The Red Umbrella
: Chapter 22

I lifted the basket of eggs onto the kitchen counter. The sun was just starting to peek above the horizon.

“¡Qué frío!” Frankie said, rubbing his arms through his sweater.

I took off my coat. It was cold outside … really cold. And to think that the day before, it’d been warm, almost like in Cuba.

“You’re wearing your new coat? To feed the chickens?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

I shrugged. What else was I supposed to wear? I knew it was summer, but it had to be in the fifties outside. Plus, the coat had protected me from the chickens’ pecking.

Mrs. Baxter took a few of the eggs and cracked them into a large bowl. “I guess the mornings are a bit cooler here than what you’re used to. I’ll get you one of my sweaters for tomorrow, because you’ll want to save that coat for when it really gets cold in the winter.”

“¿Qué dice?” Frankie asked.

I explained that she was getting me a sweater because the coat was for the winter.

“¿A cuanto baja en el invierno?”

“Mrs. Baxter, Frankie wants to know how cold winter is.” I took a seat at the small table next to the refrigerator.

She whisked the eggs and poured them into a skillet on the stove. “Pretty cold … I’d say somewhere in the teens.” Mrs. Baxter wiped her hands on her apron. “I guess you’ll be seeing snow for the first time. How do you say ‘snow’ in Spanish?”

“Nieve, but we not be here too long,” I said.

Mrs. Baxter faced Frankie and started some sort of sign language. “You … here.” She pointed at the ground. “See”—she touched her eyes—“nee-ay-vay.”

Frankie jumped out of his chair. “Hoy? Nieve?” He raced toward the window, almost crashing into Mr. Baxter as he came in through the back door.

“Oh no, not today.” Mrs. Baxter laughed. “In winter.”

“En el invierno, bobo,” I explained.

Frankie turned around and stuck his tongue out at me for calling him stupid.

Mr. Baxter grumbled something as he sat down at the table.

“Here you go. Eggs, bacon, and toast.” She placed a plate in front of Mr. Baxter.

I eyed his food. It looked good.

“And this is for you and Frankie.” She put down identical plates in front of us. “I bought this at the market last week. I thought you might want to add it to the eggs.” She pulled out a little red bottle from the pocket of her apron.

I watched to see if Mr. or Mrs. Baxter would use it, but they didn’t. At home, I’d never put anything on my eggs, but I wondered if it would be rude not to try it.

Mrs. Baxter sat in front of me and took a bite of her toast. “Go ahead. It’s a little taste from home. The brand may be different, but I’m sure it’s similar to what you usually eat.”

Frankie watched me open the bottle and pour some of the red sauce next to the eggs. Carefully I dipped some egg into it. Mrs. Baxter smiled, waiting for my reaction.

I took a bite.

Instantly my tongue was on fire. I swallowed the eggs without chewing and grabbed the glass of juice sitting on the table. I didn’t stop drinking until about half of the glass was gone.

Frankie giggled.

“Oh my, you don’t like it?” Mrs. Baxter’s eyebrows were scrunched together. “I thought you liked spicy food. I read that in Mexico they put it on everything, even their eggs.”

“Ughmm.” I cleared my throat. “In Cuba, we no eat spicy food. Mexico yes, Cuba no.” Even my ears felt hot. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Oh.” Mrs. Baxter looked disappointed. “Well, in that case, just eat the breakfast without the Tabasco sauce. We’ll start with your English lessons right after we clean up. Yes?”

I understood something about eating without tobacco and having English class. I nodded in agreement.

Mr. Baxter wiped his mouth and stood up. “Good breakfast, Helen,” he said, and bent down to give his wife a peck on the cheek.

It was the first time I’d heard him speak. I didn’t even know Mrs. Baxter’s first name was Helen.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll see you after work.”

“Humpf,” Mr. Baxter muttered as he walked out the back door.

Mrs. Baxter faced me again. “He hates having to go into the feed store on Saturdays, but at least it’s only until one. He just can’t wait to get back to the land.”

I nodded.

“And tonight is a big night. Lawrence Welk is on TV. All the singing, dancing, and polka music. You’ll love it!”

I wasn’t sure who this Lawrence Welk was, but if she was this excited about him being on TV, then I figured he was probably very similar to Elvis.

Sᴇarch the FindNovel.net website on G𝘰𝘰gle to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.