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The boys should be returning home in a few minutes. Conchata thought, stirring the pot of stew on a roaring fire.
The oven beeped at her, indicating the rolls were finished. Grabbing a pair of red oven mitts, she opened the door and placed the tray on the counter to the left of the stove. She plopped a handful of chopped carrots into the pot and sprinkled a good amount of pepper into the broth before replacing the lid.
The apartment door slid open in a mechanical whir, and a trail of rampant footsteps ran upstairs. Turning her head, Conchata saw her youngest, Gabriel, standing in front of the door, clutching tightly onto his backpack with drooping eyes and a blackened eye. His pastel green shirt had droplets of blood spattered down his chest, and his black dress pants were torn at the knees, leaving a tangle of strings behind. Her eyes widened, and she tightened the woolen blanket around her chest to approach him. Her hand reached Gabriel's face, looking hard at the swollen eye and scratches across his face.
"What happened?" She asks urgently, watching her son remove his shoes and jacket. A sudden waft of stench ran up her nose, and she waved her hand to divert it. "Ay...what is that smell?" Gabriel sighs heavily, his body beginning to shake. Conchata raises an eyebrow, impatient with his silence.
"It's my fault…Kron was picking on me again, and Miguel stopped him," her son mumbled, unraveling the woolen blue scarf around his neck. Conchata purses her lips, running a hand down her face. "Let's just say you and Pop are not going to like how the picture turns out this year," His eyes glistened with guilt, and he started tugging on the fabric between his fingers.
"Por los clavos de Christo...Where is Miguel?" she grunted and rolled her eyes. Gabriel crossed his arms and rubbed his hands down them as his eyes flickered to the bathroom door upstairs. Conchata sighed as she began walking up the steps.
"You're not going to tell Dad, are you?" his voice trembled as he held himself tighter. "He was already getting after him for the trash this morning..."
"Stay there, mijo," she continues up the stairs, running her hand against the thick iron railing before reaching the door.
Leaning against it, she hears wet sniffing and running water. Conchata hardens her face, barging into the bathroom with the press of a button.
That morning, she put Miguel into a light blue fitted dress shirt with cuffed sleeves and navy dress pants, styling his curly hair to frame his face and align with his glasses (She never said it out loud, but he had the cutest nose out of both her boys.) Miguel looked like a genuine freshman, still on his way into a proper growth spurt, but his torso finally grew into his legs. Conchata put a small spritz of their father's cologne on his neck to tie it together. She stood back and admired her work before sending them to school.
When she saw him now, he had grease and grime all over his back and the front of his pants. His glasses sat cracked and split in two on the counter. Eggshell stuck to his face, remnants of the rest congealed to his ears and the back of his neck, a bruise forming on his right cheek. The knuckles of his hands had bled, a fresh scab forming between his pointer and the middle knuckles of his right hand. Tears streaked down his face as he painfully picked at the massive wad of pink gum stuck in his now matted hair with a fine-tooth comb.
Conchata felt a weight grow in her stomach and gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
Miguel dropped the comb into the sink, alarmed by the interrupted privacy. He covered the top of his head with one of his hands and tried to wipe the heat pricking his eyes.
"Oh, uh, mamí. I–"
"Don't," She stated firmly, holding up her hand. Miguel forced himself to look at her, acting as if nothing was wrong like he wasn't filthy or stinking up the bathroom with whatever hole he crawled out of. Conchata stood there staring at him for a few more seconds before he finally caved and lowered his hand. Miguel's lips quivered, and he sat on the edge of the tub, breaking into a sob as she silently watched.
"P-please don't be mad," he whimpered, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand. Conchata took a deep breath before stepping back into the hall.
"Wait here," She stated. Looking over the railing at the top of the stairs, she saw Gabriel watching tentatively. "Get the Crisco and a cup of ice, chiquito." Nodding, he ran into the kitchen pantry.
Conchata unwrapped the blanket around her body and placed it on the railing before returning to the bathroom.
In silence, she turned on the sink, poured some soap, and put a clean rag under the warm water.
"Take off your shirt."
Miguel unbuttoned the soiled shirt, draped it over the tub, and watched her ring out the rag before she approached him. Her eyes wandered across the series of bruises along his chest and stomach. It wasn't unusual to see them, but it was….something to see someone else leaving marks across his body.
Gently, his mother rubbed the rag against his face, using her other hand to hold him in place. The pieces of eggshell clinked against the floor as she ran the wet cloth over them. When Miguel flinched as she wiped over the bruise, their eyes met momentarily, a passive apology from his mother. Conchata dipped the rag back into the sink and continued cleaning off his neck and ears. There were stubborn spots of grime near his hairline that she dubiously scrubbed before she finished wiping the blood from his chin. Miguel admired the sharp focus in her bright brown eyes as she worked, the wrinkles around her eyes appearing as she squinted at the stubborn spots.
"Here, mamí," Gabriel said as he wandered into the room holding their jar of Crisco and a tall glass filled with ice cubes, an ice pack resting like an eyepatch over his face. Miguel peered over Conchata's shoulder, his puffy face softening into a small smile–an attempt to reassure his brother. Gabriel teared up, smiling back, and placed the tray on the back of the toilet for his mother to reach.
"Go finish your homework, Gabe. We will talk later," Conchata stated firmly as she reached for the comb on the tray.
"Sí, mamí." He muttered, a tear rolling down his face as he walked down the hall to his room. She turned her head back to Miguel.
"Hold still for me unless I say so, okay?" She instructed, earning a nod from him.
Conchata pulled Miguel off the tub and sat him on the toilet lid. He folded his arms across his lap, frustration burning his cheeks as more tears fell. She grabbed a couple of ice cubes and rubbed them across the area where the gum was thickest. Miguel winced as she tugged on the more sensitive chunks of hair with the comb, the gum beginning to inch further away from his scalp. She opened the jar of Crisco and stuck her hand into it, grabbed a thick dollop of it, ran it through the base of his roots, and coated the gum with it. Miguel groaned at the sudden thickness on the top of his head as she layered it thicker on the comb, the smell sending a chill down his spine.
"Why did the little jerk do it this time, huh? Did he put him up to it?" She muttered to herself, the comb getting tighter into the wad of gum. Miguel braced himself for the following few tugs.
"Um, mom–"
"Breathe wrong or look in his general direction...I don't understand why that little--" Conchata pulled a little too hard, and Miguel cried out, reaching for her arm. They froze, their eyes meeting again. For a brief moment, Miguel saw something resembling resentment in her face before it hardened again. He lowered his arm as she continued.
"Gabriel was pinned against the wall by his shoulder, and I punched him in the face after I told Kron to let him go," Miguel explained, tilting his head as she rubbed more Crisco in his hair. "He let him go and directed his pent-up energy on me instead," he sniffled, the throbbing suddenly more noticeable from the bruises and scratches littering his body. "But they got it worse." he smiled smugly, earning an unimpressed glare from his mother. Miguel's eyebrows furrowed, lowering his eyes to focus on his lap.
Conchata sighed, noticing how he squeezed his wrist in miserable contemplation and pushed up his chin.
"You are a good older brother, Miguelito." She said as she rubbed her thumb against his cheek. Miguel bit the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back more tears that threatened to fall. The poor boy tugged on the sleeves of his shirt as she finally managed to get the large clump of sticky goo from his head. Conchata squeezed his shoulders and stepped back.
"Get out of those clothes and clean yourself up. Supper will be on the table when you're done." She says stiffly, placing the comb on the tray behind him.
Miguel stood up, wrapping his arms around her, and leaned into her chest. She hesitates but eventually returns the gesture, patting his back.