Their Tía Lola had been the executor of the will, a wise decision on Abuelita’s part. She, of everyone, not only didn’t need anything Abuelita had, but was also of similar temperament and therefore understood her mother’s thinking. Additionally, Lola was savvy enough in Ortiz family politics to know when a white lie was appropriate. Upon evaluating the will, she pulled Olga and Prieto aside simultaneously and reasoned that, if they wanted peace in the house and the family, they would need to keep this conversation private. She explained that this was the kind of thing that could tear other siblings apart, but that she, and Abuelita, expected more of them. It was clear to Lola that of everyone, Olga, being single, would have the greatest likelihood of needing the home. In other words, she was the least likely to sell. Prieto, who was married to Sarita at the time, nodded politely. Olga, terrified that this burden might draw a wedge between them, relinquished it. Prieto, she had said, I may own it, but the house is yours and upstairs is for whatever the family needs. This, her aunt had said to her later, was exactly why Abuelita had given it to her in the first place. Tía Lola told the family that the house now belonged to “the Estate,” which made everyone feel just fancy enough to not ask too many questions. Richie, the usual troublemaker, was too grief stricken to make waves, and neither Prieto nor Olga had ever spoken about the true ownership of the home again. Olga knew that bringing it up in anger would inflict the kind of wound not easily healed. She hoped her brother wouldn’t get the better of her.
* * *
“OLGA, THE BOTTOM line is, I don’t want some pato living in my house.”
This comment, for Olga, confirmed more about her brother’s sexuality than any full-throated confession ever could have done. And it was this comment that caused her to go blind with disgust, which quickly morphed into fury. Fury at his self-loathing, revulsion at his selfishness, and animus towards the weak character this conversation had laid bare to her. She forgot about the house. Her mouth flew open and she spit out, “Because you’re afraid of what he’ll do or what you’ll want to do, hermano?”
For several minutes Prieto did nothing, eventually reaching over and turning the music back on, louder and louder until the thumping of the bassline left no room for thought. Outside, the LIE ran into Queens and curved in such a way that the entirety of Manhattan was before them, twinkling. Up for grabs.
WHAT ABOUT YOUR FRIENDS
Because her list of acquaintances, contacts, colleagues, and clients was so extensive, it took Olga a long time to realize that she didn’t have any actual friends. At least not as defined by Webster’s: bonds or mutual affection with individuals exclusive of one’s relations. In fact, the only stranger with whom Olga had ever shared her intimate thoughts and feelings had been Reggie King. Beyond him, the closest people in Olga’s life had been her grandmother, her cousin Mabel, and of course her brother. Olga was generally not an anxious person; her profession had worked much of that out of her system. But, in rare moments such as this one, when she and her brother found themselves with a cavernous gap between them, existential anxiety would grip her tightly. As they drove in silence, she had to fight her immediate impulse to reconcile quickly.
She tried to trace how this had happened—how she came to find herself awash in party invitations and drink dates but devoid of actual intimate relationships. It wasn’t always this way. When she was younger, she and Mabel ran with a big group of kids from the neighborhood, in and out of everyone’s houses, everyone up in one another’s business. Like a big family. When her mother left, and her father was running the streets, Olga was aware that she was undoubtedly the subject of neighborhood gossip, but in her crew, she never heard about it. Once, they were kicking it on Mabel’s block and some boy tried to make a crack about her dad and Mabel dressed him down so fast, so viciously, that nobody ever talked smack about Olga, Mabel, or anyone in the Ortiz/Acevedo clan ever again. At least not when they were around.
But when high school came, everybody went to one of the two local schools except for Olga, who had taken up photography and ended up at LaGuardia in Manhattan. The commute was long and she spent her afternoons in the dark room, so she missed all the after-school trips to the Fulton Mall or drinking forties on Shore Road. She knew, because Mabel told her, that their neighborhood friends thought she was stuck-up now. That she thought she was better than everybody else because she went to school in Manhattan. Olga only sort of cared. Prieto was already up at college and Olga was too focused on how she could also get out. Her house was emptier than ever, yet she felt smothered by her short life.