A Vila by Jenna Gomes

​A VILA
 
              I am five.
              “It’s different here,” my father says, gruff.
              I dig my hands under the chain that has become a second skin on the dog. Its fur is wiry, matted back with saliva around its lips.
           This is one of the dogs that barks at us every time we walk to the center of the village. All of them are tied up with short chains or ropes. Some of them have a weathered rug to lay on. They are always outside.
            “Vamos,” my father says, “Let’s go. He is okay.”
            “But the chain -”
            “It’s just the way it is,” he says, “Vamos, I’ll get you a Sumol.”
            I give into the temptation of a fuzzy drink but I don’t abandon my ideals. I bury my face in the dog’s neck, the chains biting my nose with sharp July heat.
            “It’s okay,” I whisper into its ear, “I’ll come back for you.”
                                                                                                                                        #
            I am fifteen.
            “It’s different here,” my father says, laughing.
            I stare at the small glass of bagasse as if the liquid will jump out and bite me.
            “I start drinking this when I was 12,” my father says, “You old enough!”
            I don’t know if I am, but I want to be, so I pick up the glass with a quivering hand and hold it out in front of me. My father takes a sip of his and rubs his chest.
            “È açucarado,” he says, “Sugary.”
            “I don’t believe you,” I say.
            He laughs and I know that I don’t believe him, so I bring the glass closer and take a sniff. My eyes burn and he laughs again.
            “Don’t smell, just drink!”
            I bring the glass to my mouth. I wince as the liquid sitting at the top seeps into my chapped lips. I take a sip.
                                                                                                                                       #
            I am twenty-five.
            “It’s different here,” my father says, exasperated.
            I look at my wife who sits pained, silent in the corner as she plays with her ring.
            “Gay marriage is legal here, Dad.”
            “Ah, foda,” he bites, throwing his hands up. He hates the word “gay.”
            “We should be able to hold hands here, kiss -”
            “No!” he shouts, waving his arms in a big “X” in front of him, “This a village. It’s too small. They all know me, they know you. They know our family. They won’t be nice.”
            I feel a sharp pain in my gut as I realize he’s not ashamed of me; he’s ashamed of the people he grew up with.
            “Não se beijem,” he says to me, then turns to my wife, “No kissing. In Lisbon, that’s okay. Not here.”
            “Okay.”
                                                                                                                                     #         
            I am thirty-five.
            “It’s different here,” my father says, tired.
            I’ve tucked him into bed and fed him his cocktail of drugs that he hides when his cousins come over.
            “They should know, Dad.”
            “They no need to know.”
            “But I’m sure they would want to know.”
            He shakes his head and then rolls his way back into a cough, turning over on his side.
            “If I tell them, they worry. Nothing they can do.”
            I close my eyes because that’s something I’ve repeated in my head the last year: nothing I can do.
            “But this is the last time they’ll see you.”
            He shrugs, coughs again.
            “They used to call me Touro, you know. Bull.”
                                                                                                                                   #
            I am forty-five.
            My son has a dog in his grasp, his chubby fingers gripping its greasy fur. He looks into its eyes and it squirms away from him.
            “Mamma, he’s hurting!”
            “Uh, uh,” I say, “He’s okay. He doesn’t need your help.”
            “How do you know?” he says, a single, fat tear dripping down his cheek.
            I kneel down to him, grab his small wrists in my hands.
            “Because,” I say, “This is where he lives. This is what he knows. He’s happy.”
            “But how can he be happy when he has that chain around his neck?”
            I smile and run my hands through his hair.
            “Because,” I say to him, “It’s different here.”
 

Jenna Gomes's home is in the undergrad classroom, where she attempts to inspire social change all while teaching freshmen and sophomore composition. Her work has been published in Eunoia Review, Rose Quartz Magazine, and 50-Word Stories. It's her greatest belief that the best stories come from the parts of ourselves that we keep hidden, so keep digging. You can find her on Twitter at @OhOhThunderRoad as well as @MWFStories for a taste of her microfiction. 

---