“She needs to move somewhere bigger. Lucas tried to do, uh, the explanation, something about her having three kids now, but she can’t pay for it, so your brother is moving with her.”
Three kids?
“What do you mean, three kids?”
‘I do not know.”
“Then why didn’t you ask him?”
I might be a man of few words, but it’s mostly because I use them all with my family. Trying to pry information out of them is exhausting.
“I did but did not understood. You know his Spanish is not good like yours, and my English is not great.”
Only when it’s inconvenient. I tell him often to just speak Spanish to us, but he says that if he doesn’t practice with us, his children, who won’t make fun of him, how is he supposed to learn?
“Okay, and what is the problem?”
“They are not married.”
“So?”
“That is not okay.”
“Why not?”
He’s getting frustrated. His tone and breathing both show it. “Because that is not what we taught you.”
That’s not what the Bible says;it’s what he really wants to say, but he knows I’m not religious. Another crater-sized wedge between us.
“You taught us to be good, smart, and hard workers. If Lucas’ best friend needs help, let him help her. Besides, they’re not dating, right?” Not that dating would be a problem by itself, but dating and moving in together would be in their eyes.
“No. He said that. Just friends.”
“Then why does it bother you so much?”
“His future wife is not going to like that he lived with that girl and the kids.”
I shake my head. I love him, but sometimes, I want him to understand that life is more than the triad he’s built in his head—the Bible, God, and the opinions of others. “Dad, if Lucas’ future wife, if he even wants one, has a problem with him helping out his best friend in a time of need, it sounds to me like she might not be the woman you’d want for your kid.”
“Pero—”
“Treat others how you want to be treated, right?”
“Right.”
“If I were in need, and I had someone who could help, wouldn’t you want that?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s the same.”
The line goes silent. I never know if it’s a good indication or not with him. Growing up, silence was another tool he used to discipline us. Other kids at school would say that spanking was the worst punishment we could get, but that’s because they didn’t know how miserable it is to be lost inside your head, wondering if you disappointed the most important people in your life.
I used to hate silence and having to guess what was on people’s minds. It was the same with Cassandra. She would bottle things up until she would explode, and I hated it. I might be a broody motherfucker, but I want nothing more than to be the opposite. I don’t want to walk around life wondering what others are thinking. I want openness and honesty. I want sunshine and happiness. I want joy.
I thought I craved the peace and quiet from this place, but I think what I craved was how there’s no job-risking bullshit to deal with. Animals are not here to fuck with you, and they’re very transparent. You can see it in their eyes if you truly watch. I crave feeling like I belong, like I’m useful beyond my talents or lack thereof, that my hard work is enough because of the human I am. I felt that way at twelve, and I feel it again.
But then why have I come to hate these past three days, wherethere’s a lack of sunshine and a ball of energy bouncing around? Why do I miss the loud music bursting out of the thin walls of the cabin? And why on Earth am I thinking about this now?
