“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m just tired,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her youngest, Benjamin, ran into the kitchen holding out an empty plate.
“Dad wants more!” he announced.
“I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “Go take a shower, Jane. I can take over in here.”
“Ha!” said Jane, wresting the plate from my hands.
When Benjamin had run back outside, Jane sank to the kitchen floor.
“Jane!” I said, alarmed.
“Just let me sit,” she said. “I’ve been standing since five.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to help?” I said.
“I don’t want to have to ask,” spat Jane.
I filled a mug with coffee and cream, the way she liked it. I handed Jane the mug and sat next to her. The linoleum floor was dusted with crumbs and muddy footprints. “Three is too many kids,” said Jane dully.
“Give me one,” I said.
We both started to laugh. “Which one?” said Jane.
“Any one,” I said, suddenly sad. “I just want one.”
Jane pulled me close.
“Is everything okay with you guys?” I said.
“Not really,” said Jane.
“What is it?”
“Not today,” said Jane, standing up.
“Is it Dennis?” I asked. “Is it Dad?”
“I am going to take a shower,” said Jane. She set her mug on the counter. “And I don’t use cream anymore,” she said. “I’m trying to be on a goddamn diet.”
“Mom said ‘goddamn’!” cried Gilmer, appearing in striped pajamas.
“Gilmer!” I said, trying to sound like a mother.
“Well, she did say ‘goddamn,’ Aunt Alice,” explained Gilmer earnestly. “We’re not allowed to use swear words in this house.”
“I think I see the Tickle Monster,” I said.
“No!” shrieked Gilmer, running outside.
“Oh, yes,” I said, starting the chase.
Fifteen minutes later, I collapsed in a deck chair by the barbecue pit. My father was snoring in the hammock, and Dennis and Jake looked grizzled, half drunk, and very happy. I put my hand on my husband’s knee and he covered it with his own. “How’s that brisket?” I asked.
“Looking good,” said Jake. “Looking very, very good.”
“That’s true,” said Dennis, nodding.
“More Tickle Monster!” called Benjamin, running toward me. I held up my hands.
“No more,” I said, shaking my head.
“More, more, more!” yelled Gilmer, his voice going thin, as if he was about to start crying.
“Sorry, honey,” I said.
“You can’t start them up and quit,” said Dennis evenly.
“Oh,” I said, chagrined. I was sweaty and annoyed, sick of running across the lawn in my tight-fitting boots. I wanted more coffee and some scrambled eggs. “Can you do it?” I asked Jake.
“Nope,” said Jake, sliding down in his lawn chair and pulling his baseball cap over his eyes.
“Get up,” said Dennis in a nasty tone.
I got up.
“Yay! Tickle Monster!” said Benjamin.
“Try to catch me now!” said Gilmer, pulling his pajama pants down and peeing in the yard. The parade-goers were assembling a block away, and a firefighter in full gear pointed to Gilmer and whooped.
“Somebody’s naked!” cried fourteen-year-old Rick, turning on the garden hose.
It was 7:55 a.m.
11
Carla
IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Junior stirred. I had been dreaming of playing with him in the mud, tossing the Frisbee an aid worker had given us. In the dream, Junior’s belly was round, his legs fat. My grandmother cooked red bean soup in the metal pot that had been stolen years ago. It was a shock to open my eyes and see my skeletal brother staring at me. “What is it?” I said.
“I’m hungry.”
I sighed. There was nothing left of the money my mother had sent. I had eaten a rotten piece of chicken at the dump and had vomited for days, so I had been wary of bringing Junior scraps of food. In the kitchen we had only empty space, but I stood. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll make you something very delicious.”
His gaze was blank.
“Are you sniffing Resistol?” I asked.
He shook his head, but would not meet my eyes.
“It will hurt your brain,” I pleaded. “It will kill you, Junior. You can never go back once you begin.”
“I know,” he said sadly.
I went to the cabinet. We had a bit of cooking oil left. I had eaten a stale tortilla that morning, trading a wire spool for the food. Now I berated myself for not saving a bit for my brother. He rose from the pallet and I gathered him in my arms. “I will take care of you,” I said. He nodded, his face impassive. I wondered if he believed me.
I did not want to leave the house. I knew it was stupid—I knew the things that happened in the dark, and you can imagine them, too, I am sure—but I could not let my brother starve.
“Don’t let go of me!” said my brother as I stepped away.
“Hush,” I said. “Stay here.” I opened the door.
My home—silver hills rising to meet a dazzling sky. I felt heavy with the knowledge that the beauty was a mirage. Gangs, some made up of strangers, many consisting of boys I knew, roamed the streets. They had guns, these boys. They killed out of boredom. There were robbers, and there were people like me: so hungry that we would do what we knew was wrong to survive. There were men who wanted a woman’s body and did not care what the woman felt. I could find a man like this, just sell a few minutes of myself for food. I tried to think of another option.
I walked in the black toward Humberto’s house. If he had anything, he would give it to me. I stepped quietly, almost screaming when a mangy cat brushed against my leg, then ran away. I was shaking and my heart beat fast. This was no way to live. It came to me like a lightning bolt: This is no way to live. I walked more quickly. When I arrived at Humberto’s, I peered in the window and saw that everyone was asleep.
I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t fair to wake Humberto and his family. We were all hungry, for God’s sake! I leaned against the cement wall, slid down into the dirt outside his house, hugging my knees to my chest. I wished for my mother, but I had no money for a phone call. My mother had said she would send money the week before, but the man at the Western Union insisted there was nothing in my name. I felt a creature—an ant?—crawl along my calf, then to the top of my kneecap.
There was no point in crying. I was a pragmatic girl. My brain scanned like a radio, looking for a plan. I could try to break into a house, to steal food. I could walk into the city and stand outside the Western Union until they opened. For a minute I thought about sniffing glue myself, just to quell my panic and fear. Instead, I stood up and knocked on Humberto’s door.
“Who is it?” asked dead Milton’s girlfriend, Gabriela.
“It’s Carla,” I said.
Humberto opened the door. “What’s going on?” he said. He rubbed his eyes.
“What’s going on is that I’m going to America,” I said. “Are you in or are you out?”