When Dad Came Back by Gary Soto Page B

dragging that suitcase and years of toil.
    â€œYou know we can't get back together,” his mother remarked. She had flipped off her pink slippers and crossed her legs. She frowned and pinched her thigh. “He's not a bad man.” She was examining a blue vein that had once been buried inside her flesh but had now surfaced. She was none too happy.
    After his mother went back into the house, Gabe and Lucky lounged on the sleeping bag. Lucky had wound down and, exhausted from the day, lowered his head onto the grass.
    The night deepened like a bruise. Gordo disappeared from the roof, taking his jealousy elsewhere. The crickets began to sing, and the stars seemed to pulsate in the faraway heavens. A cool breeze rattled the pie tins.
    Gabe had been shirtless, and now he reached for his T-shirt. He slipped into it and pulled Lucky onto his lap. After a while, he struck a wooden match and tossed it on the coals, which flared and threw up bluish flames. Startled, Lucky leaped away, his tail pulled under his belly.
    â€œIt's OK, Lucky. It's just a hibachi. It's a Japanese barbecue.”
    Lucky whined and barked.
    But Gabe knew that it was more than a small grill with hot embers. It was a signal for his dad that there was a place called home, that there was forgiveness. If he unlatched the back gate, he would find a son keeping a fire warm for him.
    The sweep of stars glowed like distant fires. Gabe watched them and followed the occasional shooting star. He stroked Lucky's short fur until the dog lay still with his head in his paws. In time, dew gathered on the grass and a chill spread through him. The neighbor's bathroom light went on, then off after the toilet flushed.
    His dad never came. The coals in the hibachi died, and something in Gabe's heart died as well. His dad was undependable. The next morning, he spread the coals in a flowerbed, as if he were performing a funeral. “My dad is dead to me,” Gabe grumbled to himself.
    His mother fumed. Coals of anger shone in her eyes that morning. At breakfast, she drank her coffee without cream, in big sips that convinced Gabe that his mother had finally put her foot down. She told him that his dad was a good-for-nothing. She threatened to call the cops if he ever came around.
    â€œSee! Your father can't keep his word!” she snapped at Gabe, as if it were Gabe's fault. She opened a small package of Sweet'N Low and poured its contents into a second cup of black coffee.
    Gabe stirred his soggy cereal, which he could barely get down. He spooned the sweetened cereal into his mouth. Nothing tasted good that morning.
    â€œHere you make a nice little fire for hot dogs—and does he show up? No, he's too busy getting drunk or something.” She sipped her coffee, set the cup down, and announced out of the blue, “You're going to stay with one of your uncles.” She rambled about how Gabe needed to get away for a week, if not longer, in case his father showed up with a basket of excuses.
    Gabe didn't dare argue. He brought a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. It had the taste of soggy cardboard.
    She got up and told Gabe to clean up the kitchen. She was late for work. She hugged Gabe and said, “Think about where you want to go—Uncle Jerry or Uncle Mathew.” She swiped the car keys off the counter and was gone.
    Gabe was reluctant to go to either uncle. There was one more softball game before the end of season. Plus, there was Lucky, who in only one day since his arrival had learned the art of pulling his clothes from the chest of drawers. He was such a rascal, but he was a happy dog. His mother promised to take care of Lucky, and she even brought home some high-end dog food. But she wanted Gabe gone for a week.
    He chose Uncle Mathew, who lived on a small ranch in the foothills east of Fresno. Gabe packed clothes and things into a cardboard box—nothing as fancy as a suitcase would please his uncle. His mother took a day off from work and