“Santiago Quentin Solares Monterra,” he declared. “Here to welcome you with peace and understanding, even if you none of you possess these qualities.”
Aghast by these words, a broken glass, a cat’s purr, the family’s meal and a stool’s leg all took center stage. Immediately, Abuela scooped up the fragments and tossed them to the side.
“I would like to speak with the commander at hand,” peeped Señor da Silva. “I mean, my mother would.”
The room grew silent as eyes shifted back and forth, traded in-between glances and whispers. The young Ernesto grasped his mother’s wrist, squinching her loose skin, the color of a bleached picholine.
“He will see you shortly,” spoke a voice from behind Señor Monterra. “He’s busy treating his mother in the city next to yours. Please remember to have patience during these times.”
Señor da Silva did his best to form a nod even though it hurt his neck. He had injured it earlier that week when he was harvesting the maíz for the upcoming mercado.
“Sí Señor, mi mayor disculpas,” he offered instead.
Santiago Quentin Solares Monterra took an extended glance over the small room and nodded in the most negligible manner. The family only knew he had done so because the peacock feather on his hat shook in the air.
With a rapid turn of his cape, the acolytes alongside Señor Monterra disappeared in an ecru blur. The family remained there silently, standing in a temporary stupor.
It wasn’t until the town gato came up alongside Abuela and made a motion for a little more comida that they got back into their usual routine.
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