Those damn bubbles.Her father began guzzling drinks laced with euphoria potions around the time he lost the family’s fortune.It got to the point where he became known in Milagro as El Desgraciado, always with a bubbling drink in hand.He must have enjoyed the hallucinating effect the potion gave him, helping him forget about all his horrendous mistakes.Whenever their mother saw the bubbles, she sent one of the kids—usually Mayté—to see if they were from her father, and if so, what trouble he had gotten himself into.
At least this time Carlos was here to help.“Well, here he is.”Mayté pointed to her father, who still lay in the mud like a pig.
Carlos cleared his throat.“Let’s get him back home.”
“Right.”Mayté nodded.Prickly shame danced across her back as she followed Carlos.Good thing Lo had left, otherwise Mayté would have been mortified.The two siblings went over to either side of their father and hoisted him up by the arms.Mud soiled Mayté’s blouse and neck, but it couldn’t be helped.She made sure his arm was on her shoulder before wrapping her arm around his waist.Carlos did the same.Sadly, this wassecond nature.Their father dragged his boots, leaving Mayté and Carlos to do all the work.
As they walked, it grew darker.The large buildings and cathedrals—pristine and light with their grand towers, arched doorways, and spired roofs—gave way to smaller shacks, all built too close together.Endless lines of laundry hung on flimsy wire and children darted about, avoiding the glowering men who smoked on street corners.Trash and debris littered the ground, and the smell of stale filth filled the air.
Soon, they came to their street.No matter how much Mayté wished it wasn’t.
“They didn’t hurt you back there, did they?”Carlos asked their father with a frown.
Their father hiccupped, unleashing a big bubble.“Just bruises,” he slurred.
Mayté clicked her tongue.“They shouldn’t be so rough with you.”As much as she resented her father, she could never bring herself to wish him ill.“Those people are scum,” she grumbled.
Mayté was grateful that by now the burping and bubbles had calmed down, and it seemed their father was half asleep, heavier than ever.
She could just make out the tattered curtains in the house’s windows as they billowed in the breeze.The wood splintered off the roof—still not fixed after the big storm last year—looking as if it could fly off at any moment, impaling someone unfortunate enough to be in the way.
“¿Qué demonios?”Carlos stopped walking.
A group of men blocked the door.One wore a sombrero, and another had on a vaquero hat while the others wore serapes and bandanna scarves, covering the lower half of their faces.Thugs.Mayté’s mother stood at the doorway, dark face pinched and red.Manuel hid behind her skirts.They both trembled.
“Ma!”Carlos darted ahead, leaving Mayté to keep herself and her father upright.She struggled against his weight.
“Oh, there he is,” one of the men gruffed and the group turned around.Their eyes burned like hot coals.
“Robles, we’re here for the money.”
“It’s time to pay up.”
They had no respect for her father even though he was quite a bit older than them.Mayté tensed.Her father had to borrow money, but he didn’t have a way to pay it back.Now only shady people lent to him.The sort who didn’t take too kindly to getting stiffed.
“Mmm?Oh!”Her father jolted and squirmed free from Mayté’s grip.“Ay, I’ll have it … later,” he slurred and crumpled to the ground.
“Pathetic.”One of the thugs spat on him.
“We gave you plenty of time, Robles.Plenty of warnings too.But did you listen?NO!”The man kicked him.Hard.He rolled over with a groan.Another bubble floated from his mouth, only to instantly pop.The group surrounded him, laughing as they kicked and cursed at him.
Carlos stood in front of their mother.He would always protect her over their father no matter what.One of the reasons why he was her favorite.
Which left Mayté to do the dirty work like always.“Hey, stop!”She rushed over to the man wearing a vaquero hat.He whirled around and grabbed her, holding her tight against him.
“Oh, look what we have here.This is your daughter, Robles?She’s a pretty little thing.”He played with her braid, twirling it in his grimy fingers.Clearly younger than the rest, he could havebeen considered handsome if he wasn’t so vile.A scar sloped down his white cheek, through his scruffy shadow of facial hair, to his lips.His breath reeked of tobacco and booze.He took a whiff of her braid.
“Stop!”Mayté screamed.Her skin crawled.“Let me g—”
Another thug roughly grabbed her face, pinching her cheeks together.“If you can’t pay us in coins, maybe this one will do instead.We can put her to work.”
The other men leered at her, eyes gleaming with greed, cruelty, and—Dios—Mayté didn’t want to think about it.No matter how much she struggled, the man held her still.Tears stung her eyes.
Her mother softly wept and held Manuel close.Carlos stood frozen as if San Desgraciado cursed him.Neither of them made a move to save her.
And then her father …
He stared straight at her, still and quiet.The look in his eyes made her stomach churn.Empty and lifeless.If it came down to it, he would let them take her, wouldn’t he?
