to be shared. Repeatedly it drags her mind away from her homework and darts her eyes over to the couch. Unable to exercise
restraint any longer, she slides noisily off the hard wooden bench and stands over her mother, breathing expectantly, making a couple of loud rasps. On the second, Maria Rosa stirs and absently
grumbles a few low bars of Bésame Mucho. Isabel is pent up like a jack-in-a-box as she contemplates her mother’s reaction: if the booze has worn off, she will be thrilled; if
not… but Isabel doesn’t want to think about that.
Outside, the steel mesh step creaks and Isabel’s pride congeals into foreboding. The door swings open and Maria Rosa’s latest boyfriend trips on
the torn curl of carpet and lurches inside. The five bottles of beer he’s hugging to his chest almost spring free but he manages to grip them even as he stumbles and swears—he never
wastes good beer. Maria Rosa’s eyelids attempt a flutter, like a flagging butterfly. A slit opens but reveals only the whites. A string of drool threads out the corner of her mouth and down
her chin.
His presence compresses Isabel into a tight cold sweat. Her eyes focus on a cockroach, and she hunches her body into itself as if she too had wings. He says
nothing to her, as if she’s not there—which is how they’d both like it—and he sets his precious bottles on the table, directly on top of her essay. It is insensitive,
ignorant, as if her sheets were merely drink coasters in a bar, but she knows he does it to make a point: she isn’t wanted here. She bites her lip as the five circles of moisture spread
themselves over the top page, and she pulls her eyes to the floor, unable to watch the evidence of her triumph dissolving into hollow pink blotted Olympic rings, blurry symbols of her former
glory.
He snatches at Maria Rosa’s bottle and in doing so knocks over her nail lacquer so it oozes like red mercury, poisoning the floorboards. “Drink
without me, will you? Bolivian bitch!” The bottle flies out of his hand and smashes against the wall. The yellowing wallpaper soaks up just enough of the violent splash of pink liquor that
it looks even more like someone had pissed on it than before.
Maria Rosa, startled, grabs her slippers and runs outside—she has good reason to fear this one.
Isabel cowers at the table, her eyes continuing to avoid his as if praying he’d go away. Now, it has the opposite effect, and he picks up the jagged
green neck of the broken bottle, brandishing it at the girl as he approaches. “I’m not good enough for your fuckin’ ma? That what you think?”
Still looking down, she shakes her head, but it is too robust to be convincing.
“Fuckin’ liar!” He thumps at the table with the glass, and Isabel recoils fearing a shard will snap off and fly at her. It doesn’t,
and he stares at her as if undecided about what to do next.
She bites into her knuckle and looks at him. She has witnessed this one with her mother—the trailer is pitifully small. Already nursing a dismal black
eye herself, she knows what he is capable of, and flinches from his gaze down to her books, and for a second, to her ruined class paper.
“Look at me when I’m talking’,” he yells and swipes at the books, but misses. On the upswing, the edge of the glass slices across her
neck, terminating just below her ear. Beads of blood form along the slash, then the red spills down her neck like a stage curtain.
But this is not the finale.
“Look at me!” His yellowing teeth push his lips back like a snarling dog’s. “I’ll show you how good I am.” He slaps her
face with his free hand, slamming her head back into the wall behind her.
Isabel is dazed and woozy. He must be swearing, she thinks, but isn’t sure. ¿Dónde está mi mami? Where’s my…? Isabel tries to scream her mother’s name but no sound can escape the gurgling of the thick liquid mounting in her throat. Straining, she holds it back.
He shifts his
restraint any longer, she slides noisily off the hard wooden bench and stands over her mother, breathing expectantly, making a couple of loud rasps. On the second, Maria Rosa stirs and absently
grumbles a few low bars of Bésame Mucho. Isabel is pent up like a jack-in-a-box as she contemplates her mother’s reaction: if the booze has worn off, she will be thrilled; if
not… but Isabel doesn’t want to think about that.
Outside, the steel mesh step creaks and Isabel’s pride congeals into foreboding. The door swings open and Maria Rosa’s latest boyfriend trips on
the torn curl of carpet and lurches inside. The five bottles of beer he’s hugging to his chest almost spring free but he manages to grip them even as he stumbles and swears—he never
wastes good beer. Maria Rosa’s eyelids attempt a flutter, like a flagging butterfly. A slit opens but reveals only the whites. A string of drool threads out the corner of her mouth and down
her chin.
His presence compresses Isabel into a tight cold sweat. Her eyes focus on a cockroach, and she hunches her body into itself as if she too had wings. He says
nothing to her, as if she’s not there—which is how they’d both like it—and he sets his precious bottles on the table, directly on top of her essay. It is insensitive,
ignorant, as if her sheets were merely drink coasters in a bar, but she knows he does it to make a point: she isn’t wanted here. She bites her lip as the five circles of moisture spread
themselves over the top page, and she pulls her eyes to the floor, unable to watch the evidence of her triumph dissolving into hollow pink blotted Olympic rings, blurry symbols of her former
glory.
He snatches at Maria Rosa’s bottle and in doing so knocks over her nail lacquer so it oozes like red mercury, poisoning the floorboards. “Drink
without me, will you? Bolivian bitch!” The bottle flies out of his hand and smashes against the wall. The yellowing wallpaper soaks up just enough of the violent splash of pink liquor that
it looks even more like someone had pissed on it than before.
Maria Rosa, startled, grabs her slippers and runs outside—she has good reason to fear this one.
Isabel cowers at the table, her eyes continuing to avoid his as if praying he’d go away. Now, it has the opposite effect, and he picks up the jagged
green neck of the broken bottle, brandishing it at the girl as he approaches. “I’m not good enough for your fuckin’ ma? That what you think?”
Still looking down, she shakes her head, but it is too robust to be convincing.
“Fuckin’ liar!” He thumps at the table with the glass, and Isabel recoils fearing a shard will snap off and fly at her. It doesn’t,
and he stares at her as if undecided about what to do next.
She bites into her knuckle and looks at him. She has witnessed this one with her mother—the trailer is pitifully small. Already nursing a dismal black
eye herself, she knows what he is capable of, and flinches from his gaze down to her books, and for a second, to her ruined class paper.
“Look at me when I’m talking’,” he yells and swipes at the books, but misses. On the upswing, the edge of the glass slices across her
neck, terminating just below her ear. Beads of blood form along the slash, then the red spills down her neck like a stage curtain.
But this is not the finale.
“Look at me!” His yellowing teeth push his lips back like a snarling dog’s. “I’ll show you how good I am.” He slaps her
face with his free hand, slamming her head back into the wall behind her.
Isabel is dazed and woozy. He must be swearing, she thinks, but isn’t sure. ¿Dónde está mi mami? Where’s my…? Isabel tries to scream her mother’s name but no sound can escape the gurgling of the thick liquid mounting in her throat. Straining, she holds it back.
He shifts his
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