Chapter 9: Sunday Dinner

Sunday dinner at my mother's house has been at two o'clock since before I was born.

There was brisket, and rice, and a pot of beans that could have fed the Alamo.

My uncle Anselmo took the chair at the foot of the table, where my father used to sit, and tucked a napkin into his collar.

His wife sat beside him, bright-eyed and anxious, passing the tortillas.

My mother sat at the head, with her dominoes in her pocket and the empty shotgun leaning in the corner behind her.

Nobody had asked about the shotgun.

Luz was napping upstairs.

Dell was not at the table.

He had walked the street twice since dawn and then gone to sit in his cab, because I had asked him to.

"This is a family matter," I had said.

"Understood."

"Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

He had been looking at me like a man who wanted to carry something heavy for me and knew I would not let him.

Now I put my fork down.

"Tío."

"Mija, eat. You've been a ghost since Thursday."

"I went to the yard last night."

"At night?" He chuckled. "You're your father's daughter. He used to sleep in the office."

"I went to cage nine."

The chuckle stopped.

I reached into my jacket, took out the folded printout of the seal log, and laid it flat beside his plate.

Two lines.

Two seal numbers.

One user name, in plain black ink.

My uncle looked down at it for exactly as long as it takes to swallow.

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