22. Tales and Cuentos
(These stories are dedicated to Viv, the last one especially.)
The Woman in the Shoe Box
There now is a young woman who lives in a shoe box. She has two children and a husband who doesn't know what to do with her. Leaving at the crack of dawn, he goes to work, while she is stuck. At home. All day. In the shoe box with her crying children, who in turn make her so tired and housebound and depressed she starts to cry alongside them. She cries and cries from sunrise to sundown, and when her husband returns, she doesn’t stop. One night, when the worst storm is announced. When outside the trees are swaying until their boughs are breaking, forcing the power out. The woman screams and cries in the dark while the girl and boy grow quieter. The husband who cannot say what he really does for a job, gets himself drunk instead. So drunk, he begins to growl. Shouts. ¡Basta! Enough! He drags the young woman upstairs by her long brown hair, to their tiny bedroom, where he will whip her soundly. But before closing the door, he’ll slap each child away. Stupid little pigs! But they stay. Close. To the door. For they are afraid of being without her and of him being with her on this dark night. They grow even more afraid as time and years creep on. During this dark period, they see his huge shadow climbing the wall. Each time he emerges, he bats and beats each child away. Goes back downstairs. Falls asleep even drunker on the couch. In front of MTV. Like this, he will not wake. Not for weeks. Months. Years. This is when the woman who is no longer young. Stops crying. Whispers through the crack near the floor to the children who have not moved from the door. Por favor. Please, unlock the shoe box door. Gathering their things and books on fairy tales in plastic bags and a little money, she escapes in the stormiest part of another night with her two children. Though hidden, the woman who is safe outside on her own again, grows even sadder. After leaving, she locks herself in an even smaller bedroom of their own rented shoe box of a place, only going to the bathroom where she cuts off all her hair and loses beauty. Loses the last of her power. Su poder. Without it, she hopes with all her might, her husband won’t recognize her. Without her hair and her husband gone gone gone, like La Llorona, all she can do is cry cry cry. The children during this time, grow up. Until they are children no more. The now older girl grows afraid that in their ugly new shoe box, someone will hear her mother’s cries. Is afraid they’ll call the police who’ll alert the husband who’ll turn up and knock knock knock on their door. Demand. Let me in! Let me in! Or worse, he’ll break in and take them away. So the girl orders the boy to pull the bedsheets off their beds and smother their windows. And with the remaining fairy tales pages, they manage to grow up, to muffle their mother’s cries from deep inside the shoe box.
Trail of Crumbs
This is how a little girl grows older. Grows up. Becomes not just an older girl but a young mother. Mamacita, the boy begins calling her. Growing up quick-fast before everyone’s eyes in order to look after her younger brother. While Mamacita’s mother stays at home alone inside the shoe box. Stays all day in bed crying until new cracks appear and break the bricks and stones in the wall, the now older girl takes care of her younger brother, waking him up gently for school.
“Good morning,” she says, patting his soft warm cheek.
“Good morning, Mamacita,” he replies sleepily.
In the kitchen of their bare shoe box apartment, Mamacita prepares his breakfast. Cuts his bread in half so it looks like a sandwich. Walks him down the backstreets to the brick school building.
Mamacita holds his little hand in hers, only letting go to let him enter the school.
It is here she whispers in his ear.
“Remember, don’t tell anyone about Ma or Pa or tell them your real name. Eat up all your lunch. Don’t ever leave any crumbs. Meet me back here. This spot. Sharp when school’s out.”
At 3:40 p.m. she’s walking again. Towards the sounding bells and school gates to where the lollipop man with his round stomach is standing with his huge neon rainbow swirl lollipop sign in hand. He slow-walks out, stop-stopping all the traffic going past. The lollipop man in his hi-vis vest, the colour of sweet orange candy, waits for the eager crowds to gather. Mamacita waits, too. Squeezes her brother's little hand tight. Ignores the sickly-sweet kids and their soft pink marshmallow mums and those sugar daddies carrying their clingy kid’s bags. Avoids those other older kids. Lurking. In threes. Like Little Pigs. Mamacita holds her little brother’s hand tighter as they walk away.
These others. Entice. Call louder. Say things like.
C'mon over to us. C'mon here. We’ll let you play some more.
But then the whistle blows. And Mamacita is too quick. Rushes them away before a teacher or pudding-and-pie parent or little pig can stop them. Ask after her mother. Or their names. Or worse ask, Can the little boy come over for a play date? Instead, they’ll fast-cross busy roads and head to the squat orange-brown Lego bricked library on the corner where all the dreggy people hangout outside talking loudly and playing even louder music. These people like people watching. Watching the goings on in the street. But everyone knows that they’re all really making drug deals in the public toilet across the service road.
Mamacita rushes past. Pushes her little brother inside through the automatic doors. Sits him down in a safe warm corner. Gives him Hansel and Gretel to read while she stakes out a table by the window. Here, she disembowels her school bag of its books. Does her homework while watching out for those weirdos who often come in with the excuse of using the toilet but secretly want to look at kids like them. Or give her little brother candy. When they get close, she’s ready for them. Shouts. Get away from him! Then the librarian guy shoos them out. And that’s how the people outside are moved on. The seats out there, like them, are soon removed. Everything changes over time.
Over time, the girl Mamacita and the boy leave minutes before closing. Before it gets dark. She doesn’t want the librarian to notice. Ask for their names. Doesn’t want to be known as regulars. Even so, one day the librarian guy will come by their table, tucked behind the shelves of magazines where those fairy floss mums choose books for their sweet-as-candy kids who are all sitting in wonderland corner. He’ll say. We’re closing up soon. And he’ll leave a packet of biscuits on her desk. First time he does that, she’ll want to say. No need. We aren’t hungry. But her little brother will come over, tear the packet open and grab two round biscuits, one in each hand, leaving a trail of crumbs all over his face, her homework and library books. The librarian guy won’t say anything about the crumbs. Nor about eating inside the library, instead he’ll nod in that silent way adults do, especially librarians. Then every day after, he’ll leave biscuits for them. Mamacita eventually mumbling. Thanks. But she won’t smile or anything like that. Even so, he did one time say. No, thank you… If you ever need anything more.
Even though she shook her head which meant no and stared at her little brother so that he wouldn’t say anything stupid, he’d already nodded yes and given their names away. The librarian guy started to bring different biscuits for different days of the week. Then on Fridays, he brought a bag with food in it. Apples and oranges. A jar of vegemite. A loaf of white bread. One time, real sandwiches cut in triangles wrapped in plastic. And milk in little cartons with blue cows on them. And a few of those instant hot chocolate mixes that she would save up so they’d have them back at home. For later. Or breakfast. Or for sleep-in Sundays. Mamacita told her brother that and he knew they were special. Because often when they went home, their mother would be in bed. Or crying. Or there would be no food in the fridge. When they opened their cupboards, it was like old Mother Hubbard's cupboards all over again. So bare. And so, she’d say to him it was because their mother forgot. Sometimes she did.
When their mother did finally get up, get in the shower, got clean, she got in her car and drove to the bank, the doctors, the chemist. Then the food bank, a community building with a cupboard full of free food. Free things for people like them. Here, they let her fill three bags full. Then she’d come home. And there’d be pasta and sauce and bread and fresh milk not from cartons with blue cows on it, but cold milk kept in the fridge. And their mother would have money. Be up. Be sitting at their small wooden kitchen table. On those days, she’d look like the sun shining in through a window. So bright. But soon she’d change. Move to the back stoop. Sitting and smoking. Looking up, worried.
One time she surprised them. They found her in the back garden planting beans. Said. For later, when you need a beanstalk. To escape the fire. For real. That's what she said. But after, the rest of the days all got too heavy. And soon she was back in bed again not crying but laying so low. At least they were fed. And they were happy with her smile. And there was food again. At least for a while. And on those before days their mother would let them come into her room and lay with her. She’d tell the girl. It’s so good how you look after your brother, Mamacita.
Then their real mother would smile a sad happy smile. Pat the grown-up girl’s hand. Then she’d close her eyes again. The moment gone. But not the name. Mamacita. The nickname meaning both little woman and a grown-up young Mamá at the same time. After the little boy heard it, it was the name he started calling her for real because he now thought she was his Mamacita because she did all the grown-up mother type things like wake him up and take him to school and feed him.
But then times changed. He grew tall and thin like a beanstalk. Mamacita changed, too. She began to tell him to get his own lunch ready. And she’d holler down the hall like this.
“Hurry the hell up! We’re gonna be late, Bro. Not good for your first day of high school!”
Yet Mamacita was the one who always brought him back. Home. Home to their shoe box.
Home. To their mother, who had not risen from their bed or left the room for some time now.
“When’s she going to get up or get better?” Bro started asking.
But neither Mamacita nor the mother could answer this.
Only when the woman was alone with Mamacita did she call out. Whisper.
“Never let your father know about this or he’ll find a way to come down off his cloud to you.
You don’t want him to huff and puff and take you away, oístes?”
But what could a young girl who’s not supposed to be a Mamacita do?
When things go from bad to worse.
When her little hand-holding brother grew up and became a Bro. Became a bad boy doing things that really weren’t good at all.
Beanstalker
So, Bro was told to go to the supermarket. Was given a list. Was given a fistful of money.
—You go straight to the shops and then come right back. I don’t want you dilly-dallying.
—Who even says dilly-dally?
—You shut up and listen to me little brother! We don’t have no money to spare. She's still sick. This here’s all we got till her next payment. Go straight to the shops. Buy what’s on the list and only what’s there. Then you come straight back. Don’t stop. Don’t chat along the way. Don’t tell people your name or where we live. You go there and come straight back. And take off your hoodie inside the shops. We don’t want no trouble. ¿Oístes? ¡Che Bro! You even hearing me?
But of course, he wasn’t.
He was too busy half-listening. As the list, scribbled on the last scrap of torn fairy tales, was slipped to him. He was too busy.
Meaning he was too busy texting the gang. The Little Pigs.
—Yo Bro! U want in? Pull up to the shops
Next thing Mamacita was placing money in his right hand as he clutched his phone and left. Next thing after that, he was cut. Bleeding. Running. Away from the shops with nothing but a can. His hoodie up.
—So where’s the shopping? The stuff on the list I sent you to the supermarket for, Bro!
—Escucha. I was mugged. For real! A gang of thieving little pigs jumped me and took the money. Had to run for it. I swear. I was lucky to even have enough for this.
—Beans?
—There was a person selling them. Said these beans were on special.
—So, no money no food nothing from the list. Just special beans? Are you high, Bro?
That wasn’t far from the truth. High? The only place he wanted to go was high. Up. With the gang. Letting the Little Pigs slice his thumb, take his blood, take his money was an initiation. Getting closer with them meant he now could go higher and higher up the ranks. Climb way up into those clouds. Get to that place he heard the other Little Pigs whispering about. But there was also some danger. Some Fee Fi Fo smelling and yelling big guy ruled from somewhere up there with his prize golden goose. But Bro had a plan. He’d climb his way up. Get money. Get them a better place. And Mamacita could go back to being his sister. And he’d have money to pay for his Ma to get better. Money to move them far away. Start again.
—Hey, little brother! Are you even listening or fairytaling? How we gonna survive on a can of beans? Mamacita slammed the beans hard on the table. From the other room, Bro heard his mother. Crying again.
—Why don’t we ever get a fairy tale happy ending, eh Bro? Mamacita shook her head, then left him to tend to their mother. Bro stared at the special beans.
Real life sucks, Bro thought. How is it with stories, their endings can change? ¿O esos cuentos? Those fairy tales. Old ones Mamacita used to get him to read in the library when he was little. Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, The Three Little Pigs. Freaky but always with some strange, unexpected, twisted message.
Bro blocked his ears.
He was sick of Ma’s weeping.
Tired of his sister’s voice trying to soothe her.
—I’m going out! Bro called.
And without waiting for Mamacita to call him back home, he pocketed his phone. Door slam, then started walking to the library.
As he neared the familiar brick building, Bro stopped in his tracks at the giant blocking the door. Bro was trying to sneak past him when he looked up. Could it be?
—Pa? Is that you?
—¡Hijo!
—Pa! How did you find me... I mean ...what are you doing here?
—Things. Pa waved a big fat cigarred hand about. Sent smoke clouds high up the building. Then they talked. A bit. Outside the library. But Bro wasn’t thinking clearly. Or listening. Bro was sweating. Wondering how Pa could have found him. He’d never ever told anyone. Except. The Little Pigs! Did one squeal? The last time Bro saw Pa it was a long, long time ago. Pa looked tan diferente from that once upon a time when he was a little kid. This Pa was. Bigger. Badder. Louder. A giant with a booming voice. This Pa was wearing woo-wee head-to-toe designer clothes. Baggy logo tracksuit. Matching flash trainers. A gold watch so thick and shiny and expensive it hurt his eyes. Made them water.
—Hijo, it’s good seeing you. But you know, with what happened before with me and your mother. Is she here? Pa looked around. No? Ah well, neverminds. Because tu y yo. We can’t be seen together. Not here. Pa gestured to the police cameras behind him. Bro nodded.
—Hijo. Pa paused. Escuchame. Listen. Can you keep this our secreto?
—Yeah Pa, I can keep a secret.
—Hijo, I know we aren’t to keep in touch. But I'll give you my number. ¡No! Never save it under my name. Text me if you need me. I’ll come find you. Pa slapped Bro’s cheek a bit too hard with his animal-sized paw of a hand. Bro nodded but wasn’t listening. He was blinking hard. Pa’s phone wasn’t any phone. It was like a gold bullion.
—What’s that? Bro whispered.
—Ha! ¿Te gusta? I call it my golden goose, hijo. 24-karat gold casing with an egg-shaped diamond on the back.
Bro swallowed.
That phone alone would feed them for months. Would pay for their food, rent, bills, clothes, doctors, medicine, school, books, hopes, and dreams for years and years.
—Here. Pa bumped it against Bro’s old phone.
—You have my details now. Remember, it’s a secret.
Then, a loud wolf whistle cut out all further talk. A matte black car had turned up. By the curb. Engine purring. Not too far away, Bro heard sirens. Ambulance? Fire engines? Real close. Suddenly, a blue disco party of flashing lights. Police! Pa quickly hopped into the car. The engine growled deeply as it sped away. Bro stood outside the library, wishing to follow Pa. Then. Ping! He looked down. A map pin trailing Pa suddenly appeared. An illegal trace app the wee wee wee Little Pigs had downloaded for him. He followed it.
All the way along High Street!
All the way to Pa’s place!
B. B. Wolf
—What the hell are you doing here? The big man stopped short at the front door.
—Pa! I was coming to see some school friends!
—Friends? Really? Live up here?
—Nah. I ah … Just really wanted to see you, Pa. But it’s stupid. I know. I know. I’m going. Bro turned.
—Ah no hijo. You don’t get to come to my place, lie to me and get away that easily. The big man paused at the door. Looked around. Since you’re here, I’ll let you in.
The big man waved two fingers to the doorman inside. Like magic, the door clicked open. The big man placed a not-so-gentle hand on Bro’s neck. Squeezed, as he led him in. The doorman nodded again. A lift was already there. Doors open. Waiting. The big man pushed Bro in.
With a giant bejeweled finger, the man pressed the top elevator button. They whooshed up.
All the way to his home. The penthouse. Ding!
—Come on. The hairs on your chinny chin chin are growing faster than your feet are moving. ¡Adelante!
The big man roughly pushed Bro ahead of him.
Before the big man stepped inside the penthouse, he scanned it. Turned the lock behind him. Once. Twice. Three times.
—¡Siéntate! The man shoved Bro into a seat. Then he walked to the other end. To a high-backed throne-like wooden chair at the head of the table and sat down. With Bro watching him, the big man took out his crocodile skin cigar case. Took out a fat cubano and a fancy cigar cutter. Snip! Off with its butt. He lit up. Puffed a couple of times. When the smoke clouds above their heads cleared, the man spoke.
—So, hijo. Gonna tell me why you’re really sniffing around here? The man snarled. It isn’t safe.
—Why are you living here Pa if... if it isn’t safe? Bro asked, swallowing hard.
—Because I built this brick building myself! The man slapped the table. Because I had to rebuild everything from the ground up when your mother left! Stole you and your sister away from me. So many years ago, but I remember like it was last night! But basta! We’re not here to talk about her. But you. Growing up so fast. Like a beanstalk! You may be tall, but I smell what a naïve pendejo you are. Have to be more careful! There are good men and bad men out there. He waved his cigar about. Wolves, sabes? Always sniffing around for new Little Pigs. And you know what they want? My gold. My silver cigar cutter. Everyone wants to be my new little pig. See everyone wants to steal from me. Huff and puff and blow my door down! Ha! The big man boomed, louder than thunder.
—What are these? Bro hoped to distract him by asking about the scraps of papers all over the table. —Keep your hands to yourself! The big man bit the cigar between his teeth and swept the table clear of the papers and shoved them into his pockets.
He could see Bro gulping in fear. He took another puff. Waited for the uncomfortable moment to pass.
—Hey hijo, is it me or is it too quiet in here? After the big man made his point, he picked up the remote. Pointed it to the huge flat screen taking up the entire wall.
—MTV? Bro asked, a slight smile on his face as ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ started playing.
—Look, hijo! Nirvana! The big man crossed to the living room and sat in the middle of the pigskin couch. Patted the spot next to him. Never heard of this song, hijo? No, well, whatever, never mind. Then he laughed at his own joke. You know when I was about your age, I wanted to reach the top. Be ese hombre. Kurt Cobain. I’d practice on my friend’s guitar. Cos I couldn’t at home. Then... killed.
—Kurt? Bro asked.
—My father. The big man shook his head. Afterwards, no more Nirvana. No more playing or school or dreams for me. Had to do his work, didn’t I? Do whatever I was ordered to! Until I met your mother. She brought me down to earth. How is she by the way? The man puffed his cigar and side-eyed him. He could see Bro sweating, swallowing. They listened to a few more songs. After a while, the man started to nod off. Then.
Knock knock.
The big man’s eyes opened.
He sat up. Eyes flicked between Bro, the TV, and the door.
Knock knock.
A scrap of paper was slipped under the door.
—Who’s there? The big man roared. Stood up quickly. His hackles were up.
—Hey, it’s Little Pig! Got a good one for you. Worth at least a golden bit-coin egg. Laughter.
The man picked up the paper. Read it. Pocketed it quick.
—What’s that, Pa? There was fear in Bro’s voice.
—¡Nada! Go to my room. Now! ¡Movete! The big man grabbed Bro. Forced him into the nearby bedroom closet. As the man turned away, the scrap fell out of his pocket.
Bro crawled out. Picked it up. I O U – ONE LITTLE PIG. The scrap was the list with Mamacita’s familiar scrawl! On the back, Bro’s thumbprint! A spiral of little bloodlines when one of the gang cut him. They forced his cut finger on the paper. Phone tagged him. Then took his money and chased him. Bro panicked. The Little Pigs swore a blood oath never to squeal his name. But why’s it here? Why’d Pa have it?
—Hey, Mister Wolf, you gonna let us in? Or do we have to smash your big bad door in! Hee Hee Hee!
Then he heard a terrible growl. Loud. Wolf-like. Bro wanted to crack the closet door open. But what if it squealed? Gave him away? He wanted to see which Little Pig was at the door. But he couldn’t make a sound. Then. The snapping of wood. A sickening yowl. Sounds of squealing. Footsteps. Slam of door. Bro waited. For Pa to call. Come out, come out wherever you are! Like he used to once upon a time.
When he was little. When they were a family. But he didn’t. Slowly, Bro crept out of the closet.
In the living room. The big man was slumped on the sofa. His stomach felt like it was on fire.
—Pa?
—Don’t! The big man grumbled.
—Don’t what? Pa?
The man was clutching his bloodied belly. He’d been gutted. Like a pig.
—Pa!
—Stop calling me that! The man backhanded him. Bro stumbled. He’d done that to his mother, but he’d never done that to him. Bro landed with a smack against the wall, near a broken chair.
—See what you made me do! The big man snarled.
—But I–
—I said. I’d contact you. Somethings you shouldn’t know about me. His voice was full of menace.
—But–
—But what?
—I don’t know–
—Exactly! You cough cough know nothing! ¡Nada! The big man was struggling to stay upright. His words slurred. The Little Pigs tracked you. You! He snarled. You brought them here. Told them to come and steal from me! Isn't that right? Cough.
—What? No. No!
—Cough Phone! The big man struggled. To speak. To keep his eyes open.
—Want me to call for help?
—Not with your phone, idiota! Cough. Get ... Me ... My ... Phone! The big man’s eyes closed. His blood was now dripping onto the carpet.
Bro froze. Why had he come here? Cos. Cos he’d wanted to see his Pa! Talk to him. Ask for help. But he never got to talk. Or mention Ma. Or say how hard as candy Mamacita was. Or how there was often no food in the fridge. Or money to buy anything. But he'd caught a whiff being here. Pa’s big bad drinker's breath. The stack of empty bottles. His meanness. His rage. The reason Ma escaped. Had to hide. Made them change their names as kids. Tell no one! He’d made her afraid. Sick.
Depressed. Couldn’t work. Could barely get up now. Bro’d come cos, it was the final straw.
—Hurry up! Cough cough. You stupid Little Pig! The big man gripped his belly with a bloody fist.
Bro stopped. Then, he saw at that moment who Pa really was. He was the big man. The Giant everyone feared. The Big Bad Wolf that controlled all the Little Pigs. He was all of them – all rolled into one.
Bro started backing away. When he heard it.
A soft thud. The big man’s phone had slipped out of his pocket.
Bro picked it up.
The golden goose!
It was even more amazing than anything he’d ever seen or dreamt of. Worth more than enough to buy whatever was on the list and then some.
It’d get Ma some help.
It would help Mamacita move them all to a land far, far away.
Away from here and Pa’s brick house.
—What’s the password?
But the big man wasn’t moving. Nor breathing. Then Bro remembered. On the table. The cigar cutter. Bro searched the mess till he found it.
—Pa? He gently shook the man’s shoulder.
The man didn't stir. Carefully, Bro put the cigar cutter around the man’s bloodied thumb. Snip.
Right through the joint. The big man didn’t flinch. Bro pocketed it.
Bro surveyed the place. The Little Pigs, they’d be back. With more little pigs. Little pigs with bigger knives. Machetes. Then he remembered. In Pa’s cigar case, was a lighter. And, in his pocket, a scrap of paper.
Soon, smoke alarms started sounding.
As he left, Bro put his hood up.
Ran all the way down the fire stairs to the basement garage. The door had been kicked in and all the cameras smashed with an axe.
Outside, people gathered to the sounds of sirens.
Head down, Bro started walking away fast. Past the takeaways and run-down shops.
At the empty bus stop. He sat. Looked around. Took out the phone.
Bro pressed his Pa’s thumb against it.
The screen lit up gold. As a strange, new smile spread.
This piece was shortlisted for The Varnish Prize for Fiction 2025.
Suzanne Hermanoczki is an award-winning writer. Born in Meanjin/Brisbane of Argentine and Hungarian descent, she currently lives, works, and writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She is co-director of Writing Days.