—Dallas should‘ve been named after her grandmother Caridad, Don Chan insisted.

Santo nodded along.

Just like Don Chan to talk a subject dry.

—If people could name their children after saints, why not after the Ewings? Esperanza interjected from the kitchen. —If it was up to you two, nothing would change. All the children would be named after family members, and we‘d still be living in the boonies.

—Do you see how ungrateful she is? Don Chan nudged Santo. —She forgets everything. She should be happy that you weren‘t pushed into hiding, like our friend Ernesto Santo María Delosquesaben.

—Ay, Papà, I haven‘t thought of Ernesto in years. He took too many risks. That trip to Cuba was his biggest mistake. He was very kind to let us live in his house in Los Llanos, Santo said. —Have you heard from Ernesto, Papà?

—Miraluz told me she saw him pass through town not so long ago, he teaches in the university.

—Miraluz? What about her? Esperanza rushed out of the kitchen, hands wet, knife in one, a sponge in the other.

—Càlmate, mujer. We‘re talking about Ernesto.

Santo waved Esperanza to go back into the kitchen. Santo leaned over to his side to turn on the lamps. The night announced itself with the dark sky, the store gates closing and mothers calling their children in for dinner.

—We had some good times back in the day.

Santo used to meet with four guys at the local colmado and they would riff off songs that complained about the price of the plàtano being too high or of the wind that blew the roof off their heads.

—I haven‘t played music since Aire Libre, Santo said.

—I still have your small keyboard in the house, Don Chan said.

—But it doesn‘t work.

—It‘s for the history books, Don Chan said and started playing air piano, humming a few notes, showing off to Santo how much he remembered.

—Damn, Papà, it‘s good to see you. It‘s really great to have you here.

Esperanza cleared up the sink and slapped the uncooked chicken as if it were Santo‘s face, regretting the idea of having Don Chan live with them. And why were they talking about Miraluz, anyway? That damn woman hanging out with them day and night as if she didn‘t have anything better to do. Miraluz‘s child running about like a savage while she spoke stupidities. —Revolución this, el pueblo that. Already Don Chan started with his back-in-the-day songs as if there was something romantic about living in a small cement house with a zinc roof, no running water, an outhouse in the back, and an iron stove fueled with coal. Esperanza was the one who fetched the water and heated the iron over the coal, and not once did she escape burning her skin from the endless piles of ironing. Feed the chickens, sweep the yard, wash the rice twice, three times over, so they wouldn‘t bite into a pebble.

—Talk all you want, Esperanza mumbled under her breath, angry that Santo turned a blind eye on how hard their lives were in Los Llanos. She had left her life in the city, her family, for Santo. She did it for love. —I was so naive. Esperanza thought back to her young self who had yet to learn that once the stomach was empty, love went out the window.