A man scrambles over to check her numbers. Once she won a thousand dollars. She bought dresses for Olivia and me and shirts for Frank. Even though it was a lot of money, I’m sure the bingo sponsors have gotten every penny back from her, plus a lot more.

If Auntie Bernadette had her way and the government made cockfights illegal, Teresita wouldn’t be the only one to miss them. Even my father grumbles when the animal rights people protest. “Those Humane Society people don’t know anything,” he says. “They think cockfights are cruel. ESPN shows people shooting ducks. What’s the difference? Millions of people watch the duck hunts. Only a few watch cockfights.”

Though Tata has never returned to the Dededo dome after someone keyed his truck, he likes to go to cockfights held at fiestas or the sneaky ones at Saturday night barbecues. Big money seldom changes hands there like at the dome, mostly just cases of beer.

Not Now

Olivia dances around the house, wearing my mother’s fiesta queen tiara. As she dances, she strums Mom’s ukulele, singing a song she made up. The words sort of sound like one Mom sang when she was acting silly, playing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” on top of the coffee table. But Olivia sings, “Tiptoes and two lips.”

Frank laughs, and the sound startles me. He hasn’t laughed since before my mother died. But something about Olivia’s song and dance bothers me. The skin on my face prickles. I grit my teeth and sit on my hands to keep from grabbing the ukulele. I turn on the television and stare at the screen. She plucks the strings hard and sings louder, prancing in front of the TV, staring my way. I look right through her. She is glass.

Tata enters our house, carrying an ice chest. His lips grip a cigarette, but when he sees Olivia, the cigarette falls to the tiled floor and he drops the ice chest on the table.

“Stop!” He lunges toward her, grabbing the ukulele. I haven’t heard Tata yell since Frank almost drowned. Olivia whimpers and Tata kneels next to her. In the kitchen, a string of cigarette smoke swirls high into the air.

“Not now,” Tata says softly, stroking Olivia’s hair. “Later.”

Frank slinks lower on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. Relieved, I breathe again.

Breakfast of Champions

Tata is usually gone by sunrise, so I’m surprised to see him in the kitchen this morning, opening cabinets and slamming them shut. His jaw tightens as he peers at Frank from the corner of his eye. Frank sits in my mother’s seat, eating his cereal. Even though the three of us continue to change chairs at each meal, no one has ever sat in my mother’s seat until now.

Frank keeps eating, his chin resting on his fist.

“Where’s the rice?” Tata asks me. He’s used to eating fried Spam, rice, and Tabasco sauce in the mornings.

“We finished it last night,” I say. “And there’s no Spam in the house. Do you want me to run over to the store and get some?”