Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 27 | 6 YEARS AGO

"He's cheating on your mom," Ofelia had told Marcelo a week ago in that aloof way that came naturally to her. Perhaps she's right. He glanced at his mother as she hurried down the street, carrying the groceries. But if he is, it can't be my mom's fault. She is good to him. Was it me? Did a piss him off enough to force him into finding a better family?

"What time is it?" Emilia asked him again.

His mom wore a Hello-Kitty watch, but she was holding several plastic grocery bags in each hand that made it impossible for her to lift her arm and glimpse at her wristwatch. If she did, the bags might tear open, spilling their contents on the dark backstreet.

Geez, look at her fingertips. They are purple!

"Want m-me to carry those?" Marcelo asked her, although he was well aware he couldn't handle the grocery bags while also dealing with the beer case clunking between his arms. Not to say anything of the heavy book bag slung over his shoulder.

"It's so late," Emilia said, and her walk changed to a lope.

For her round figure, not unlike the Venus of Willendorf (as Ofelia had pointed out once, displaying her customary lack of tact), Emilia moved fast. And she had stamina, too. However, before long, the sound of her hard breathing was louder than the buzzing of the cars coming from the nearest avenue.

Almost there.

As usual, the sewage-like stench from the underground water tank—mixed with the repair-shop smell of lubricating oil, sour body odor, and cigarettes—greeted them once they were close enough to their home.

"Honey, we're here!" Emilia said as they walked through the garage door and onto their semi-roofed patio, something they avoided doing almost always since it was Anibal's place of work. However, when they did the groceries, it was easier to access an entrance that remained open all day long instead of going around the block and turning the key in the front door just to go to the kitchen all the way at the rear of the house.

"Goddammit!" Anibal shouted, shaking the pain off his right hand as a rusty adjustable wrench clanked on the floor. Without so much as a glance in their direction, he kicked the stripped-down dryer that was making his life oh-so-difficult.

But at least he's not swinging at it. Marcelo noticed the grip and knob of his stepfather's old baseball bat sticking out of the washing machine's drum to his left. So he can't be that upset we are late, right?

"Well, well. Look who decided to show up."

"Sorry, honey. I know. We had to go to three grocery stores to find everything we needed." Her nervous smile faded at once. "Anyway, if it weren't for Mr. Aguilar, we wouldn't have any toilet paper."

To remain invisible, Marcelo put the beer case on top of a rusty chest freezer as quietly as possible. Then he stood still among the broken house appliances piled haphazardly all around him. If he could have transformed into another corroded metal scrap in the junkyard that was his patio, he'd have done so without hesitating.

"What good is that job of yours if you can't get what we need there?" Anibal turned towards them. "Isn't that why you keep slaving yourself away there instead of looking after your man like a woman should? Do you agree, boy? Mr. Aguilar is taking advantage of her, right? That greedy devil."

A little scared, Marcelo looked at him for a moment before staring at his own frazzled sneakers.

"How about something nice for dinner?" Emilia asked in a hurry, heading towards the inner gate that led to the back of the house, doing her best to lighten the mood while also changing the subject. "I'll cook anything you want."

"I could have gotten us that toilet paper without your boss's help." Anibal put a greasy hand on her shoulder. He was a foot taller than her, but she seemed to shrink even further down as he looked down on her. "I have as many contacts as your precious boss, y'know?"

After an uncomfortable beat of silence, she nodded.

"Of course."

"I'd rather have a plate on my table than having you running around all over town like a headless chicken looking for something to wipe my ass with."

"I should have known better." The pain in her fingers must have been unbearable because Emilia winced as she put the grocery bags on the oily floor. "Do you want a beer while I cook you some dinner?"

Anibal's eyes fixed on the canned goods that spilled out of the bag.

"Maybe a smoke first."

Despite the weak light coming from the 100-watt bulb hanging from the zinc roof above them, Marcelo saw Emilia's face go white, and then he realized their mistake, too. How could they have forgotten?

"They only had Consul, and I know you only like Belmont, so..." she said in a single breath.

Instead of shouting, Anibal mumbled something, and this ended up being more menacing than if he'd raised his voice to the top of his lungs.

Before a charged silence could rear his ugly head again, Emilia turned to her son: "Marcelo, don't just stand there doing nothing. Go to the convenience store and buy your dad a pack of cigarettes."

"First, you starve me," Anibal began, ignoring his wife. "Then, you forgot to buy the one thing I wanted?" His grip on her shoulder tightened. "Is that fair?"

"No, dear." She stifled a sob. "Sorry."

"I'm breaking my back here for you. All I ask is for a little respect. You never listen. Neither of you."

"What are you waiting for, Marcelo? Run to the liquor store," Emilia insisted.

"There's a big test tomorrow and Ofelia and I—"

"No," Anibal said. "I asked you to buy my cigarettes because the stores nearby are useless. You may need to go as far as Caracas Avenue to find a pack." He snapped his fingers. "I know! Why don't you ask Mr. Aguilar to get them for you since he's such a good boss and a big man?"

"I won't be long," Emilia said, heading out.

Marcelo had not taken more than two steps towards the garage door, following his mother, when a shrill whistle from his stepfather made both of them stop dead. Oh, no. What did I do wrong? Did we forget to buy something else? The kid swallowed hard, feeling his fingertips pulsate with his frantic heartbeat.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"To buy your—"

"Not you. Him!"

Marcelo felt as if someone had painted a target on his chest.

"My m-math test is tomorrow."

"No, boy. You are staying. I have plans for you."