When Dad Came Back by Gary Soto Read Free Book Online

living room, and bypassed her son to stand in the hallway where the cooler vent roared. She drank her water in large gulps. “They're so stupid!” His mother dabbed a Kleenex on her brow, sipped her drink, and told him how three kids in baggy clothes had come in eating Cheetos and left orange fingerprints on everything they touched.
    Frankie and his crew, Gabe bet. Or fools like them.
    â€œThen the stupidest one came up to Marta.” She chugged her icy drink and moved from under the cooler vent to the recliner. “The kid says to Marta, ‘I want it all.’” His mom plopped down, took another sip, and continued. “Marta has her register close. She can't open unless you buy something.”
    â€œClosed,” Gabe corrected. “The register is closed.”
    His mother narrowed her eyes at her son and barked, “Smarty pants. You know what I mean. Get me some more water.” She held out her glass.
    Gabe filled the glass with tap water and tossed in two ice cubes, but dumped the water when his mother screamed, “Just bring me ice cubes.”
    She told how the boy took ten dollars from Marta's cash register and ran out, dropping a load of watches, candies, batteries, shampoo, and sponges in the parking lot. He had stuffed the items in his baggy pants, but the pants were more off than on his skinny hips.
    â€œSponges?” Gabe asked.
    â€œYeah, I said he was stupidest. He could have taken his butt down to the Dollar Store and rob them for like way cheaper.”
    Gabe refrained from correcting her English. He let her finish and then said, “Dad was here.”
    She looked at him through tired eyes. “He's going to be a big bother,” she remarked. Her shiny face suddenly darkened with worry.
    â€œHe doesn't look right. Mom, he's sick.”
    â€œYou don't have to tell me your father's sick. I lived with him.” Her voice filled with anger. She tapped a finger against her temple. “He's sick up here.”
    She turned her head and directed her anger to the television, which was off. Her reflection was on the screen, looking like the hurt women on her favorite soap operas.
    â€œHe wants to come home,” Gabe attempted.
    â€œHe doesn't have a home,” she answered quickly. She raised her glass and rolled a chunk of ice cube into her mouth.
    â€œMom, I know—”
    â€œYou don't know!” she snapped. Her hands had become claws as she bunched up the doily on the recliner's arm. She looked down. “I broke a nail.” She pouted at the chip of fingernail in her palm.
    The debate was over.
    Gabe found sanctuary in his bedroom, where he lay on his bed, arms behind his head. His dad, he reflected, had not been a good husband, and not much of a father. He had loathed him for years, this absent man, and whenever he had run across a photograph of him in a drawer, he had been tempted to crumple it. But now his father was sick—or so he said. Now he was a man hauling a small suitcase.
    An hour later, he heard his mother in the kitchen, frying the round steak. When he ventured in—cautiously, for there was a possibility that she was still fuming—he discovered her shaking the handle of a large skillet, angrily shoving it back and forth. Her eyes were wet. Had she been crying over her ex-husband, his dad—or were the tears the result of dicing the baseball-sized onion?
    â€œSet the table,” she ordered.
    â€œI have a game tonight,” he began to explain. “It's too hot to eat.”
    â€œYou're going to eat with me.” She began to grate cheese on the frijoles, which were simmering on the back burner.
    Gabe pictured Coach Rodriguez, scanning the field and counting his players. “Thompson, Sanchez, Padilla, Romero … hey, where's Mendoza?” Coach, unforgiving when players were late, would point him to the bench and keep him there.
    Still, he set the table and poured his mother a glass of water with