3

Nueva York

1994

Two years had passed since the death of Santo. Don Chan looked over at his calendar and marked an X on the Monday. He pressed his hand against the window to learn that it was a short-sleeved guayabera day. The pile of freshly ironed boxer shorts and white short-sleeved undershirts wouldn’t last him a week. He made a note on the pad he now kept in his pocket that he would do laundry before Esperanza came looking through his things and tried to do it for him. As it was, he felt like a burden, taking up space inside her apartment. The last thing he needed was for her to complain about how tired she was because she had to take care of him. When Santo was alive, Don Chan felt more comfortable speaking his mind and doing as he pleased around the house. Now Don Chan felt like a guest who had overstayed his welcome. He couldn’t work at his age. At least in Los Llanos he spent his days in his garden and watched over the goats. How could he grow anything in all this concrete? Give me a plot of land, I’ll get to work tomorrow, thought Don Chan. The thought of the city made Don Chan angry all over again. His son worked ten years in this stupid city and only left bills to show for it. Now Esperanza will work all her life and won’t own a pot to piss in.

So in every way he could, he tried not to be a burden. He added a number of chores to his daily routine, like throwing out the garbage, doing his laundry, watering the plants, and watching over the children, who were hardly children anymore. Dallas had recently turned into a señorita, and Bobby was spending extra time in the bathroom. And all that activity required Don Chan to do more napping during the day.

Don Chan no longer had to avoid Esperanza in the morning because she was always working. Every other night she slept at her client’s home.

—Watch those kids for me, Esperanza asked him. —I might have eyes on the back of my head for those children, but I need you to make sure they stay out of trouble.

—Seguro que sí, Don Chan said.

When he woke up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he made sure to see if Bobby and Dallas were in their bedroom.

With time, he no longer minded the nosy old woman who popped open her door when he was at the elevator. He expected to see her so he could say, —Buenos días. And because he knew that she would open the door again upon his arrival, he would bring her fresh pan de agua from the bodega for her breakfast.

—You didn’t have to do that, she said.

Don Chan was too busy to notice that she wasn’t wearing her curlers anymore. He was thinking about what day it was, the newspaper he had to buy, if the elevator would take long that morning, and if it did, would he arrive at the luncheonette too late to occupy his favorite booth by the window?