When the lobsters thermidor arrived, as monstrous as their consumers, he felt a bit embarrassed and recognized the disapproving looks directed their way by the old-money white guys at neighboring tables. This is the Dominican Revolution, he told himself with a shank of lamb in his mouth. So much blood spilled, just to eat lobster. His father was obsessed with lobsters. One time, when they were on vacation at Tony Catrain’s house in Las Terrenas, he had made them stand barefoot on the burning hot sand of the beach at midday. Ernesto had spit out a piece of lobster. Since Argenis was allergic he didn’t have to eat it, but his father had punished the two of them, just as he and his comrades had been punished when they were all in prison during the first few years of Balaguer’s dictatorship.

José Alfredo would pardon anything, except their turning their noses up at their food. Ernesto had a good appetite, but he hated shellfish. José Alfredo had made him pick up the lobster he’d thrown on the floor and swallow it. When Argenis saw his brother chew that blob with grains of sand on it, his eyes filled with tears.

“Do you know what your dad ate in jail?” José Alfredo asked them. “Do you know what chow is?” Tony Catrain had sent Charlie to his room to save him from the scene and tried unsuccessfully to intercede on behalf of the children: “José Alfredo, leave them alone, they’re kids.”

“Chow, you ingrates,” José Alfredo continued, “was a concoction made of leftovers, ground-up rice, chicken claws, the prison guards’ phlegm and snot, really delicious. And they made your daddy drink it down, and if he complained he had to swallow an entire potful, along with a couple of kicks to the balls.” Ernesto started gagging. “Swallow it, damn it,” José Alfredo ordered. Tony Catrain watched them from the patio, both hands on his waist. Ernesto tried to swallow twice, and the third time everything he had ingested since breakfast came out of his mouth. In the vomit, you could recognize bits of scrambled egg and Choco Rica. The horrible leather sandals with thin socks that José Alfredo used for the beach disgusted Argenis even more than his brother’s vomit on the sand. He raised his head, and looking his father in the eyes, said, “I’m going to tell Mami.”

Etelvina never went away with them during Holy Week. She stayed in the capital, taking a break from the boys, from José Alfredo, from school. Argenis knew his father would never have dared to do this in front of her, and he knew who won the shouting matches that back then his parents had almost every night. Transformed by the words of his youngest son, José Alfredo went to Ernesto with a concerned expression and asked, “Are you OK?” It was obvious he wasn’t. He picked up Ernesto’s little ten-year-old body and laid it on the sofa in the living room, made him an anise tea, and had Argenis fan him with a folder. Tony Catrain didn’t invite them to Las Terrenas ever again.