style="font-size:15px;"> “But the feria’s coming and—”
“Liberio.” His tone was firm. “I am not asking you. I am telling you. I need you there. I gave Leticia the week off.”
“So? She works at the register. All I ever do is clean.”
“Don’t talk back to me.”
Jesusa came out of the kitchen with a cup of café con leche.
Abuela’s eyes followed the cup as if it were filled with gold.
“You’re the man of the house,” my father said. “You need to take your responsibilities seriously. You need to spend more time helping around here instead of hanging out with that Esteban, shining shoes like a common street boy. You’re not poor.”
“But I need to make money. El Hijo del Santo’s going to wrestle—”
“Please, Liberio,” my mother said. “Do as your father tells you.”
“Maybe if you paid us—”
“¡Ya basta!” My father slammed his spoon against the table. “The panadería puts the food on our table and the clothes on our backs. You’re doing your part, Liberio, and that’s final.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Life is not fair.” He waved his finger. “It’s about time you realized that.”
“But Papá—”
“End of conversation.”
“He was taking a photograph of one of the large freighters,” Abuela said.
Gaby grinned. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to make me feel better or rubbing it in.
“He allowed us to look through the camera,” Abuela went on. “We had to cover our heads with a black cloth. The image appeared on the glass. It was very clear, but it was upside down.”
My mother actually smiled. “How’s your coffee, Mamá?”
Abuela glanced at her cup, at my mother, and then her eyes wandered around as if she’d been pulled out of a dream. “Good. It’s always good.”
My mother reached across the table and placed her hand over hers. “I’m glad.”
After my parents left the table, I looked at Gaby. “What’s their problem?”
She shrugged and turned to the living room. She had her priorities. Her telenovela was going to start.
Later that night, I was lying in my bed reading Super Luchas, my favorite wrestling magazine, when I heard my parents in the living room. I slipped out and tiptoed to the end of the hallway. My father was sitting in the big chair where he always sat. My mother was standing, leaning against the couch.
“I don’t understand, why her?” my father said.
“That girl was a tramp, Alfonso.”
“Por favor, Carmen, don’t call her that.”
“I’m not saying she got what she deserved. It’s a terrible tragedy. But—”
“But what?”
“Quiet down, you’re going to wake up the children.”
He lowered his voice. “Rocío Morales was a human being. She was a lovely girl. She did not deserve the judgment of the community. And certainly not this—”
Rocío was Leticia’s cousin and the daughter of Ignacio Morales. She was real pretty. She always dressed like a model in a magazine and smelled of perfume. My mother never liked her, probably because she didn’t go to mass and hung out at the cantinas, La Gloria and even El Gallo de Oro.
“Leticia said she was seeing a man from Michoacán.”
“That’s impossible,” my father said.
“Oh, and how would you know?”
“No, no. I don’t. I just thought she was seeing someone else.”
“She probably was. I’m sure she slept with half the town.”
“Enough, Carmen. Besides, I don’t see how all this is connected.”
“Alfonso, you need to wise up, mi amor. What happened to Enrique Quintanilla was not just any crime. Enrique was too much of an activist. Did you think we would be immune forever? The whole country is infected.”
“What I’m saying is that we don’t know anything for sure. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“And until six months ago we didn’t have a four-lane highway passing by our town, going from the coast, through Michoacán, and straight into Mexico City. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the governor built the damn thing to make it easier for his amigos to do their dirty business.”
My father shook his head. “In the morning, I’ll go see Ignacio and offer him our condolences.”
“Dios mío, I can’t imagine how he must feel. Alfonso, if something like that ever happened to Gaby—”
“No, don’t think that way. After I see Ignacio, I’ll go to the municipal building and see if Captain Pineda has any idea what’s going on.”
“I’m worried for the children,” my mother said.
“They’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry?” She stared at him. “Two murders, and Rocío Morales. Just because you—”
“Carmen, please. Stop.”
“And there’s no school for the next two days.”
“They’ll be at the bakery.”
They fell silent. My father stood and went to the end of the room and poured himself a drink.
“You’re staying up?” my mother asked.
“I don’t think I can sleep right now.” He took a drink and whispered, “Poor Rocío.”
I hurried back to my bedroom. I lay on my bed and closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could see was the naked body of Rocío Morales laying in the weeds and the smell of burning trash. But now, knowing it was her, remembering how pretty she was, like the women in the old Santo movies, with big chichis and round nalgas, thick fleshy legs and lips so red and shiny they looked electric. Something strange twisted deep in my stomach like I had to piss a fish.
After my grandfather died, my father took over the panadería. I guess the plan was for Gaby and me to take it
