I look back down at the stack of papers and read: “Rosita’s brother, who was in high school, was sick, and died. During siesta, Rosita called and asked if I wanted to see him. I wanted to but said what if they see us? She said there’s nobody here, it’s hot. We stood on a chair and looked at him through the glass he had over his face. I think he was sleeping. This is a secret between Rosita and me.”

(Sees death as akin to sleep.)

Julia sighs. I pause. This is a warning: If I don’t start paying attention to her she’ll start crying. But she shouldn’t claim to be my victim. I won’t let her rub my face in what she did. I’d rather explain to her about last night. Maybe persuade her to see things my way.

“Men,” I tell her, “want the woman to obey. They have bosses, the business owners who order them around all day. They come home and need to vent; they want to be the one in charge for a change. I obey. I have bosses. I answer to an owner. Even so, I’m not interested in having anyone obey me. I don’t expect that. When I asked you to help me, with your kids at school, I didn’t mean to give you an order . . . Come on, don’t contradict me. Other times, yes; this time, no.”

“Why not this time?” And, despite everything, she’s sobbing.

I hesitate, I don’t let her pain upset me, I take my time. After a while I say, “Because apparently I have a passionate interest in this question.”

(Though, in general, I never feel passionate about anything.)

Julia, seeing herself displaced once more, gives up. “That’s enough for today.”

She leaves. I make no move to stop her.

She’s forgotten the pages from the school notebooks.

I read: “My little brother, el Bebe, killed himself. I loved him very much but I don’t miss him because he didn’t know how to talk or walk or anything even though he was almost six months old. He and my other brother, the one that’s alive, were born together, they were twins. My mamá says she usually nursed one of them first and then the other, and the first is the one who survived because she put him on the left side. When it was the other one’s turn, el Bebe’s, he didn’t want to suck and he stopped drinking milk and died of starvation. That was because she didn’t attend to him first, my mamá says, but when she figured it out it was too late. The doctor said el Bebe committed suicide and Papá said it was a big disgrace, but that he was used to it, other people in the family had killed themselves, too. I heard them saying this, they didn’t tell me.”

•

My mother has left a plate for me in the kitchen.