Why was his wife wearing long sleeves in such hot weather? Abraham slid the curtain aside for a moment and squinted at the fierce afternoon sun outside his barred porch window.
"It is a sauna in here," Abe complained. "You'll pass out in that outfit."
"Open the front door then," Marta replied while setting the table.
"Are you crazy?" He checked his wristwatch. "Protesters are going to march along the main avenue any second now. I don't want to hear any more about that. It's depressing."
"Soccer tournaments are no replacement for soap operas." His wife's hands pressed the white tablecloth smooth, flattening out even the slightest creases.
For no apparent reason, Abraham became as still as the world outside, lost to the sound of the swinging pendulum of their grandfather clock on the dining-room wall. Only then did he realize what his wife had just said.
"What? No. This is not about Radio Caracas. It's that damn referendum."
"Right." She walked towards her husband. "By the way, this is my Sunday church dress." And kissed him on the forehead. "After almost twenty years of marriage, you ought to know that."
"After two decades you should be happy I still notice what you wear."
"That's it, mister! No dessert for you."
"Is that so?"
She nodded, and they came together in a kiss. It wasn't passionate, but their lips fit together perfectly, just as they always had since that first time before a Venezuelan History test in the seventh grade.
"You are sweaty," she said.
"I said it was a sauna, didn't I?"
She gave him a little tap on the chest and headed back to the kitchen.
"Let me keep an eye on the black beans."
Soon the salty smell of lunch cooking floated around the house, and Abe's mouth watered at the prospect of a spoonful of hot rice and minced meat. With a hint of Tabasco—Oh yes! The thought of the exploding flavors was too much for him. Although he hated behaving like the husbands from those old American sitcoms that used to air on Channel 4, hunger clouded his better judgment, and he found himself asking the most banal question any husband could ask.
"Honey, is the food ready?"
Marta poked her head into the living room and scolded him with a playful look of reproach. "Just go fetch your daughter, Mr. Flintstone."
"I get no respect in my house," Abraham joked as he walked to the patio. Surely their baby girl would be reading under the shade of the hawthorn tree. "Ofelia?"
She was not there, or in any other bedroom.
That's weird.
"Honey, have you seen Ofelia?"
"What?" his wife asked from the kitchen.
"Baby," Abraham knocked on the bathroom door. "Are you in here?" His ears, now aware of every sound, made out the distant chants of the protesters. "Hello?" He turned the knob and peeked inside to find no one there.
"You know what's funny," Marta said, plating the pabellón without turning to see Abe when he arrived at the kitchen. "You noticed my long sleeves but not that the neighbor's roosters have stopped crowing at the break of dawn. You complained every day about them for years." She turned to give him his plate.
"Maybe they ran away with Doña Josefa's dog across the border."
Marta's brows shot up. "Is Laika missing?"
"Or it's the animal Rapture."
"Funny. You can tell Ismael's rubbing off on you because that was a terrible joke." She tilted her head to see past her husband. "Where's Ofelia?"
"That's what I'd like to know."
Her face dropped.
"But her lunch."
"Does she do this often?" Abraham folded his arms. "When I'm not around. Leave the house without asking for permission?"
"This wouldn't have happened if she had a cellphone."
"I am not buying a seven-year-old one of those damn things," he said, anger simmering under his skin. "You think because this is San Isidro, and nothing ever happens here, you can let her go outside on her own. I'm telling you, it's not safe out there. Not like when we were kids."
"I don't—" Marta swallowed hard; eyes glued to the floor. "But—she's so mature for her age. She goes alone to the church to borrow puzzles and books from Ismael. It's less than four blocks away."
Great. Lunch would have to wait.
"Do not let this happen again," he told his wife before heading out the door.
The sky was blue, and the sun shone high above, but the air carried with it the odor of wet dirt that precedes rain. Just like the dissidents' march, a storm was drawing nearer and nearer to their house. He'd lived long enough in this town to recognize what a little gray on the horizon meant.