The Best American Short Stories 2013 Read Online Free PDF Page B

at an inconvenient time. Let’s say you’re in love with Rocío—”
    “Let’s suppose.”
    “And she doesn’t want to leave. So then you stay. What will you do then?”
    He was really asking:
What are you doing right now?
    When I didn’t say anything, he pressed further, his voice rising in pitch. “Tell me, son. Are you sure you even want that visa? Are you absolutely certain? Do you know yet what you’re going to do with your life?”
     
    We were determined not to shout at each other. Eventually, he went to bed, and I left the house for a walk along the town’s desolate streets, where there was not a car to be seen, nor a person. You could hear the occasional truck roaring by in the distance, but fewer at this hour, like a sporadic wind. It looked like an abandoned stage set, and I wondered: who’s
absolutely certain
about anything? I found a pay phone not far from the plaza and called Rocío. I wanted her to make me laugh, and I sighed with relief when she answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting for my call. Maybe she had. I told her about the drive, about the fight we witnessed, about my great-uncle’s dank and oppressive house, filled with pictures of racehorses and marching bands and the various women who’d borne his children and had their hopes and their hearts shattered. I didn’t tell her about the conversation with my father.
    “I’ve taken a lover,” Rocío said, interrupting.
    It was a game we played; I tried to muster the energy to play along. I didn’t want to disappoint her. “And what’s he like?”
    “Handsome, in an ugly sort of way. Crooked nose, giant cock. More than adequate.”
    “I’m dying of jealousy,” I said. “Literally dying. The life seeps from my tired body.”
    “Did you know that by law, if a man finds his wife sleeping with another man on their marriage bed, he’s allowed to murder them both?”
    “I hadn’t heard that. But what if he finds them on the couch?”
    “Then he can’t kill them. Legally speaking.”
    “So did you sleep with him on our bed?”
    “Yes,” Rocío answered. “Many, many times.”
    “And was his name Joselito?”
    There was quiet. “Yes. That was his name.”
    “I’ve already had him killed.”
    “But I just saw him this morning.”
    “He’s gone, baby. Say goodbye.”
    “Goodbye,” she whispered.
    I was satisfied with myself. She asked me about the town, and I told her that everyone confused me with my brother. So many years separated my family from this place that they’d simply lost track of me. There was room in their heads for only one son; was it any surprise they chose Francisco?
    “Oh, that’s so sad!” Rocío said. She was mocking me.
    “I’m not telling you so you’ll feel sorry for me.”
    “Of course not.”
    “I’m serious.”
    “I know,” she said, drawing out the syllable in a way she probably thought was cute, but which just annoyed me.
    “I’m hanging up now.” The phone card was running out anyway.
    “Goodnight, Joselito,” Rocío said, and blew a kiss into the receiver.
     
    We spent a few hours the next morning in my great-uncle’s house, sifting through the clutter, in case there was anything we might want to take back with us. There wasn’t. My father set some items aside for the soldiers, should it come to that; nothing very expensive, but things he thought might
look
expensive if you were a bored young man with a rifle who’d missed all the action by a few years, and were serving your time standing by the side of a highway, collecting tributes: a silver picture frame; an antique camera in pristine condition; an old but very ornate trophy, which would surely come back to life with a little polish. It didn’t make much sense, of course; these young men wanted one of two things, I told my father: cash or electronics. Sex, perhaps, but probably not with us. Anything else was meaningless. My father agreed.
    Our unfinished conversation was not mentioned.
    After lunch, we