“George. George. My car’s making that sound again.”
Now I love my Aunt Matty but 6AM on a Sunday???
“Can you check it before I go to church?”
I rolled over and covered my head with my pillow.
“Were you going to go with me today, George? George? I know you’re awake.”
“No I’m not.”
“Come have breakfast.”
Aunt Matty, at her forty years of age, was full of energy, but her long silver hair made some ask if she was my grandma. She took me in after my parents died, though I’ve always been somewhat unclear on the details. She never really had boyfriends, and sometimes she openly told me she hated men, so she was gonna try to keep me a boy for as long as possible.
However there are some things that at sixteen a boy just cannot ask his aunt and at breakfast that morning I found myself cautiously trying climb up my family tree.
“Didn’t Dad have no brothers?”
“Whadd’ya wanna go knowin’ that for?”
“It’s just you never talk about it.”
“They’re all dead.”
“How many were there?”
“Look George. I could lie and tell you your dad was an air force pilot and he died for all our freedoms and all that romantic crap. That ain’t what happened. You ever seen any uncles pull up to our house in their Bentleys looking for their long lost nephew?”
“Well, no- I just-”
“Then you don’t have none.”
“Well they ain’t gotta be rich. I could use a regular one just the same.”
“As far as you’re concerned, I’m your dad and your uncles and your ma all rolled into one.”
“That’s fine Aunt Matty. I didn’t mean to-”
“You going to church?”
This woman thinks I’m the Flash expecting me to fix her car and clean up in time for the 9 AM service. “I’ll try to make the afternoon service.”
That afternoon, I ended up at the library. I hadn’t been able to fix her car and I resorted to YouTube. Did I mention we didn’t have internet at home? Well we didn’t. My aunt said it would have disturbed the spirit of peace in our house but looking back I think we just couldn’t afford it. That’s the thing about growing up poor. A lot of times you don’t know you’re poor unless other kids point it out, and I wasn’t the type to openly share that information.
So there I was, looking at “car videos” when I stumble upon the city’s newspaper site. Main headline: “Parole Panel Delays Decision in Ballesteros Murder Case.” I didn’t care much for criminal law. But my last name was Ballesteros. At least it had been, originally, back in grade school. Then my aunt had it legally changed because the other kids were making weird comments like “Don’t mess with George, he’ll have you sniped,” and “You know where my brother can buy stardust?” Things that suddenly made sense upon reading the article, because this Ballesteros, whoever he was, had given my father and uncles a bad name.
Still, I thought if I could talk to him, maybe he’d have the answers my aunt didn’t want to give me.