“Let’s say grace,” Rosita said.
“Where’s the little manager?” Chita asked. Her hands were clasped for prayer, but her head remained unbowed.
Rosita stared at her husband’s place. “Up on the widow’s walk.”
“What’s he doing up there?” Chita asked.
“He wanted to check it out for a possible observation post. He has to decide who to assign to it when Chita and Diego are away.”
Diego swore. “That pip-squeak isn’t going to have his little buddies traipsing around my house.”
“It’s not your house,” Lola said.
“Shut up, woman. You’ve done more than enough damage already,” Diego said.
A single report of a gun burst through the open doors. Rosita and Lola flinched.
“Oh my God, what was that?” Chita said.
Lola relaxed into a shrug. “You know how the sound bounces. It could’ve come from anywhere.”
“It was some patriot, happy to have a chance to shoot his gun,” Diego said. He picked up his fork, but after glancing at his wife and Rosita, who had tears in her eyes, he set it down again. His voice was subdued. “It’s another shell case for Beto’s collection. That’s all.”
Rosita paled and took a deep breath with pursed lips. “Let’s say grace.” She reached for the hands of her sisters, who in turn reached for their husbands. They were united for a moment.
Then the moment was gone. The bickering resumed as soon as the first bite was taken. No one ate much, which left plenty of space for accusations and counter-assertions. Chita complained that Ramón’s food was getting cold. The food she had helped to cook after driving all day and fixing a puncture in the wilderness.
“He’ll be down,” Rosita said. She hadn’t touched her plate.
Diego glared at his wife. “I should turn you all in.”
“Sure,” Chita said. “Of course, I’d have to tell them about the shipments of petrol that never reach their intended destinations that supply the soldiers of our great country.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You’ve used too much of it yourself.”
“I won’t need it anymore in prison. Or in heaven.”
Lola slapped the table. The dishes rattled. “Enough! No one here is going to tell anyone anything about anyone else here. Agreed?” She looked into the faces around the table.
“What about Ramón?” Chita asked.
All attention settled on Rosita.
“He won’t talk,” Rosita said. She shook her head with her lips pressed firmly in a straight line.
“Ha!” Diego said. “Where is he, anyway? He should be here. The weakest link and, as always, off someplace else. I want to hear from his own mealy mouth that his loyalty is to us.”
“I don’t know if I would believe him.” Chita glared at Rosita, who still hadn’t told Lola everything that happened over the mountains.
Rosita took another deep breath. “I’ll get him.” She stood and walked away from the table.
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it.” Chita jumped up and pushed past Rosita and out into the hallway. Diego continued to throw words at Lola, and José refused to defend her.
“Quiet!” Chita shouted.
She carried the heavy black phone on its long cord to the dining room and stopped beside Rosita. She held the handset to her heart as the angry words swirling around the table died away.
“They’re in Texas. A place called Galveston. All of them.” At last, Chita could cry.
About the Author
Brenda Sparks Prescott lives and writes in eastern Massachusetts and southern Vermont. Her writing has appeared in publications such as The Louisville Review, Crab Orchard Review, Portland Magazine, and the anthology Soap Opera Confidential.
Brenda is co-chief editor of Solstice Literary Magazine, an advisory board member for the Solstice MFA in creative writing program, and a founding member of Simply Not Done, a women’s writing collaborative. Brenda’s family has a long history of military service, with records stretching back to the Civil War.
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