—¿Sola? But why would you ever want to be alone? You have everything a niña could want here. Why would you leave all this?
Father waves a butter knife in the air, pointing around the kitchen. The window fan is stirring up the impossibly hot air from outside and pushing it inside. The kitchen table is full of bread crumbs and greasy with butter. Father is finishing his breakfast toast and a three-minute egg.
I rinse another glass under the faucet and wash another dish without turning around to look at the splendors Father is pointing out to me. A refrigerator sticky with handprints nagging to be washed, a loaf of bread perched on top alongside the radio with the aluminum foil antenna and some cooking pots fuzzy with dust. Cheap kitchen cabinets with the varnish wearing thin. A creaky wooden floor bald in places, crying out for stripping and revarnishing. A set of kitchen chairs Mother found at the Salvation Army, don’t tell Father, with the seats all redone in what my brothers get a kick out of calling “Nalga-hide.” And the yard-sale kitchen table. Everything Father points to means work for me. Already the house feels too small, like Alice after she ate the “Eat Me” cookie.
—It’s just that I want to be on my own someday.
—But that’s not for girls like you. Good girls don’t leave their father’s house until they marry, and not before. Why would you ever want to live by yourself? Or is it … you want to do something that you can’t do here?
—I just thought maybe I would want to try stuff. Like teach people how to read, or rescue animals, or study Egyptian history at a university. I don’t know. Just stuff like … like you see people doing in the movies. I want a life like …
—Girls who are not Mexican?
—Like other human beings. It’s that I’d like to try to live alone someday.
—¿Sola? How? Why? Why would a young lady want to be alone? No, mija, you are too naive to know what you are asking for.
—But all my friends say …
—Oh, so your friends are more important than your father? You love them more than me? Always remember, Lala, the family comes first—la familia. Your friends aren’t going to be there when you’re in trouble. Your friends don’t think of you first. Only your family is going to love you when you’re in trouble, mija. Who are you going to call? The man across the street? No, no. La familia, Lala. Remember. The Devil knows …
—More from experience than from being the Devil. I know, I know.
—If you leave your father’s house without a husband you are worse than a dog. You aren’t my daughter. You aren’t a Reyes. You hurt me just talking like this. If you leave alone you leave like, and forgive me for saying this but it’s true, como una prostituta. Is that what you want the world to think? Como una perra, like a dog. Una perdida. How will you live without your father and brothers to protect you? One must strive to be honorable. You don’t know what you’re asking for. You’re just like your mother. The same. Headstrong. Stubborn. No, Lala, don’t you ever mention this again.
When I breathe, my heart hurts. Prostituta. Puta. Perra. Perdida. Papá.