Next I called my cousin Mauricio, who owned an auto repair shop.
Years earlier, Carla had commented on the grease beneath his fingernails when he came directly from work to Gabriel’s birthday. Hugo laughed awkwardly.
Later, I found Mauricio washing his hands alone at the backyard sink because Carla had asked him to clean up before touching the new furniture.
He never returned.
“Hugo said there wasn’t going to be a family Christmas this year,” Mauricio told me.
“There is now.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“Since when do you have a house?”
“Since last week.”
I gave him the address.
“Margarita.”
“Yes?”
“People with private gates live there.”
“I know.”
“Whose house are you borrowing?”
“Mine.”
He laughed nervously.
“No, really.”
“Bring your wife. Bring the kids.”
He went quiet.
“All right.”
“And Mauricio?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear whatever you want. Nobody is checking your hands.”
After a long silence, he said, “I’ll bring dessert.”
