the morning, when my grandparents got back from visiting my father’s grave, to apologize in person about destroying the house. But the TV people made that impossible. If Mom and Bobby saw me alive, they’d come get me. It was as simple as that.
I stood in the front hallway for a minute, even though I knew I had to go. I tried to force myself to think about the next step, but I kept getting distracted. It was strange to see what the explosion had blown up, and what it hadn’t. For instance, I wouldn’t have expected the curtains to drip the way they did, or the carpet to melt and pool in places like glass. I was just as surprised to see that the hundred dollars of Intruder money hadn’t burned up, or even been ruffled. It was bizarre! A picture on the wall nearby was totally scorched, but the five twenties were still fanned out on the table in the hallway, just the way my grandmother had left them. So I took them. I figured that my grandparents would understand. They were always telling me not to leave the house without money.
I was too scared to scavenge any food or clean clothes. The gas was still on, and who knew how long it would be before the place blew up again?
It was time for phase two of my plan: the getaway. I ran down the basement stairs. The iron hand rail was still warm from the explosion, but everything else in the basement seemed normal. The door to the maid’s apartment—Silvia’s old room—was closed, as usual. My grandfather had a habit of closing it whenever he saw it open. The pingpong table was stacked high with laundry. The bookcase shelves bowed under the weight of my grandparents’ dusty encyclopedia. The car keys were in their usual place, a miniature fishbowl on one of the shelves. My grandparents had taken the fancy car, which meant I’d have the Dodge.
I took a long look back. The upstairs was crackling quietly and giving off a nasty smell. I know I should have felt sorry about blowing up the house—and I did—but I was still a little proud of myself. I thought, Oh, well. Then I opened the door to the garage.
The garage was pitch black, which was fine by me. I didn’t want to turn on the light or open the garage door until the last second, in case there were any gawkers outside. The familiar smells of fertilizer and lawnmower and clean rubber tires made me feel oddly safe. I guided myself by touch, running my fingers along the garden hose that my grandfather had nailed to the garage wall to protect the car doors. Feeling my way along the wall, I had to smile. There was a time when the garage used to creep me out, when the sound of the motor and the grinding of the rusty wheels of the electric garage door opener would frighten me. That’s how skittish I was when I first came to live with my grandparents.
I was fiddling with the car lock when I heard sobbing coming from the basement. I thought I’d been alone in the house the whole time. I hadn’t counted on my grandparents getting another maid so soon.
It’s embarrassing to say, but I almost didn’t go back in the house. Call it my mother’s stellar influence. I was scared. My body was beginning to hurt, my wrist in particular. I knew I had to get out of there. But the sobbing just went on and on. I wanted to scream, “Shut up!” but screaming was out of the question. Nobody in their right mind stays in a burning building and sobs—not even an ignorant Mexican.
Thinking of Silvia was what finally convinced me to go back in. I wasn’t about to be responsible for someone’s death. Honestly, if I hadn’t thought of her, I might have just hit the road.
I knew I could walk right in to Silvia’s old apartment. The door didn’t lock. It was held shut by a magnet at the top. The knob didn’t even turn. You just pulled it straight open, like a closet door. That had gotten me in trouble once or twice with Silvia and Roberto. I suppose there wasn’t a real security reason to have a lock on it, but now, in light of what I
I stood in the front hallway for a minute, even though I knew I had to go. I tried to force myself to think about the next step, but I kept getting distracted. It was strange to see what the explosion had blown up, and what it hadn’t. For instance, I wouldn’t have expected the curtains to drip the way they did, or the carpet to melt and pool in places like glass. I was just as surprised to see that the hundred dollars of Intruder money hadn’t burned up, or even been ruffled. It was bizarre! A picture on the wall nearby was totally scorched, but the five twenties were still fanned out on the table in the hallway, just the way my grandmother had left them. So I took them. I figured that my grandparents would understand. They were always telling me not to leave the house without money.
I was too scared to scavenge any food or clean clothes. The gas was still on, and who knew how long it would be before the place blew up again?
It was time for phase two of my plan: the getaway. I ran down the basement stairs. The iron hand rail was still warm from the explosion, but everything else in the basement seemed normal. The door to the maid’s apartment—Silvia’s old room—was closed, as usual. My grandfather had a habit of closing it whenever he saw it open. The pingpong table was stacked high with laundry. The bookcase shelves bowed under the weight of my grandparents’ dusty encyclopedia. The car keys were in their usual place, a miniature fishbowl on one of the shelves. My grandparents had taken the fancy car, which meant I’d have the Dodge.
I took a long look back. The upstairs was crackling quietly and giving off a nasty smell. I know I should have felt sorry about blowing up the house—and I did—but I was still a little proud of myself. I thought, Oh, well. Then I opened the door to the garage.
The garage was pitch black, which was fine by me. I didn’t want to turn on the light or open the garage door until the last second, in case there were any gawkers outside. The familiar smells of fertilizer and lawnmower and clean rubber tires made me feel oddly safe. I guided myself by touch, running my fingers along the garden hose that my grandfather had nailed to the garage wall to protect the car doors. Feeling my way along the wall, I had to smile. There was a time when the garage used to creep me out, when the sound of the motor and the grinding of the rusty wheels of the electric garage door opener would frighten me. That’s how skittish I was when I first came to live with my grandparents.
I was fiddling with the car lock when I heard sobbing coming from the basement. I thought I’d been alone in the house the whole time. I hadn’t counted on my grandparents getting another maid so soon.
It’s embarrassing to say, but I almost didn’t go back in the house. Call it my mother’s stellar influence. I was scared. My body was beginning to hurt, my wrist in particular. I knew I had to get out of there. But the sobbing just went on and on. I wanted to scream, “Shut up!” but screaming was out of the question. Nobody in their right mind stays in a burning building and sobs—not even an ignorant Mexican.
Thinking of Silvia was what finally convinced me to go back in. I wasn’t about to be responsible for someone’s death. Honestly, if I hadn’t thought of her, I might have just hit the road.
I knew I could walk right in to Silvia’s old apartment. The door didn’t lock. It was held shut by a magnet at the top. The knob didn’t even turn. You just pulled it straight open, like a closet door. That had gotten me in trouble once or twice with Silvia and Roberto. I suppose there wasn’t a real security reason to have a lock on it, but now, in light of what I
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