The Girl in the Piñata
(excerpt)
He paced the floor. He wiped the sweat from his neck with a cloth handkerchief. He opened his front door. The boxes were still there. Of course, they were still there. But Walter had hoped that somehow… by some miracle…
He picked up the phone, dialed 4 of the numbers. 1-800. His finger hovered above the next number, a 7.
“Just press the 7, Walter. You can do it.”
The last part he said in his mother’s encouraging voice.
If she were here, she would know what to do.
Walter pulled at his hair and hung up again. He inhaled, jumped a few times like a boxer about to launch into a ring, exhaled, and dialed the numbers again. He got all 11 of them pressed! But, when it began to ring, Walter thought about the voice on the end of the line, and he hung up again. The black eye peered at him through the window. Walter, exhausted, lowered the shade and went to bed.
The next morning, Walter prepared his oatmeal, his coffee, his half a glass of orange juice. He placed the oatmeal in the middle of the placemat, put his coffee to the upper right, and set his orange juice in the middle above the plate where his mother always placed it “so that he wouldn’t spill.” Walter ate and sipped and looked at the yellow slip of paper sitting on the counter. He frowned as he cleaned up his dishes, washing them by hand, and setting them to dry on a hand towel spread out over top of his automatic dishwasher. He grinded his teeth as he wiped down the table.
He picked up the phone and dialed again. This time, he let it go through.
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