（And afterward, they had made love, Jacquie in only that belt, her hair in a side ponytail…but he would not think about Jacquie. Even remembering good things was hellish.）
“I look awesome,” whispered Allie, admiring herself in Jacquie’s full-length mirror.
Joe had already fetched rhinestone clip-ons that had once belonged to Jacquie’s mom, Valerie, who was still alive and judgmental in Tarrytown, New York.
（Valerie called every Sunday, telling him he should move to Tarrytown, making him feel like a failure, incapable of raising his own kids…but he would not think about Valerie.）
“Daddy, look!” cried Allie, who somehow knew how to apply eye shadow and lipstick. She spritzed herself with Jacquie’s Burberry perfume—unbearable, smelling it, and also wonderful, so wonderful. He’d stopped into Macy’s once after beers with his friends and had thrown down his Visa for the $102 giant-sized eau de parfum.
（He breathed through his mouth. He would not think about Jacquie, how she’d loved to spray Burberry and then step through the cloud of perfume.）
Joe cued up “Welcome to New York” on the iPhone he’d fished from the recycle bin at the Slaughter Lane Target. He and his sister danced to Taylor Swift, singing aloud to a song beloved by their mother, a brilliant and serious woman from New York who had also happened to adore teen pop.
Had.
Who had.
“OK, let’s get a move on,” said Salvatore. He’d been dressed since dawn, uniform pressed, tattooed arms covered （Austin Police Department shield on his right bicep; “Jacquie Forever” on his left—oh, the irony）， face shaven and dark hair clean and combed. His gruff voice did not break. He did not fall to the ground and give in to the tumble of unbearable and beautiful emotions that rushed over him watching his daughter dance to her dead mother’s favorite song.
“I said, get in the car!” said Salvatore, too loudly. The strain it took to stay functional came out as anger, he knew. The kids looked stricken, Joe cutting the music and Allie looking down as she passed him, grabbing her light-up Keds to put on en route to school.
Salvatore felt ashamed as he drove up Lamar Boulevard, past Target, Valero, and the sketchy 7-Eleven that served as a destination for both the rich white people who lived in the Barton Hills neighborhood just beyond （kombucha, $5.99） and the poorer saps who stopped for gas or breakfast on their way to manual labor, often in Barton Hills yards or neighborhood construction sites （two hot dogs for a dollar）。 From the backseat, Salvatore heard his son speak to his sister in a low voice. “Your kicks are just like the ones in the video.”
“Which video?” said Allie, tapping the toes of her sneakers together to make them light up.
“I can’t remember. Maybe ‘Bad Blood’？ Or ‘You Belong with Me’？”
“I love those songs,” whispered Allie.
“I know,” Joe answered.
Salvatore looked into the rearview mirror. The sadness on his kids’ faces almost made him sob, so he averted his eyes.
If you look away, it will go away. Salvatore’s own mother had taught him that.
At a stoplight, Salvatore cued up “You Belong with Me” on his phone. If he was caught texting while driving, it would be some scandal, but he didn’t care. He rolled down the windows and turned up the volume, hit play.
At the first notes, Allie brightened. She scrunched her eyes closed, began twitching her head back and forth, imitating a teen at Austin City Limits music festival. （The busiest weekend of the year for Salvatore and every other cop on the beat, not to mention Uber drivers, restaurant owners, and oh my God the bars.） Allie opened her lipsticked mouth and Salvatore could hear her voice, sweet and pure. She knew every word. Who didn’t?
Rolling up Lamar, turning on Mary, all the way to Zilker Elementary （they’d won the lottery and transferred in…and signed up for the full-summer day camp）， Salvatore and his children sang their fucking hearts out about high heels and sneakers and bleachers.
He kept the music going as he rolled into the drop-off lane. The summer camp director （also the school librarian）， Ms. Contrera, was directing traffic, and she met his eyes and grinned, surprised. She lifted her fists and swayed a bit to the beat. The fifth-grade safety patrol kids danced. A girl dressed as Harry Potter opened the car door and Allie climbed out in her mom’s T-shirt, greeted by her whole school rocking out.
“I’m Taylor Swift!” cried Allie. “I’m Taylor Swift for Dress Up Day!”
“Of course you are,” said Ms. Contrera. “I can tell.” Allie ran into the school, her hand-me-down backpack hanging from her shoulders. There was no time to relish a tiny, fleeting victory—Ms. Contrera waved him on.
“Can you switch it to Ty Dolla $ign?” asked Joe from the backseat, his persona transforming into a taciturn, middle school hoodlum within seconds.
“Absolutely not,” said Salvatore.
Joe giggled. Twelve! Joe could make his voice a man’s or let loose that little-kid giggle. Salvatore had arrested twelve-year-olds for murder.
“Had to try,” said Joe.
“Always have to try,” said Salvatore.
Joe had a brilliant and troubled brain. He had tested into the best school in the city, a tiny magnet located inside a big middle school on the East Side, where Austin Police Department had been called more than once to break up fights and drug dealing. As they neared the school, Salvatore slowed to park and walk Joe in, but Joe said, “I’m good. Just let me out here,” in the low voice Salvatore was sure he practiced when he was alone in his room.
“Oh,” said Salvatore. “OK.” He stopped, and Joe jumped out, his Warriors jersey looking fine. “See you later, Steph Curry,” he said.
“OK, Dad. Bye.”
“Hey,” said Salvatore. He felt sick when he tried to talk about emotional things with the kids. His father, a career Marine, had ruled his family with his fists. But the first time Salvatore spanked a toddler Joe （just a quick smack on his diapered bottom!）， Jacquie had quietly informed him that if he ever touched her child in anger again, she’d be “gone without a trace.” Her child!
Salvatore had been stunned. Not by her dramatic flair—he knew her tantrums well—but by the fact that he’d been so quickly eclipsed. Her fierce protection of Joe had shown Salvatore how strong she was. His own mother had been quiet and scared of his father.
When Salvatore, around age six, pointed to the bruise around his mother’s neck and said, “Did Daddy do that?” she pulled her robe tight.
“Do what?” she said.
“The bad color,” said Salvatore. He was dressed for school, a bowl of Cheerios in front of him. He had heard his mother being beaten the night before; he knew the thumps and cries.
“There is no bad color,” said Salvatore’s mother. “If you look away, it will go away.”
He looked away.
* * *
—
JACQUIE HAD DEMANDED THAT Salvatore be a different kind of man than his father. She’d opened him up like a tangerine, like one of those clementines, a Cutie. She’d allowed him to be richer, to be tender. Knowing he was loved allowed Salvatore to be compassionate. He still thought the “time-outs” were a crock, but he’d never hit his children again.