Justin holds up his finger and races out the door, returning a few minutes later with another dozen eggs. In the meantime, I’ve tossed large chunks of tomato, onion, and garlic in the skillet, and their skins are blackening nicely. I transfer everything into a blender, then add cilantro, lime, and salt. Erik grabs a large cast-iron griddle from the heating drawer below the oven and sets it across two burners. Once that’s heated, I start the eggs while Antonio whips out the skillet and adds oil to fry the corn tortillas into tostadas.
“Do you remember this?” I ask.
“Christmas morning. You would char the veggies for the salsa, then give Mama the skillet to fry the corn tortillas, Yaya would make the eggs, and you would finish making the salsa.”
“Always.”
“The enchiladas were different though. Mama didn’t like oiling the corn tortillas. Said she always burned her fingers.” He pauses, unsure. “Did I remember that right?”
I nod. “I would oil the tortillas, your Tía Yaya would shred the cheese and chicken, and your mom would roll them.”
“Then Abuelita would make the green salsa.”
Suddenly, the fond memories darken his face.
“We don’t have to talk about this right now,” I whisper in Spanish.
He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have believed my grandfather. He told me nobody wanted a little ‘maricón’ for a grandson. That the reason we were in San Miguel was because my family was embarrassed by me and didn’t know how to tell me. I was stupid to believe him.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Kids believe what their adults tell them. You’re supposed to be able to believe the people who love you. He was lying. We were never ashamed of you. You always brought such a smile to your mom’s face.”
“What about mis abuelitos?”
“Did you not see their happy tears?”
“But Iamgay. I’ve been through too much to pretend I’m somebody I’m not.”
I flip a few eggs, considering my words.
“When we realized you were missing and didn’t know how to find you, when we prayed you would come back into our lives, I took my mother and father aside. I’d never come out to them, so I told them who I was. I warned them that if we bring you back and they couldn’t accept you as you are, we would lose you all over again.”
“What did they say?”
“That they already thought you were gay and always suspected I was too,” I say, flipping the last of the eggs, grinning at the memory. “They are very connected to their indigenous roots and never cared for the colonizers’ viewpoint on sexuality.”
“They’re Catholic though, right? We would go to church sometimes?”
I hold out my hand and tilt it side to side. “They’re Catholic in the way that turquoise can be both blue and green. They go to church for the big occasions, use it as a place to socialize, but have many indigenous traditions the Catholic priests would frown upon.”
As I say this, Levy bumps past us, looking at all the food. “Damn, this looks amazing. Not as big a spread as we have on Fridays, but pretty damn good.”
Ant laughs, elbowing him. “Can we invite Javier to Shabbat dinner?”
I turn to Levy. “Are you Jewish?”
He blushes, showing me his Star of David pendant. “We’re secular, so it’s not officially a Shabbat dinner, but it has always been our favorite family tradition.”
I laugh. “Perfect. I am quite faithless, but the custom is lovely, yes?”
Levy nods. “It’s really important to Bram and me, especially since our parents are no longer with us.”
He rubs his neck as he says this, doing little stretches to loosen it.
“Of course, we would be honored if you would join us on Friday. Actually…” Levy pauses as his brother walks into the kitchen.
“Bram and I were talking, and it’ll be a lot more comfortable for you in the bunkhouse. There’s sort of two wings, one where me and Ant stay, and the other where visitors stay.”
Ant raises his brow. “I don’t want him to stay on the visitor’s side. We have Bram’s old bedroom on our side that he can use.”
