That damn piano, their last fight. Even after they had made up and started talking again, they kept the piano in the doorway, tucked in the foyer, waiting to be thrown out or brought in. —Why did I give him such a hard time? It‘s a stupid table.

After Santo‘s death, Esperanza put his beloved table in the kids‘ room, as he had wished it to be. Dallas and her mother scrubbed the table with Comet, being careful not to scrape off the musical notes on the table‘s belly. She asked the man upstairs, who was into spiritual things, for help. —Cosas espirituales, Esperanza said, rubbing her fingertips as if the essence of the spiritual were garnered in her own hands.

—Your father loved this table, Dallas. I don‘t know why, but he loved it so.

Don Chan didn‘t want to go to the luncheonette in the mornings, as if his next walk up Quepasó Street would greet him with more bad news. If he had lost part of his mind when his wife, Caridad, died, he lost all his desire to live when Santo died. Something had gone wrong with the order of things. He had survived a year without his wife. How long could he live without his son? A parent was not supposed to grieve over a child‘s life. The spirit was not equipped for it. Don Chan‘s voice changed. It cracked, as if something was caught in his throat. His eyes became lazy, drooping in a half sleep. It wasn‘t Santo‘s time. It couldn‘t have been his time. Don Chan couldn‘t motivate himself to follow his daily routine. In the mornings, he sat at the kitchen table and Esperanza joined him. Pouring the café, no words passed between them, their anger with each other was a thread that kept them from falling over, a reminder that they were still alive.

Esperanza put sugar in the eggs, her socks didn‘t match, her dark roots were starting to show. She was like a chicken whose head was twisted and hung over onto its side, running around in circles, running from, running to, who knows where, but running. She was running them to school, running to work, running from the streets that terrified her. Everything seemed dangerous. Every sound jolted her from her sleep, forcing her to check if the doors were locked, that no one was lurking on her fire escape. She was running from the sound of the phone and the look in everyone‘s eyes. She didn‘t want to look at her children. Especially not at Don Chan, who must have blamed her for making Santo leave D.R. If he hadn‘t been wearing the watch, maybe he could‘ve still been alive. Damn you, Santo. How many times did I tell him not to park the car around Riverside Drive? What was he thinking? She said it in the same tone she used when talking about the times he forgot to put down the toilet seat, or pick up the milk on his way home.