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as if he made it flesh.
    Cara Mãe
,
    I will continue to write in the hope that these letters will somehow make their way into your heart. You’ve never felt anything like it. In one day there can be a downpour of rain, blustering snow, and sunshine.The snow is quite nice but it’s so cold. Andrew says it gets so cold your pee can freeze.
    I’m sure you’re preparing for Christmas,
Mãe
. I miss the smell of pine crushed beneath our feet, sweet masa, and the smell of our home in the damp night. I hope my siblings are all well.
    I can still picture them in my mind but I’m certain so much has changed. Please tell them I miss them.
    Laughter is returning to this house. It lives in this country, I know. A house needs laughter.
    I hope that when Albina reads these letters to you that you are not angry. Please write or let Jose or Candida write something … I long to hear from someone.
    Albina, write something. Please let me know how all my news and thoughts are being received. She need not know.
    Merry Christmas.
    Manuel
    He doesn’t want to think back. Although his heart aches for the familiar, he needs to look forward. There is a merciless rattle in his brain: It was fate that tossed him into the sea, alone and lost; it was fate that hooked him onto the line of a fisherman; it must then be fate that made Manuel turn up to that dove-gray sky that always visits after a storm—look up at the heavens only to find Pepsi. He will not tempt that fate. She has been good tohim, nursed him and loved him. Manuel owes it to her to love her back.
    “Pepsi!” Andrew’s voice stabs through Manuel’s thoughts. “Where are my pants?” he shouts from his room.
    “They were reekin’ of screech, soiled to the grain. So I washed them.”
    Pepsi has found a new confidence and strength. Andrew storms in from his room. Pepsi’s eyes do not leave her father’s. She will not let him win. He can’t say anything for the longest time. Pepsi hums as she trusses the bird.
    “That’s what it’s about, Manuel. Mark my words. You give them everything they could ever ask for only to have them walk on you like the dirt they think you are.”
    “Dad, I didn’t—”
    “Don’t you ‘Dad’ me. Respect!” he sputters. “It’s all I’ve ever asked of you in this house. Respect!” He struggles to put on his coat, then goes out and slams the door.
    Manuel moves recklessly behind her, kisses her neck.
    “Tell me, Pepsi—tell about that day.” It is his favorite story. It is filled with everything he wants in life: beginning with sacrifice and ending with hope and promise. Manuel digs his hands under the neckline of her dress, holds the weight of her breasts.
    “Well,” she begins, welcoming the distraction, “that day …” Pepsi turns and smiles before continuing. “That day, I was coming home from St. John’s where I stupidly thought I could sell my pearls. I thought I could get enough money to get my hair done at a salon and maybe buy a pretty dress. A girl likes a pretty dress, Manuel. That lady at the pawnshop sat there in her stoolbehind the counter looking at her large black and white television. She saw me from the corner of her eye and pretended not to notice. I laid my pearls gently on top of the glass display. She bit one of the pearls with her graying teeth and showed me its plastic core, dropped the string of pearls back on the counter,
clickety-click
, all the while looking up at her television, and resumed tapping her fingers on the counter to our pet Juliette—a girl with a beautiful voice and perky smile. You’d like her, Manuel …”
    Manuel rubs her hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She is comfortable with the way his calloused hands move across her body. When she turns her face to kiss him, she no longer looks awkward, afraid.
    “Manuel, let me finish the story.”
    He knows she doesn’t want him to stop and he knows the end of the story; the lady had made a mistake. The pearls were real.