Building My Life

Chapter 44 - Invitation to Lunch

Josias was repairing the door to Jeremiah’s room with visible annoyance. The hinges had several loose screws, and he was tightening them with a screwdriver, his movements sharp and impatient.

“Look at him,” Jeremiah said mockingly as he and Wallace entered the hallway. “Maybe I should call the police to report a violation of the home.”

“You say ‘home invasion’,” Josias retorted, turning the screwdriver with enough force to suggest he’d rather be turning it into Jeremiah’s skull.

Wallace studied Josias. The boy didn’t look muscular enough to kick down a solid door. He was lean, almost wiry. How did he do it?

“Hey, kid,” Wallace asked, his tone curious rather than offensive. “Did you really bust this door open with that skinny leg of yours?”

“My legs are plenty strong,” Josias said proudly, not looking up. “Muscle mass doesn’t always equal strength and endurance.”

The job was done. Josias straightened up, wiped his hands, and faced the two men. He shot a mocking smirk at Jeremiah. “By the way... if I hear any more cries for help from here, should I go straight to the police this time?”

Wallace didn’t catch the subtext, but Jeremiah did. He gritted his teeth, his face reddening. Josias was throwing his own past behavior back in his face.

“The police will be coming for you!” Jeremiah snapped. “This man here is looking for you.”

Josias’s smirk vanished. He turned to Wallace with genuine curiosity. “Is that so? I’m all ears.”

“I’m Wallace, Uélton’s older brother. I want to know what happened. Why did you punch my little brother in the face?”

Jeremiah chuckled, sensing a fight. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have lunch to prepare. See you, Wallace.”

“Thanks for the help, buddy,” Wallace called out.

Jeremiah cast one last spiteful look at Josias and disappeared into his room. Josias took a deep breath, shook his head, and gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s go to the third floor. We can talk in my room.”

When they entered, Wallace was visibly taken aback by the poverty of the space. It was hollow: just a bed, a dresser, and a chair. Hygiene items were lined up neatly on the dresser. Wallace scanned the room and realized there wasn’t even a bathroom; the only other door led to the balcony.

“The bathroom is downstairs. It’s communal,” Josias explained, noticing Wallace’s bewilderment.

“Man... how do you manage to live like this?” Wallace asked, his voice filtered with genuine surprise rather than judgment.

“Is there another option?” Josias shrugged and pulled out the chair for Wallace.

“I hope that with the work at Seu Romualdo’s site, you’ll be able to afford some real furniture soon.”

“Speaking of the site, that’s where I met Uélton.” Josias sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be straight with you, Wallace. I didn’t want to punch your brother. But I was talking to the father of a girl I was supposed to go out with, and Uélton... he ran his mouth and ruined everything.”

Josias recounted the story from his perspective. Wallace listened intently, weighing it against Uélton’s version. Being the more grounded of the two brothers, he reached a fair conclusion quickly.

“I see now,” Wallace chuckled, shaking his head. “It was my brother’s fault. He’s got a big mouth.”

Josias smiled, relieved that Wallace wasn’t looking for a second round of fisticuffs.

“I’m sorry, Josias. You’ve had a rough time of it. This date would have been good for you, and Uélton stepped right in it.”

“I lost my temper,” Josias admitted. “I’ll apologize to him on Monday.”

“Better to do it sooner. He’s moping at the house; he won’t even talk to us.”

“Then I’ll stop by this afternoon, after lunch.”

Wallace looked around the room again, noting the lack of a stove or a refrigerator. He raised an eyebrow with a friendly smile. “And why don’t you just come have lunch with us now?”

***

An hour later, Josias found himself in the Freire family kitchen. The house was cozy but cramped. Mr. Freire sat at one end of the table, with the opposite end reserved for his wife. Mrs. Freire was busy moving steaming pots from the stove to the center of the table.

Looking at her, Josias realized Wallace was the spitting image of his mother, though she had maintained a strikingly curvaceous figure at forty-five. Mr. Freire, it seemed, was well aware he had “punched above his weight,” and looked like a man who thanked God every night that his wife hadn’t left him for someone more athletic.

The kitchen was right against the sidewalk, just as Uélton had described. Through the open windows, the neighborhood could see and smell their meal: roast chicken with potatoes and pasta with peas and corn.

Once everything was served, Mrs. Freire sat down. Everyone held hands, and Mr. Freire led the prayer.

“Please, help yourselves! Don’t be shy!” Mrs. Freire announced warmly.

From the corner of his eye, Josias noticed Uélton taking tiny portions, hardly enough fuel for a man working construction. It explained why he struggled so much with the heavy hoe and the cement.

“I’m so glad you came to see my son, Josias,” Mrs. Freire said, her voice full of motherly concern. “Can you believe it? One of those awful gangs in the favela tried to rob him! They even punched him, as you can see by that terrible mark on his face.”

Josias froze, a piece of potato halfway to his mouth. He looked at Uélton, who was staring intently at his plate, turning a bright shade of red.