Chapter 4: The Kitchen

Eloy opened the door in a work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and he did not look surprised.

"Del," he said.

Nobody but Nestor had called me that in six years, and it sounded different in his mouth.

"Corina came to my hangar tonight," I said. "Alone, with a check."

He stepped back from the door without a word, and I walked into his kitchen.

It was an old adobe room with dark ceiling beams.

A string of dried red chile hung by the window.

A man's sheepskin coat hung on the peg by the door, and it was much too old to be his.

"My father's," Eloy said, seeing me look. "I haven't moved it."

I told him all of it standing up.

The check, the typed page, the part about the pepper, and the line about the table.

He poured two cups of coffee as I talked and set mine on the table without handing it to me.

When I got to the part about the Armijo table, he put the pot down without making a sound.

I would learn later that this was how he looked when he was angriest.

"She said he'd be sitting at my table before she was," Eloy said.

"She said he doesn't lie about what he wants," I said.

"Nestor never wanted a seat at my table in his life. He wanted to fly."

"I know what I heard," I said.

"I know you do." His voice was quiet. "I'm thinking."

"Nestor wouldn't come into your father's funeral," I said. "He stood by the truck the whole Mass. I thought it was grief."

"A lot of people stood outside that day," Eloy said.

He turned to look at me.

"Why did you drive down here at midnight, Del?"

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