Free The Boy by Lara Santoro Page A

her little girl screamed, and out of nowhere, impetuous and wild and absolute in its desolation, came a flood of tears—sobbing so deep and uncontrolled Anna felt like ripping her own teeth out.
    It had never come up again, not once. Like a confession before a priest, the exchange had grown faint and seemed to have left no trace in time.
    Now, the church came into view and impulsively Anna stopped, got out, and galloped toward the door, pulling on the handle with a smile, only to find it locked. She stepped back in disbelief. A locked church was like a turned grave; it spoke of some violation, some desecration, not just the breach of an agreement but a betrayal, an omission bordering on outrage. Resisting the urge to beat on the door with both fists, Anna slid to the ground and sat there, knees against chest, pursuing distant flocks of birds with tired eyes until the moment came, and she got up.
    There was no one in the café, only the boy. He was slumped on a chair like a boxer between rounds, looking at her out of eyes that were impossible to meet. She had rehearsed her speech. It was going to be short and businesslike, drained of emotion, free of apology. But when she opened her mouth not a sound came out. He shifted in his seat and she caught a glimpse of the dragon against the whiteness of his flesh. She’d forgotten how creamy his skin was, how smooth against her own. She had forgotten how beautiful he was, how strong, how tall, and before she could help herself she had a hand on his knee, her forehead on his shoulder. He was rigid at first, cold and unyielding at first, but gradually he turned on his chair so she could slide one leg over his knees and straddle him and their mouths could meet—and they could kiss.

Chapter Six
    I t was mid-June when Eva left. Water ran low and slow in the acequias, the air was thick with sun dust and juniper pollen. Aspen leaves had thickened and darkened and now danced delirious in the wind.
    Anna, Eva, and Esperanza set out in the middle of the night across a searing emptiness so Eva could fly out of Phoenix and get to the other side of the continent on a nonstop flight and, from there, fly on to London. The sun found Anna at the wheel, Esperanza snoring in the passenger seat, Eva prim and erect in the backseat, a map over her little legs, eyes fixed maniacally on the road ahead.
    “I don’t understand. What have I done? What have I ever done to leave you with such little confidence in my driving skills?”
    “Mom, look at the road.”
    “I’m looking at the road.”
    “No, you’re looking at me, look at the road.”
    They stopped three times total—once because Esperanza had tears in her eyes from the pressure on her bladder but, faced with the indignity of squatting by the car in partial view of traffic, settled mutely in her seat again, closing her eyes like the martyrs of her religion—and they got to the airport five hours before departure.
    “Go have fun,” Anna said, tossing Esperanza the car keys.
    “Are you crazy?” yelled Eva. “She’ll go gamble!”
    The two women looked at the child.
    “Hija,” Esperanza cut in haughtily, “I have no money to gamble with .”
    The two hugged with surprising formality, and it was only thanks to an unplanned backward glance that Anna caught a furtive tear sliding down Esperanza’s cheek. “Wave to Espi,” Anna said. Eva waved.
    “Wave a little harder.”
    “Mom.”
    “You’re hurting her feelings. Wave.”
    “I’m waving.”
    “Jesus. Will you remember my name when you get back?”
    Only at the gate did Eva’s senior citizen façade come crumbling down. She clung polyp-like to her mother’s arm.
    “Please, Mamma,” she pleaded through a mask of tears, “I don’t want to be with Daddy, I want to be with you.” It took the personal intervention of the captain to get her on the walkway.
    “Don’t forget to feed Paco,” were her parting words, shouted with a broken voice. “And fix the brakes, okay,