to find my Dad. So they picked me up.

Back in the town, right at the end of the oil riggers. I told the workers I will not go back home until my Dad got here. I sat on the floor and pouted. Groaning and grunting, the workers complied. I was a Morella after all. They set up a blanket and pillow and sat next to me for the night, both taking shifts watching over me, making sure a coyote doesn’t come and eat me. They complained to each other about me, how I don’t know how tough the real world is, and I am in a rch people bubble. But I proved them wrong today. I trekked into the unknown today, just like my Dad. and when I grow up, I will be just like him one day. The morning rose, and there were more workers around me than just the two-man search crew last night. They all awaited for the return of my Dad. They saw me lying there like a dummy. And then a noise was heard from the distance. A familiar noise that was not a gallop or a mince. But a trot. A broom. An automobile.

“Oh, Dad.”

I ran to the side of the automobile, the door opened, and I saw my Dad’s friend, and then my Dad’s silhouette shine stupendously, gallantly, and cavalierly. 

“Jenita! What are you doing out here?”

I cried at his feet. 

“What’s wrong Jenita?”

“Fira and Pisina made me do all these things, and give them lemonade and clean their shoes and I couldn’t take it anymore so I came looking for you and then.”

I held up the journal with my Mom’s name and my name on it.

“I crashed your car into Ms. Roberta’s flower stand!”

“Jenita! I know! I know everything that happened.”

“What?” I was puzzled.

“You think I’m an idiot? Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I’m deaf. There is another town north of here, about eight mountains that way. The second I found out, I went to get another automobile. It is their town’s oil.”

I then remembered where we live, in a town where everyone knows each other, including Ms. Roberta and Mr. Roberta, who works at the oil rig. He always goes half an hour late to work each day.

“So, you’re not mad?”

“Jenita. Papi will never be mad at you.”

I started crying again, this time harder than before. My Dad, my hero, loves me, he really unconditionally loves me.

“Now,” said my Dad, “let’s go ground your hermanas.”

That was 30 years ago today. My hermana’s are not as mean to me anymore as they were when they were 17, 15. Though we still at times fight. We know we are family and can laugh about our times together as small bratty children.

After my Dad passed away reunited with my Mom, he had two funerals. One was a public, news-heavy-centered funeral that shook the South American world and was also the least important one. No the second funeral was the one that mattered. The one where only the town folk, my sisters and the other oil workers came to bury my Dad by the first oil pump he found in wildcat territory. His true send off to the earthly world. 

My sisters have since moved out of Ecuador, all living together in the far north of Colombia. Seems we all inherited something of my Dad’s wildcatting job. Fira is a superintendent and project manager for a construction company. She makes the people work and tells them what to do for a living. She’s very good at it. Prisina is a technical artist who takes orders from the creative director of her job, drawing the cereal mascots of today. She is also a muralist.

And I am what I always wanted to be. A fearless explorer. Not on land, however. No, I explore the ocean. Finding the secrets hidden beneath the open. I am in charge of charting it, learning about it, teaching it, and leading by example. By the end of the week, National Geographic will have given me a spot in their magazine, in their modern women in science section of their issue. As I look into the clouds of the sky, I can’t help but get the feeling as if my Dad is smiling down at me. I smile back.