| OCR Text |
Show in my father's house/ 132 "I guess they have nothing to wear," my mother said, a hand trailing against the side of her face. The wistful, bleak expression of her illness appeared again, like a shadow. "And I thought we were poor," she murmured. In the silent car heat rose around us, forcing stale air back into our throats. It was hotter with the car windows open than with them shut. The highway shimmered like a river and ended in deeply-rutted rust-colored roads. I let the road hypnotize me, taking over the awareness of elbows jabbing and knees bumping and of voices whimpering, then dying in the heat. The last half-day, my mother's hands covered her face until at last we climbed a hill overlooking beautiful Monterrey: white palatial homes sparkling with sunlight, wide colorful boulevards divided by islands of flowers, just as Aunt Sarah had promised. But as we descended into the city, we saw more shacks these even more rickety and bare than their rural counterparts except for bright lengths of cloth hung in doorways. Children and old people squatted outside, gazing with hollow, dark eyes as we passed in the Hudson. "They're hungry, Mama," I whispered, remembering a stray dog that had wandered into the yard. Saul had fed it until that same glaze left its eyes. My mother nodded absently. "And the people below have too much -- more than they know what to do with." |
