Read Online The Secret Side of Empty by Maria E. Andreu - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maria E. Andreu
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checklists she’s compiled, I doubt it.
“Pepper spray?”
“M.T., you must be excited. Why are you being such a downer?”
Once we hit the road, though, it kind of is fun. Route 95 curves wide and unlovely in front of us as we head north, across the stop-and-crawl George Washington Bridge traffic and into New York State. The leaves are turning and the radio is playing good music. Chelsea is driving slow by the rules of the Chelsea-verse, keeping on the right side of the road and holding the wheel with both hands.
“Siobhan kicked out one of her roommates so we could bunk with her. Not sure about the other one. You and I can share the one bunk if we have to.”
“Okay.”
“And she says there’s some kind of frat party we should go to.”
Not excited about the frat party.
“And Siobhan is going to her Women in Antiquity class tomorrow if you want to go with her. She asked her professor and it’s okay.”
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” Chelsea says mockingly, trying to get me to laugh. I know I am being un-fun, but I can’t seem to get into it.
Chelsea waits until we’re almost at the Connecticut border to ask, “So what’s with the no college thing, M?”
Uh-oh .
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to Argentina and you don’t want to tell me, right?”
“No! Wait, what?”
“I’ve been scared about that since you said you weren’t going to college.”
“Where did that come from?”
“Well, you always used to say that.”
“I did not.”
“Of course you did. At the end of every school year. Starting in kindergarten. Don’t you remember? You would say good-bye because you were going to live in your . . . it was something about an oval house or something? Do they make houses oval over there?”
“God, Chels, no. My dad had this crazy idea about building us a round house. La Casa Redonda , he called it. And that was like a million years ago. When was the last time you heard me say that? I only said that because my dad would tell me to say good-bye to all my friends because we were moving away.”
“I don’t know, you looked pretty happy about it.”
“I did not. I was a dumb kid anyway.”
“What ever happened with that business your parents were building in Argentina?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always told me they were sending all their money over there and that’s why you couldn’t . . .” Suddenly she looks embarrassed. She just says, “Remember?”
“No.” But that’s a lie. I do remember.
When I was little, my father would come home and hand his tips over to my mother. Before they started cutting off the electricity. Before my father started staying away more and more hours. Before he started walking in through the door like his feet weighed a ton. Back then, my mother would take his tips and put them in a big old metal box that was drilled into the wall in a kitchen cabinet, because my mother said thieves never looked in the kitchen. The box was hidden behind bags of lentils and some cans.
One day, my mother and father took all the money out of the box and handed it over to their friend, whom I called Tio Roberto. He used to come over for dinner every Sunday and they would talk for hours about the business they would build back home. Tio Roberto was going to be their partner. The business would make us all rich and would help us move back to be with the family my parents always missed so much.
It must have been about a year after that when I walked into the kitchen to see my father holding his head in his hands, his elbows on the chipping table, my mother’s arms around him. I must have been about nine, because I remember it was one of the first times I was allowed to walk home from school alone.
“What happened, Ma?”
“Nothing,” said my father.
“We might as well tell her, Jorge.” Turning to me, she said, “It’s Tio Roberto and the business. Our business is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“Gone. Just . . . Tio Roberto
“Pepper spray?”
“M.T., you must be excited. Why are you being such a downer?”
Once we hit the road, though, it kind of is fun. Route 95 curves wide and unlovely in front of us as we head north, across the stop-and-crawl George Washington Bridge traffic and into New York State. The leaves are turning and the radio is playing good music. Chelsea is driving slow by the rules of the Chelsea-verse, keeping on the right side of the road and holding the wheel with both hands.
“Siobhan kicked out one of her roommates so we could bunk with her. Not sure about the other one. You and I can share the one bunk if we have to.”
“Okay.”
“And she says there’s some kind of frat party we should go to.”
Not excited about the frat party.
“And Siobhan is going to her Women in Antiquity class tomorrow if you want to go with her. She asked her professor and it’s okay.”
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” Chelsea says mockingly, trying to get me to laugh. I know I am being un-fun, but I can’t seem to get into it.
Chelsea waits until we’re almost at the Connecticut border to ask, “So what’s with the no college thing, M?”
Uh-oh .
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to Argentina and you don’t want to tell me, right?”
“No! Wait, what?”
“I’ve been scared about that since you said you weren’t going to college.”
“Where did that come from?”
“Well, you always used to say that.”
“I did not.”
“Of course you did. At the end of every school year. Starting in kindergarten. Don’t you remember? You would say good-bye because you were going to live in your . . . it was something about an oval house or something? Do they make houses oval over there?”
“God, Chels, no. My dad had this crazy idea about building us a round house. La Casa Redonda , he called it. And that was like a million years ago. When was the last time you heard me say that? I only said that because my dad would tell me to say good-bye to all my friends because we were moving away.”
“I don’t know, you looked pretty happy about it.”
“I did not. I was a dumb kid anyway.”
“What ever happened with that business your parents were building in Argentina?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always told me they were sending all their money over there and that’s why you couldn’t . . .” Suddenly she looks embarrassed. She just says, “Remember?”
“No.” But that’s a lie. I do remember.
When I was little, my father would come home and hand his tips over to my mother. Before they started cutting off the electricity. Before my father started staying away more and more hours. Before he started walking in through the door like his feet weighed a ton. Back then, my mother would take his tips and put them in a big old metal box that was drilled into the wall in a kitchen cabinet, because my mother said thieves never looked in the kitchen. The box was hidden behind bags of lentils and some cans.
One day, my mother and father took all the money out of the box and handed it over to their friend, whom I called Tio Roberto. He used to come over for dinner every Sunday and they would talk for hours about the business they would build back home. Tio Roberto was going to be their partner. The business would make us all rich and would help us move back to be with the family my parents always missed so much.
It must have been about a year after that when I walked into the kitchen to see my father holding his head in his hands, his elbows on the chipping table, my mother’s arms around him. I must have been about nine, because I remember it was one of the first times I was allowed to walk home from school alone.
“What happened, Ma?”
“Nothing,” said my father.
“We might as well tell her, Jorge.” Turning to me, she said, “It’s Tio Roberto and the business. Our business is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“Gone. Just . . . Tio Roberto
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