Marcelo wanted to hold his mother's hand to comfort her but knew better than to try. He was a big boy now. No. Not a big boy, a young man. Thirteen years old as of last week. Amazing, right? No longer a child but a teenager. If his stepfather, Anibal, weren't around, he would be the man of the house. But he is around. Always.
Besides, even if Marcelo decided to comfort his mom, he still wouldn't have been able to do it. Not when he had to carry a full case of beer all the way home. Because God forbid my stepdad gets thirsty. He cut off that line of thought, knowing better than to get angry at Anibal.
"Is it too late?" his mother asked. "It is, isn't it? Oh, Lord!"
"No, mommy."
"Don't call me that!" she scolded him in a harsh whisper. "You know he doesn't want you doing that anymore."
Right. He swallowed his shame without daring to say anything else. He ordered me to use my mother's first name: Emilia. In his latest effort to chisel away the boy's weaknesses, Anibal had made it clear that Marcelo was too much of a mama's boy, something that needed to change if he were to become a man like him.
That's fine. I'll call her whatever he wants me to, Marcelo decided as he took a deep breath, letting the memory of the awful, musty whiff from the water tank come to him—almost feeling it go down his nostrils and throat. As long as I don't end up in the Dark Place, I can handle his 'tough love.'
That's what Anibal called tough love. "I'd never lay a finger on you unless you deserved it," he would tell Marcelo and Emilia.
With beads of sweat on his forehead, Marcelo repositioned the beer case higher on his chest, trying to lessen the burning pain of the scratches that the edges of the plastic box had inflicted on his forearms. Man up! We need to hurry. They owe Anibal that much.
His stepdad was working from dawn till dusk in their backyard, taking house appliances apart, removing and fixing spare parts from broken ovens and washing machines to sell them again for profit. A lucrative endeavor, no doubt, because clients were coming in and out of their garage twenty-four seven.
Besides, since Anibal had been a part of their lives, going to bed with an empty stomach was a thing of the past. Yes, even though Marcelo had never received a single Bolívar Fuerte from him, the truth was his stepfather brought home the dough.
And he made Emilia smile, too. Finally, a man that sticks around, the kid overheard his mom saying once to a friend from her work. And what a man!
Thinking of this hollowed out Marcelo's chest. There was a strange disconnect between his heart and his mind when it came to the dynamics of his home. Sure, his stepfather was quick to lose his temper, but when he did, there was a good reason. It's not like he asks for much, and he does make my mom—Marcelo corrected himself. He makes Emilia happy... When she's not afraid, anyway.
That's why he wanted to hold her hand. She seemed frightened. As a counter clerk at the biggest bakery on La Independencia Avenue, Emilia didn't have any free time on her hands. Her nine-to-five was more like nine-to-never-around, with a busy Saturday here and there, and an even busier Sunday once a month. It was a soul-sucking job according to her own words, as Marcelo once heard her confess to Father Ismael at church, but it made getting three meals a day on the table that much easier.
Ever since finding basic supplies—like sugar and Harina P.A.N.—had become an ordeal in Venezuela, she cherished her connections to food distributors the same way a dragon of legends would cherish his pile of gold.
The problem was her job meant the twenty-four hours of the day weren't enough to 'take care of her man,' as Anibal used to complain. Something he hadn't brought up in the last few months, now that Marcelo stopped to think about it.
"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."