took us to the bathroom. “I remember giving you the box right here, and I asked you to put cubes there, there, and there.” He pointed to three places. “Why’s there only one behind this door?”
“The rats eat it,” Mom intervened. “Perhaps—”
Dad silenced her with a stare.
“It was him,” said my sister. Her lips smiled through the hole in the mask. “You gave the box to him in the end.”
I remembered the box on the cistern while I peed. And I remembered my sister standing in front of the mirror. Splashing her reflection with water so she couldn’t see it anymore.
“ Was it your job?” Dad asked.
My sister wasn’t lying. So I nodded. I did it in the manner of someone admitting guilt: looking down at the floor. But then I lifted my head again and looked my father in the eyes.
“And I did it,” I said, “everywhere you told me to. I put a cube in each place. Dad, I swear, I did what you told me to do.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
One of my sister’s contained laughs bubbled in her throat.
“He must be lying,” she said. Then she imitated a pair of legs with two fingers, making them walk. “Those cubes can’t grow feet and walk off on their own, you know.”
“You be quiet,” Dad cut in.
From the hallway, my brother started to sing to himself. “He’s lyyyyyyying! He’s lyyyyyyying! He’s lyyyyyyying!”
“I swear I laid them, Dad—”
“He’s lyyyyyyying!”
“—I remember it perfectly.”
This time my sister couldn’t contain her laughter. She laughed until my father grabbed her by the neck and squeezed, forcing her to be quiet. Then he dragged her down the hall by her head. “You’re hurting me,” I think she said. It was hard to understand her. Dad shoved her into her bedroom. Mom came out after Dad beckoned her with his head. He slammed the door closed. The baby started crying again.
“And shut that child up,” he yelled at the closed door. “This door won’t open until—”
“May I?” Grandma had appeared at some point. She wrapped one of her hands, wrinkled by time and the fire, around the same door handle that Dad was gripping. “May I?” she repeated.
She was speaking in a calm way, gently defying my father’s authority. “I need to get in. I sleep here, too.”
Dad hesitated for a few seconds. Then he came away from the door to let her past.
Grandma turned the handle. The baby’s crying emerged from inside the room. “Thank you very much,” she said. “And goodnight.”
She closed the door with great care.
Dad glared at me. “I can’t ask you to do anything.” He reached me with one stride and knelt in front of me. With a finger outstretched, he turned my face until we were both looking into the bathroom.
“How do you think you’ll sleep in that bathtub?” he asked.
“Please,” Mom said, “there’s no need for any of this.”
He pushed me inside the bathroom. The floor was cold. “Tell me, how do you think you’ll sleep in that tub?” he said again.
I shrugged.
“Well, you can tell me tomorrow,” he announced. And he closed the door.
13
The banging woke me up. With my eyes open in the dark, my legs pressed against the cold ceramic of the bathtub, I attuned my ears. I expected to hear the Cricket Man’s sack, too, dragging along the ground up above.
More bangs. One after the other, but soft. On the door. Someone was knocking. I waited for a few seconds before poking my head out. I lifted a corner of the shower curtain, carefully, so the metal hoops it hung from wouldn’t make any noise. The door opened then without the hinges making a sound, as if whoever had opened it only wanted to leave it ajar. My eyes, accustomed to the dark, made out a new shape beside the door. Whoever it was moved, and I heard the familiar sound of fabric rustling. I smiled.
I got out of the bathtub in the direction of the door, the shower curtain rattling when I went through it. With my arms held out in front of
“The rats eat it,” Mom intervened. “Perhaps—”
Dad silenced her with a stare.
“It was him,” said my sister. Her lips smiled through the hole in the mask. “You gave the box to him in the end.”
I remembered the box on the cistern while I peed. And I remembered my sister standing in front of the mirror. Splashing her reflection with water so she couldn’t see it anymore.
“ Was it your job?” Dad asked.
My sister wasn’t lying. So I nodded. I did it in the manner of someone admitting guilt: looking down at the floor. But then I lifted my head again and looked my father in the eyes.
“And I did it,” I said, “everywhere you told me to. I put a cube in each place. Dad, I swear, I did what you told me to do.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
One of my sister’s contained laughs bubbled in her throat.
“He must be lying,” she said. Then she imitated a pair of legs with two fingers, making them walk. “Those cubes can’t grow feet and walk off on their own, you know.”
“You be quiet,” Dad cut in.
From the hallway, my brother started to sing to himself. “He’s lyyyyyyying! He’s lyyyyyyying! He’s lyyyyyyying!”
“I swear I laid them, Dad—”
“He’s lyyyyyyying!”
“—I remember it perfectly.”
This time my sister couldn’t contain her laughter. She laughed until my father grabbed her by the neck and squeezed, forcing her to be quiet. Then he dragged her down the hall by her head. “You’re hurting me,” I think she said. It was hard to understand her. Dad shoved her into her bedroom. Mom came out after Dad beckoned her with his head. He slammed the door closed. The baby started crying again.
“And shut that child up,” he yelled at the closed door. “This door won’t open until—”
“May I?” Grandma had appeared at some point. She wrapped one of her hands, wrinkled by time and the fire, around the same door handle that Dad was gripping. “May I?” she repeated.
She was speaking in a calm way, gently defying my father’s authority. “I need to get in. I sleep here, too.”
Dad hesitated for a few seconds. Then he came away from the door to let her past.
Grandma turned the handle. The baby’s crying emerged from inside the room. “Thank you very much,” she said. “And goodnight.”
She closed the door with great care.
Dad glared at me. “I can’t ask you to do anything.” He reached me with one stride and knelt in front of me. With a finger outstretched, he turned my face until we were both looking into the bathroom.
“How do you think you’ll sleep in that bathtub?” he asked.
“Please,” Mom said, “there’s no need for any of this.”
He pushed me inside the bathroom. The floor was cold. “Tell me, how do you think you’ll sleep in that tub?” he said again.
I shrugged.
“Well, you can tell me tomorrow,” he announced. And he closed the door.
13
The banging woke me up. With my eyes open in the dark, my legs pressed against the cold ceramic of the bathtub, I attuned my ears. I expected to hear the Cricket Man’s sack, too, dragging along the ground up above.
More bangs. One after the other, but soft. On the door. Someone was knocking. I waited for a few seconds before poking my head out. I lifted a corner of the shower curtain, carefully, so the metal hoops it hung from wouldn’t make any noise. The door opened then without the hinges making a sound, as if whoever had opened it only wanted to leave it ajar. My eyes, accustomed to the dark, made out a new shape beside the door. Whoever it was moved, and I heard the familiar sound of fabric rustling. I smiled.
I got out of the bathtub in the direction of the door, the shower curtain rattling when I went through it. With my arms held out in front of
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