She stands on the brick porch, a hand on her hip, regarding us suspiciously. No doubt she has heard some of our arguing. Tomas composes his face into his hardened unreadable expression.

He leans over and whispers to me, not turning or looking me in the eye. Calm down. And behave yourself if you think you can.

I am calm.

You can come in if you want, but don’t say a word, he says. And don’t stand too close to me or the client.

He mumbles something to himself about it not being hard for me to not say a word and then turns his back to me and climbs halfway up the porch towards the maid. She studies him—probably wondering if he is a real Mexican, or what other hot country he might have come from—glancing once towards me, then back to Tomas again. He has worn his thin T-shirt again so the white client can see the Virgin of Guadalupe through it. In front of her he seems embarrassed, though, and he keeps it turned away.

I grab Buster’s collar and whisper for her to be quiet. She stops whimpering.

The lady sets her hands on her hips and regards her. She makes a lot of noise, the woman says.

It’s not the one you’re going to get.

She looks at Tomas as if surprised to hear his voice. This noise, it sounds like this one is not very happy.

Tomas nods seriously. She’s the mother.

It takes a moment for the gears in the woman’s mind to put it together and then I see the understanding pass behind her eyes.

Oh, she says, and nods her head. This one is the mother. I see.

We wanted her to say goodbye, he explains.

She nods and comes up to me—no longer suspicious—and reaches down and clenches the fur at the back of Buster’s neck, then starts squeezing in a way meant to be rubbing. The woman is so close to my face now I can smell her hair spray.

Yes, she says. It is hard for a mother to see her child go.

She regards me as if for the first time.

Hello.

I mumble a greeting after I lower my eyes. Still, I can feel her smiling as she studies me. My face turns red.

She turns over her shoulder to Tomas, not letting go of Buster’s neck. Ustedes son hermanos?

He looks like he doesn’t understand but doesn’t want her to know this.

She wants to know if we’re brothers, I tell him.

I know that.

He glares at me and I shut up, but she faces me now and expects an answer.

Sí.

Yo creo que no.

I nod. Mi madre tampoco lo cree.

She bites her lip and thinks a moment.