I told Augusto that Mom had stopped “believing in things,” and that she was “depressed,” and he wanted to see what she was like. We did something really bad that sometimes I’m ashamed of: we jumped up and down in front of her for a while, but Mom only moved her head a little when we blocked the TV. Then we made a hat out of newspaper, and we tried it out on her in different ways. We left it on her all afternoon, and she didn’t even move. I took the hat off her before Dad got home. I was sure Mom wasn’t going to say anything to him about it, but I felt bad anyway.
Then Christmas came. Marcela made her baked chicken with horrible vegetables, but since it was a special night she also made french fries for me. Dad asked Mom to get up off the sofa and eat with us. He carefully moved her to the table—Marcela had set it with a red tablecloth, green candles, and the plates we used when company came—sat her down at the head of the table, and took a few steps back without taking his eyes off her. I guess he thought it might work, but as soon as he was far enough away, she got up and went back to her sofa. So we moved the food out to the coffee table and we ate in there with her. The TV was on, of course, and the news had a story about a place with poor people who had received a ton of presents and food from people with more money, and so now they were really happy. I was nervous and I kept looking at the Christmas tree the whole time, because it was almost midnight and I wanted my car. Then Mom pointed at the TV. It was like seeing furniture move. Dad and Marcela looked at each other. On TV, Santa Claus was sitting in his living room, one arm hugging a boy sitting on his lap, and the other around a woman who looked like Augusto’s mom. The woman leaned over and kissed Santa, and Santa looked at us and said:
“. . . and when I get home, I just want to be with my family.” And the logo of a coffee brand appeared on the screen.
Mom started to cry. Marcela took me by the hand and told me to go up to my room. I said no. She told me again, this time in the impatient tone she used when she talked to Mom, but nothing was going to drag me away from that tree. When Dad tried to turn the TV off, Mom started to fight with him to get him away. The doorbell rang and I said:
“It’s Santa.”
Marcela slapped me and then Dad yelled at her. They started to argue. And though Mom managed to turn the TV back on, Santa Claus wasn’t on any of the channels.
The doorbell rang again, and Dad said:
“Who the hell is it?”
I hoped it wasn’t the man from the post office, because Dad was already in a bad mood and I didn’t want them to fight again.
The doorbell rang again, a bunch of times in a row, and then Dad got sick of it and went to the door, and when he opened it, I saw it was Santa Claus. He wasn’t as fat as on TV, and he looked tired. He had trouble standing up, and he leaned for a second against one side of the doorway, then the other.
“What do you want?” asked Dad.
“I’m Santa Claus,” said Santa.
“And I’m Snow White,” said Dad, and slammed the door in his face.
Then Mom got up, ran to the door, and opened it. Santa was still there, trying to hold himself up, and she hugged him. Dad had a fit:
“This is the guy, Irene?” he yelled at Mom, and he started to say bad words and try to separate them. And Mom said to Santa:
“Bruno, I can’t live without you, I’m dying.”
Dad got them apart, and then he punched Santa and Santa fell backward and then just lay there on the stoop. Mom started screaming like crazy. I was worried about what was happening to Santa, and also because all of this was delaying the car, but I was happy to see Mom move again.
Dad told Mom he was going to kill them both, and Mom told Dad that if he was so happy with his friend Marcela, then why couldn’t she be Santa’s friend, which seemed logical to me. Marcela went up to Santa, who was starting to wake up on the ground, and reached out her hand to help him up. And then Dad started to say all kinds of things and Mom started to yell. Marcela was saying, “Calm down, let’s go inside, please,” but no one listened. Santa Claus brought his hand to the back of his neck and I saw he was bleeding. He spat at Dad and Dad said:
“You fucking fag.”
And Mom said to Dad:
“You’re the fag, you son of a bitch.” And she spat at him, too. She gave Santa her hand, brought him into the house, led him up to her room, and closed the door.
Dad stayed there like he was frozen, and when he finally woke up, he realized I was still there, and he yelled at me to go to bed. I knew I was in no position to argue; I went to my room without Christmas and without a present. I waited in bed until everything was silent, watching the plastic fishes of my nightlight swim on the wall. By then I knew I wasn’t going to get my remote-control car, but Santa Claus slept at my house that night, and that meant a much better year for all of us.
THE DIGGER
I needed a rest, so I rented a big house near a coastal town far from the city. The house was ten miles from the town on a gravel road that led to the sea. The final stretch was just two dirt tracks, almost impossible to see in the tall grass; soon they disappeared entirely and I couldn’t go any farther in the car. I could see the upper floor of the house in the distance, so I steeled myself to get out, take the essentials, and continue on foot. It was growing dark, and though I couldn’t see the ocean, I could hear the waves crashing on the shore. I hadn’t walked far when I tripped over something.