her mother and her sisters and little brother, forbidding the bullying and the hitting that would come their way. The pain that she’d been first to experience. Gabi was very comfortable with this position: You’ll have to go through me first.
“Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t order me around!” Bert yelled at Gabi.
“Just calm down, okay? Max’s had enough for the night and you have had way too much to drink.” Gabi worked to keep her voice as sedate but as unyielding as possible.
“Oh, fuck you, I have not.” He waved her off and sat back down, eyes on the television, arms and legs again splayed.
Gabi saw red. He was obviously drunk and maybe even high. This was why she never went out anymore, unless it was related to her work. She didn’t trust him to stay sober with Max.
“Are you kidding me? You’re two whiskies in and it’s a Tuesday, at home with your son so I can work to support you guys and you can sit on this couch!” As soon as it came out she realized that emasculating him wasn’t going to solve any problems. But she was exhausted, filters not functioning.
“Oh, fuck that. You know, I’m sick and tired of your high-horse bullshit—”
Maximo was holding on to his mother’s legs, tight.
“High horse! I wish I had a fucking horse, but noooo, I’m stuck in this apartment that reeks of liquor and pot and your . . . your . . . self-pity, and you can’t see for one minute what you’re doing to this family! You. Need. Help.” Gabi kept her hands on her son, who was now quiet and shaking.
Bert set his glass down, grabbed the sides of his head, stood and bleated, “STOP trying to fix me, goddamnit!”
Maximo flinched his little body, echoing his mother’s reaction. An angry drunk is a scary drunk, and a dangerous person. Gabi shut down, stunned by Bert’s obviously pent-up vitriol. They froze in place as Bert grabbed his keys and wallet and stormed out the door. Thank God.
Gabi finally breathed in, and out, then whispered a hush-hush as she shuffled her son back to his room, imagining that she was placing a psychic cloak of protection over her and her boy. Gabi was a sensible, rooted-in-science person, but she always felt that energy was energy—it was real and present. Her mother was into Santería and ghosts, priests’ blessings and sage burnings. And Gabi had had childhood visions and strange dreams, which made her feel at times like a closet bruja . One foot in the world of social science. The other, in a very messy, yet potent place.
Max had been too often at the receiving end of Bert’s alcohol-fueled rages since the child could talk—and talk back. But this year in particular. This was a very bad year. Gabi bent down and held her strong-willed son, half Puerto Rican (which meant Spanish, African, a smidge of Taino), half Jewish, whispering to him, “It’s okay, mi amor . It’s okay. Mami loves you. Te amo mucho .” Rocking and rubbing his back, envisioning her ardor radiating from her chest, into Max, trying to bring their breaths into sync. She took his cherubic face into her hands. “ M’ijo, let Mami wash your face before you go back to bed, okay? It’ll feel so so good.”
Sniffles. “Okay, Mami. ”
One of the few, but treasured, memories Gabi had of her temperamental, depressed mother was of her taking a warm washcloth and gently wiping the salt trails from Gabi’s teary, young face. She could never remember why she had been crying, and how many times, but she did remember that in this display of affection from her mother she felt loved, even if only for that moment.
Bracelets jangling, Gabi directed Maximo into the bathroom. The washcloth was warm, just so, and the boy closed his eyes as the cloth approached his face, ready for its healing blessings. Gabi gently swiped Max’s flushed face, with a soft, melodic “Shhh . . . shhh . . .”
“ Mami, why do you have to leave me with him?”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . .” Swipe, rub. More warm water,
“Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t order me around!” Bert yelled at Gabi.
“Just calm down, okay? Max’s had enough for the night and you have had way too much to drink.” Gabi worked to keep her voice as sedate but as unyielding as possible.
“Oh, fuck you, I have not.” He waved her off and sat back down, eyes on the television, arms and legs again splayed.
Gabi saw red. He was obviously drunk and maybe even high. This was why she never went out anymore, unless it was related to her work. She didn’t trust him to stay sober with Max.
“Are you kidding me? You’re two whiskies in and it’s a Tuesday, at home with your son so I can work to support you guys and you can sit on this couch!” As soon as it came out she realized that emasculating him wasn’t going to solve any problems. But she was exhausted, filters not functioning.
“Oh, fuck that. You know, I’m sick and tired of your high-horse bullshit—”
Maximo was holding on to his mother’s legs, tight.
“High horse! I wish I had a fucking horse, but noooo, I’m stuck in this apartment that reeks of liquor and pot and your . . . your . . . self-pity, and you can’t see for one minute what you’re doing to this family! You. Need. Help.” Gabi kept her hands on her son, who was now quiet and shaking.
Bert set his glass down, grabbed the sides of his head, stood and bleated, “STOP trying to fix me, goddamnit!”
Maximo flinched his little body, echoing his mother’s reaction. An angry drunk is a scary drunk, and a dangerous person. Gabi shut down, stunned by Bert’s obviously pent-up vitriol. They froze in place as Bert grabbed his keys and wallet and stormed out the door. Thank God.
Gabi finally breathed in, and out, then whispered a hush-hush as she shuffled her son back to his room, imagining that she was placing a psychic cloak of protection over her and her boy. Gabi was a sensible, rooted-in-science person, but she always felt that energy was energy—it was real and present. Her mother was into Santería and ghosts, priests’ blessings and sage burnings. And Gabi had had childhood visions and strange dreams, which made her feel at times like a closet bruja . One foot in the world of social science. The other, in a very messy, yet potent place.
Max had been too often at the receiving end of Bert’s alcohol-fueled rages since the child could talk—and talk back. But this year in particular. This was a very bad year. Gabi bent down and held her strong-willed son, half Puerto Rican (which meant Spanish, African, a smidge of Taino), half Jewish, whispering to him, “It’s okay, mi amor . It’s okay. Mami loves you. Te amo mucho .” Rocking and rubbing his back, envisioning her ardor radiating from her chest, into Max, trying to bring their breaths into sync. She took his cherubic face into her hands. “ M’ijo, let Mami wash your face before you go back to bed, okay? It’ll feel so so good.”
Sniffles. “Okay, Mami. ”
One of the few, but treasured, memories Gabi had of her temperamental, depressed mother was of her taking a warm washcloth and gently wiping the salt trails from Gabi’s teary, young face. She could never remember why she had been crying, and how many times, but she did remember that in this display of affection from her mother she felt loved, even if only for that moment.
Bracelets jangling, Gabi directed Maximo into the bathroom. The washcloth was warm, just so, and the boy closed his eyes as the cloth approached his face, ready for its healing blessings. Gabi gently swiped Max’s flushed face, with a soft, melodic “Shhh . . . shhh . . .”
“ Mami, why do you have to leave me with him?”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . .” Swipe, rub. More warm water,
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