Free The Almost Murder and Other Stories by Theresa Saldaña Page B

of beads, shimmery white pearl and silver ones. They felt cool and good as they slipped through my fingers.
    We gathered, clacking our beads in unison in the same kitchen where Dad had stabbed Mom. All of us thanked Jesus and the saints for sparing Mom and putting Pops behind bars.
    One night, Pops tried to call Mom from jail, collect. What a jerk. Abuela answered and, of course, refused to accept the charges.
    All three of us stared at each other. I expected Mom to fall apart, but she didn’t. Instead, she was furious. She asked me to call the DA’s office and her caseworker, leaving messages on their services about what had just happened.
    The next day, Pops’ phone privileges were revoked. Contacting the victim of his violent attack, or even trying to, was a crime in itself. We were told that he couldn’t call anymore, but kept our answering machine on, always screening calls, just in case.
    The one good thing about Mom’s near-murder was that Pops was out of our lives. He’d been tearing up our household and making us miserable ever since I could remember. Whenever Mom had threatened to leave him, he’d vowed to kill her. She believed him and stayed.
    It always bugged me that when Pops was sober he expected me to treat him like a regular, dear old dad. He’d act over-nice, ask me for kisses and try sucking up to me. I was nearly as repulsed by this behavior as when he was drunk, tyrannical and out of control.
    Except for the day he attacked Mom, my father hadn’t gotten physical much. Twice, when I was eleven and twelve, he’d slapped Mom, hard enough to leave a bruise. I told friends, who said it was no biggie. Their dads did the same. Sometimes worse.
    Now, Pops was gone. Peace at last.
    Time was weird. I felt calmest during my sessions with Miss Reyes and when saying the rosary.
    The days leading up to Pops’ pretrial hearing went by quickly. I dreaded seeing him in the courtroom. Mom said she was not afraid, that he’d be shackled and in a prison jumpsuit, harmless. We’d all be fine. Abuela echoed her. I was still terrified.
    The prosecutor, Assistant D.A. Ramón, was our guy; he headed up the case, which was called “The State of New York vs. Oscar Monton.” All three of us went downtown to talk to Ramón and hear what to expect.
    He was clear: the hearing would be quick. All Mom had to do was identify Dad. We weren’t needed, butRamón felt it’d be good if we came, and we wanted to be there to support Mami.
    As we left Ramón’s office, I spotted a red-lettered sign on a wall in the hallway. In bold, red print, which to me, looked like blood, were the words, “Are you a victim of a violent crime?” I asked the D.A. what this meant.
    He said, “Wait.”
    Ducking back into his office, Detective Ramón came out with a pamphlet, apologizing that he hadn’t given it to us earlier. I looked down and read “Victims Witness Assistance Program.”
    â€œYou’ll get help,” he said, “these are good folks. Call them for sure.”
    I nodded that I would.
    On the subway home, Mom asked me to look through the booklet. I did and was glad we’d picked it up. For sure, we qualified for a bunch of helpful services and compensation for Mom’s work loss and medical treatment.
    The next day, I left a message on VWA’s answering machine. Nanci Colón, a victim-witness advocate called back and asked if we’d like her to sit with us before, during and after the hearing and trial. I asked what it cost. When she said it would be paid for by the state, I told her I’d ask Mom.
    Covering the receiver with my hand, I asked Mom in Spanish. She said,
“Sí. Seguro.”
    I was relieved, since we knew next to nothing about the justice system. Colón said she spoke Spanish fluently, which would help Mom, and especially Abuela.
    District Attorney Ramón met with us two more times before the