Papa’s job is not far. I take our old Nisan and drive slowly to Whittier, not want to risk getting pulled over. Papa’s work is a big yard where old wooden pallets are broken into scrap or repaired with new hardwood. I’ve only been to the plant once in the six months he’s worked here. That was when he had accidentally driven a nail into his leg learning to use a pneumatic nail gun, and they called us to take him to County Hospital. 

I park near the office shack. Only a few men are working with claw hammers and iron pry bars, taking broken pallets apart. I walk up to one of them and ask for his supervisor. The prune-faced old man, gray hair hanging below a beat-up straw hat, shrugs. He points toward the office without a word or a smile, keeping his eyes downcast on his work. 

I start in that direction. A burly man with a silver belt buckle and leather boots comes out of the office. He strides toward me with a rolling gait, out of breath when he stops in front of me.

 “My father is José Diaz. He didn’t come home last night,” I blurt out, wishing I’d been more restrained. “When did he leave yesterday? Do you know where he is?”

The supervisor hunches his shoulders. He puts his hand on my back, steering me away from the office toward a corner of the yard. His hand feels inappropriate. I walk quickly out from under it and turn to face him.

“I’m sorry to tell ya your father was picked up yesterday,” the man says without any introduction or small talk, coming right to the point as if he were impatient to get back to something more important. “Yesterday mornin’ a team from ICE, y’know, La Migra. They rolled in here—musta been fifteen, twenty of ‘em. Rounded up all the workers in the yard while their buddies went through our office. Made a hellofa mess, I can tell ya. Carted off all the workers we didn’t have proper papers for. Your father, maybe twenty-five, thirty other men. Left us in a hellofa mess, I can tell ya. We got only a couple of old men left to work.”

Searching around the yard, I see the old man and a couple of other old men, all with their heads down. I think I was hoping papa would be there with them, sitting among the piles of rotting pallets sprouting wooden splinters and half-naked nails. In the back corner of the yard, I spot his beat-up Toyota pickup. I try to fathom what has happened to him. To my life. Then I look back at the supervisor. He fidgets, shifting from left foot to right, then back. He backs off a couple of steps. I can see he’s in a hurry to get back to something. 

“My father quit gardening to work here,” I tell him. “He was proud of the job he did.” As I said it, I feel a lump forming in my throat.

“He was a good worker. We’ll miss him.”

“Where did they take him?”

“He’s probably across the border by now. I dunno.”

“How can I find out?”

“Call ICE, I guess. Look, I gotta get back.”

He heads back toward the office. I watch him go. 

Halfway, he stops and comes back to me. “Look, Miss, I’m sorry,” he says. “Your father was a hellofa good worker. He was a good man, always on time, smiling and helping the others. We’ll miss him. He had friends here. But he knew the risks.” He pauses and looks me over. “You’d better be careful yourself, Miss.”