“But David, if he needs to patch something up, he can ask me to do it,” she kept on.
“Honey, just give me the bag.”
This would go on for a while. Río decided to head down into the kitchen, grab a cup of water, and wait for his kind-hearted dad. The scent of onions, garlic, oregano, guajillo, and ancho chilies hung thick in the air, remnants of el pozole he’d helped his mother and Aunt Rosa make. He hoped the aroma would bake into the walls and floors, stamp this house theirs, cover everything in cultura.
Drawing water from the tap, he sat at the dining table, not meaning to choose the wobbly chair, but in the dark he was still getting used to where everything was. He listened. His parents’ muted voices dropped like pebbles down the stairs, tinny laughter from sitcoms spilled from his aunt and uncle’s room, giggles from his younger brothers and cousins skipped across the living room ceiling. They always played under the covers past bedtime, parents turning deaf ears to the noise as long as the boys didn’t get too rowdy. He wondered what game it was tonight. Disco dancing or playing Dirty Harry. He hoped they weren’t pretending war like he found them doing last time. That always set their uncle off. Río’s ears sought out his six-year-old sister, but she fell asleep fast and hard at seven p.m. When he listened for outside, he found nothing but a few distant shouts and hushed rancheras. With the national fuel crisis, the streets were empty.
He stood, returned to the sink. Water rushed into his glass. His mind ran back to the box in his closet. He’d kept as many of Tía Paloma’s things as his family let him, whatever wouldn’t sell. He often held the cotton, polyesters, and rayons of her dresses to his chest, cried into them when he didn’t want anyone to hear. How many nights had he stared at his closet door, wishing his brother wasn’t in the bunk below him so he could try something on? He was roughly her size, slender and not much over five five. He worried about his shoulders, broader than hers, opposite of his hips, straighter than hers. And his feet, too big. He couldn’t imagine fitting into her sandals.
Río turned off the faucet, stepped back, and panicked. He whirled around after bumping into someone. Tall, looming over him, musk thick and heavy. Río shook, his glass shattering, water spilling across the floor. His bare feet cut and bled as he stumbled back, Río yelping at the dark figure there so close behind.
“You scare too easy,” Uncle Ernesto said, Río’s shoulders tightening at the raspy voice. “If you’re like that, pay more attention.”
Río gripped the sink, felt his knees knock when he smelled alcohol on his uncle’s breath. Didn’t take much beer for Ernesto to start calling him the names Río’s father forbade. Whenever Ernesto drank, Río worried he wouldn’t stop at names. He was getting bolder, scarier.
The refrigerator door opened, blue light casting shadows across the heavy bags under bloodshot eyes. Ernesto cracked open a Coors, his glare hot on Río’s face. Feet hurried down the stairs. Río’s father flicked on the living room light, then the kitchen’s when he saw blood on the floor.
“¿Qué pasa aquí?”
Ernesto gave his cuñado a sidelong glance. “What you mean, what’s going on?” He took a swig from the bottle, brown bubbles fizzing. “What’s it look like?”
“I don’t know what it looks like.” David stood in front of his child. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Ernesto’s cheeks pinched once his gaze drifted to what David gripped in his hand. Esther’s pink sewing bag. “I’m doing your boy a favor, hermano. Teaching him some damn situational awareness.”
David’s nails dug into the pink canvas. “Don’t you teach Rogelio anything. Go the fuck to bed.”
Ernesto cocked his head back. A dark, static laugh popped in his throat. He lingered there under the white kitchen lights, seconds stretching. The cuts on Río’s feet stung but he didn’t dare move, trying to shrink into his father’s back. Uncle Ernesto hadn’t been like this before getting drafted. They didn’t have the dough to keep him from going, so everyone cried because they thought he’d come back from Vietnam dead. He came back weird and angry instead.
“Ernesto, I told you to go back to bed.”
“You’re too soft on that boy, David.”
“I swear to God, if you don’t get out this kitchen.”
“What? You finally gonna show Rogelio what a real man’s like?”
“Carajo cabrón, I’ll make you get your sorry ass upstairs.” David stepped toward him with a swiftness that made Río’s hair stand. Must’ve had the same effect on Ernesto because he was retreating, though not without hate-filled jabs.
“That damn hippie’s gonna ruin your business.”
Río slid to the floor, his father chasing his uncle upstairs. Turning the sole of his foot inward, he picked at glass slivers.
“Quit being stupid about that job, it’s good money!” Ernesto yelled. “So what if the sissy doesn’t fucking like it?”
Río startled when it finally happened, the explosion months of tension built up to. Hard bangs against hallway walls, dull thuds of flesh on flesh. A shout and grunted moan when someone fell against the floor. Río froze. A bedroom door slammed shut. He waited, wiping his face as footsteps came back down the stairs. His shoulders dropped from his ears when he saw his father step into the kitchen.
David still held the pink canvas sewing bag. He set it on the counter, crouched, and reached.
“I’m okay. It was an accident.” Río pushed him back, looking him over but finding no damage. In the scenarios played out in Río’s head before falling asleep, his father usually won. Having trained as a boxer, David knew how to take and land a punch.
Río tended to his foot, wincing as he dug out glass shards from the arch and heel. He hated the way the corners of his dad’s lips drooped, the furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, would do anything to stop it. “It’s okay. Don’t worry.” Río chuckled, his voice high.
David grabbed a clean dish towel. Despite Río’s protests, he wiped the blood from Río’s hands and feet. “His disability will come in soon and Rosa’s up for a secretary job with El Molino. Just a few more days. I’ll watch him the whole time.”
“Papi, I’m fine.” Tight lips, eyes closing in a feigned smile. “Maybe he’s right. I can cut my hair.” He’d only started growing it out after graduating high school in May. “It’s shaggy and gets in my eyes.”
“Mijo,” David said firmly, but with a tenderness that held Río close, “no le hagas caso.” He tied the towel tight around Río’s foot, his rough carpenter hands tucking back loose strands of Río’s straight black hair. “It looks good on you.”
His eyes welled up. He fidgeted with his hands. “Thank you.”
The TV upstairs went off. No laughter in the house. Everyone was listening from unseen places. He stood, his father making him lean on him for support as he tested out the pain. Río held his face in a tight grimace when David insisted on helping him walk up to bed.
They mounted the steps, the creaking underscoring everyone’s quiet. Río couldn’t stand it. “What job was Tío talking about?”
His father paused. “Don’t worry about it, mijito.”
“’Course I’m gonna worry about it.” He frowned. “Work slows down going into fall. We need the money so what’s this job you don’t wanna take?” He leaned against his bedroom door, stared into his dad’s coffee eyes. Crow’s feet on weathered, light skin.
“They need supports put into St. Catejan’s and some of the houses on Ninth Street while they restore ’em.” David crossed his arms.