Tata shakes his head and returns the frying pan, then slams the cabinet door. Frank doesn’t blink an eye. He doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Tata yanks the cereal box from the table, even though Frank was reading the back of the box. Now he stares at the space in front of him.

Two men, few words, their actions loud as warriors.

Tata eats his breakfast in the living room on the couch, holding his bowl right below his chin. “You need to find another place to sit,” he says as he leaves the house for the day. There are three of us at the table, but I know he’s talking to Frank.

When Frank Almost Downed

Frank almost drowned four years ago, when he was seven. Auntie Bernadette used to call Frank “Two Step” because he was always two steps behind Tata, happy to walk in his shadow. One day Frank begged and begged Tata to let him go along on his fishing trip, but Tata told Frank no. He was going out with a couple of friends on their new boat. He probably didn’t think it would be right to ask Frank along since it wasn’t his boat. Maybe he should have told Frank that. Instead he said, “Go play with your toys,” as if he were swatting away a fly.

That morning I saw Frank in the backyard, his head pressed against a coconut tree, kicking the trunk. He kept kicking and kicking until I ordered him to stop. Later in the day, when my father returned home, Frank bragged to some boys that he was going to swim to Cocos Island, a mile away.

I don’t know anyone who has swum to Cocos Island. I don’t know anyone who would want to. But Frank was young and I believe he was trying to impress my father. So he thought nothing of making a bet with those older boys, who knew better. Roman was one of those boys.

When Frank was almost out of sight, Roman got scared. I guess he started thinking, What if Frank drowned? What if this silly boy didn’t have enough sense to turn around when he tired?

Finally Roman went for my father, who was at the cabana, cleaning fish. My father kicked off his zoris, crossed the street in bare feet, raced to the beach, and took off swimming. With Olivia on my hip, I watched from the shore, helpless.

Frank’s foot began to cramp. He wrestled the waves, trying to gasp for air, swallowing enough water to fill a bucket. Tata reached him just in time.

The next thing I knew, Frank was lying on the beach unconscious, and Tata was beating his stomach with tight fists, shouting, “My son, why?”

Auntie Bernadette showed up, half of her hair rolled in hot curlers. She fell to her knees next to Tata. “Move, Vincent!”

Tata slowly stepped away and Auntie Bernadette performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I’d never seen anyone do this before, so it appeared strange to me—my auntie’s mouth covering my brother’s. With each breath, curls unraveled from her rollers, one by one, until they each lay on the sand.