Page 22 of Dirty

Despite their efforts, when she was in her early twenties, she married an Irish-Catholic man she was madly in love with. Her husband fathered my sister, and then me. One day, weeks before my first birthday, he went to work and never returned home.

He was never seen or heard from again. By anyone.

To this day, she still loves him, and has never been in another relationship. The separation, at least in my opinion, left her bitter.

“She’s not a whore,” I said.

She turned to face me and wiped her hands on her apron. “She paraded up and down the street in clothes that would fit her daughter. Tetas everywhere. No brasier. She came home from the bars when you were getting up to go to school.”

“I thought she worked nights.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re no idiota. Don’t act like one.”

I let out a sigh and then took another sip of coffee. It was quite possible my unresolved teenage crush had left me blind to who Lucy really was. I tried to recall specific things about her, but fell short.

She prepared another tamale. “Why do you ask about her? Are you lonely for a wife?”

“I’m not getting married, mother. I just…” I stood and walked to the sink. “I saw her the other day.”

As I rinsed my cup, she set the tamale aside and started on another.

“Don’t get mad and leave. I’m not done talking,” she snapped.

“I’m not leaving,” I said.

“Sit down,” she said over her shoulder. “You need to eat something before you go.”

“I’ve eaten. I ate early.”

“Eat again. You’re a big boy. You need to eat.”

“I need to get to work.”

“Tell me why you ask about the puta.”

I rolled my eyes and sat down. “I saw her. I was just asking.”

“You see people every day, and no questions,” she said, still focused on her tamale production. “Why you ask?”

“Her daughter was in trouble. She came to me looking for help. I just wondered what you remembered about her.”

“In trouble how?”

“Not really trouble. She was…” I paused, struggling with how to continue. Before I had a chance to structure what I was going to say, she asked again.

“In trouble how?”

“Her boyfriend was beating her,” I said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth.

She glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with me. “Did you fix it?”

I let out a sigh. “I did.”

She smiled and turned around. “You’re a good boy.”

“How old is Alexandra? Fifteen?”

“Twenty-one.”