by Debra Diaz
Emily:
Model Houses
Dad is in construction now and he knows where
all the best model houses are. Sometimes on Sundays
we’ll all pile into the car and drive out past the
groves all the way to Yorba Linda or Irvine to look
at the houses. Because he works on them, Dad has
keys to some of the models and we get to go inside.
They are beautiful. Smelling of fresh paint and
newly cut carpet, they sparkle like diamonds. La
Chiva and I have a routine: before we walk inside,
while we’re standing out on the porch, we close our
eyes and hold our breath—it’s always better that
way. And when we open our eyes, the lights inside
are all soft and glowing, like in your dreams. La
Chiva usually then races up the stairs to the bedrooms
so she can choose hers first. I wander into the
kitchen and imagine smelling arroz con pollo or
hearing the clap-clapping of Mom’s hands when she
makes tortillas. As I walk through the living room, I
see myself coming home from school, putting my
books on the coffee table and curling up on the sofa
to watch TV.
The nicer models have shimmering chandeliers
and silk flowers in elegant vases. Sometimes we’ll
find one that has quiet music playing in every room,
like it’s coming from the walls themselves.
After Chiva and I choose our bedrooms, we
inspect and assign every room in the house and
then move to the outside. The back yard is usually
just an empty lot filled with dirt, so we pass that by.
The garage and driveway are always bright white
without oil stains or broken-down cars, and I imagine
seeing Dad there, helping Mom on weekends
around the house.
In the front yard Rita does cartwheels and
makes huge dents in the new, soft, green grass. I sit
on the curb and look across the street at the empty
houses that stare blankly back at me—lonely and
cold—waiting for someone to move in. Waiting for a
family like ours.
Driving home from the models, I am sad. It
would be nice to live in a new house. From the back
seat of the station wagon I watch the sun jump back
and forth like a jack-in-the-box through the tall
rows of eucalyptus trees. As we get closer to the
camp, I see my friends playing out in front of their
small houses. And I feel a little guilty—these houses
aren’t that bad. They just look a little tired, kind of
like they’re ready to sit down and relax after a hard
day at work.
(THE RED CAMP is reprinted with permission from the publisher of The Red Camp by Debra Diaz (University of Houston – Arte Público Press, 1996) to buy a copy of THE RED CAMP, go to their website at http://www.arte.uh.edu/view_book.aspx?isbn=1558851690)