—Get that thing out of here, Esperanza said when she saw the size of it.

—Estàs loca mujer, after everything I went through to get it here. No way.

In order to get it into their apartment, Santo needed the help of two men.

—What if someone pissed on it? What if someone died on it? What if the person who owned it was miserable and cursed it? You ever think of that? Besides, where do you think we‘re gonna put this monstrosity? On the top of my head? Esperanza asked, flinging her arms up to the heavens.

—We can put it in the kids‘ room, Santo pleaded.

Dallas heard him say it, but she couldn‘t believe it. The dead person‘s piano, which someone had pissed on, with a curse, no less, in her room?

—It won‘t fit, Dallas said to whoever listened. Santo‘s eyes pleaded with Dallas to help him out. After all, she knew she was his favorite, his little girl, his princess. They were supposed to be allies.

—I don‘t want that table in my room, Dallas said, storming out, not making eye contact with either of them. She couldn‘t stand to see her father hurt. He had never asked for anything from her before, and the one thing he did ask for, she refused him. She had already given up her room so Don Chan could have a place to sleep. As it was, her bed and Bobby‘s were close enough to each other that when Bobby tossed around and flung his arm in his sleep he sometimes slapped her face. She didn‘t want that ghost of a piano inside her itty-bitty room that only had a small window facing the alley.

—No, she cried. No way.

Esperanza refused to let him bring the table past the foyer. It stood on its side in their skinny hallway for weeks. Neither of them gave in. Dallas climbed around the enormous wooden legs, wondering when Santo and Esperanza would make up. It was easy for them to stay angry at each other, when Santo worked nights and Esperanza worked days. If they stayed on schedule, they could spend weeks without having to talk much at all.

Don Chan didn‘t like Sundays because everyone was home. The luncheonette didn‘t open until noon. The streets were filled with churchgoing women and their children, stopping and starting as they made their way up the street. Everyone wanted to have a conversation. —Hey, Viejo, how are things going? How you feeling? Where you heading?

—Estamos vivo, was his reply as he concentrated on his routine, because if he broke it, he inevitably would forget something he wanted to do and then the entire day would be thrown off. It was easier to stay home and not leave his room on Sundays and wait until Monday when everything went back on schedule.

On Sundays, Esperanza insisted that they all sit around the dinner table like a family because it would save their children from a life of delinquency on the streets. That was the rule. And even though their fights allowed Don Chan to have Santo to himself and Esperanza‘s silent treatment was a holiday for the ears, the tense silence between them at the dinner table stole away his appetite.