Free Barnacle Love by Anthony de Sa Page A

ears. “‘
Puta! Eu não quero putas nesta casa.
’” Candida’s eyes were wide like a frightened horse’s; she was snorting, trying to breathe through her mother’s strong hands. “Remember those hands, Manuel?”
    Manuel looked at his own hands, his strong fists covered in blood. He slammed the fish and knife into the sink. His brother turned his beer bottle, quarter turns, tearing at the label, the blue
navio.
    “And there she lay, beaten and alone on the dirt road, thrown out for a harlot at sixteen.”
    “Doesn’t that hurt?” Antonio whispered.
    “No.” He offered his son the next fish and tried to place the knife in his hand. “Fish have little brains,
filho
, so small they can’t even feel.”
    “Your hands, I mean.” Antonio’s soft eyes looked up at his father. Manuel did not respond. His son’s stare had moved to the blood-soaked tea towel. Some of the fish were still twitching, their red gills fanning on the sides of their heads.
    “They want their guts back,” Antonio mumbled. He jumped down from the counter and ran down the hall.
    That summer they gathered for her funeral—even though she wasn’t dead yet. The phone call had traveled underthe deep green Atlantic, sped along countless wires and nodes before it tumbled into 55 Palmerston Avenue with a crackled, “Manuel?”
    “Yello,” Manuel answered in his most proper tone.
    “Manuel, is that you? Can you hear me? She says she wants to see you before she dies.”
    Manuel placed the receiver against his chest to muffle the staticky voice. He had been dreading this call.
    “Manuel, please come. She’s not ready. She’s close but—”
    Candida had only been there a week when she called. Within days, Manuel had secured the tickets. He had intended for his brother Jose and his sister Albina to return with him, but couldn’t afford the fares. He had pleaded with the travel agent to allow his children to sit on their laps, freeing two seats. The agent continued to process the passports as if his request was ridiculous.
    He had come home and moved behind Georgina as she washed the dishes. He fanned the tickets in front of her face, then placed them on the counter next to the sink. Georgina said nothing. She continued to wash, her hands searching in the water. She didn’t bother to rinse the dishes, just placed the suds-covered plates to dry on the rack and moved to their bedroom. Manuel followed. Not once did she look at him as she pulled her slip and skirts from the chest of drawers and whipped them on top of the bed. Words could not bridge the hesitation in Manuel and the awkward fear his wife had of returning. He had reassured her that they would never go back. But Manuel had convinced himself that this might be the opportunity to show everyone, especially his mother, thateverything he had sacrificed to make a life for himself in Canada had been worth it.
    Manuel sat beside Antonio on the plane, watched with pride as his son looked out the small window, convinced that the white flecks in the ocean were migrating whales shooting water through their blowholes or, even better, sharks.
    “They’re not sharks, stupid,” Terezinha said. She was ten, and still upset that her mother had allowed her to bring only Thumbelina and not her Easy-Bake oven.
Oh
, filha,
it’s too big
, hadn’t been a good enough answer. Terezinha had stomped her feet and hadn’t stopped sulking since. Manuel placed a hand on her head and turned it to face forward as he pushed her down into her seat. He loved both his children but he saw his daughter’s spirit as a bent nail, something that needed to be hammered straight before it could be used. His wife shared the same concern but reassured Manuel that it was a kind of moxie that would serve her well; manners and etiquette didn’t necessarily get girls very far. In Canada, women could show their strength and independence and even be rewarded in life.
    The road to the village—there was still only