Uncle Paolo was bent under the old Buick’s hood. “Who is it?” I said, running up the gravel driveway spraying stones. “Who is out?” Uncle Paolo straightened, wiped his hands on a greasy rag, and slammed the hood down. “Load the valises, Ana. I am getting too old for this.” Three suitcases sat beside the opened trunk: Uncle Paolo’s, Uncle Eliseo’s, and Uncle Luis’s. I hoisted them inside with a grunt and turned back to Paolo, who was clomping up the front porch steps toward the screen door. Air in the house was thick with anticipation. The three children sat in a fidgety row on the sofa, a chocolate-dipped banana in each hand to keep them quiet. Pocked María knelt before them with two fingers poised for horns as she told them the story of Ramon the bull. She turned when I entered behind Uncle Paolo and I mouthed the word, “Who?” María scrunched up her face and shrugged before charging the children who squealed in mock terror. In the yellow-tiled kitchen Fat Carmelita stacked bean and avocado tortillas for the uncles to eat on the trip.
What do You think about Still Life With Plums (2010)?
