After the chisme made the rounds and Tío had split the scene, I’d started over. Took any job I could get, hauling manure, laying sod at the golf course, planting potatoes, until I found my current employer. People had begun to respect me. My hand trembled as I turned up the heat beneath the skillet, praying that the crackle and hiss of frying eggs might mask the sound of his voice, intimate like the guitar in my favorite Roberto Griego song Un Pobre No Más. I willed my uncle to leave our casita, even knowing it would hurt Ma to see him go.
Dad let me stew in the holding cell for eight hours. By then, the vomit…