At the window, a hummingbird visits the feeder, glinting blue and green. The heat kicks on, sending the plastic blinds at the patio doors clacking. The scent of the flowers stirs, syrupy and artificial. She thinks of her dead mother, laid out for the Rosary, that pale little body rigid with embalming fluid in her broad-collared floral dress.
“Well, you haven’t missed much. Bunny had one of her vertigo attacks on Thursday. Janice Sena said she stood up from her desk and slammed right down again, clutching her head.” She looks sideways at Yolanda, her awareness of what she’s just said hitting her, and rushes. “Then she gave her head a good thump, left, right, like she was getting water out of her ear, and just started typing again.”
“Oh, that Bucket,” says Yolanda, then grimaces. Words are misbehaving today. “Bunket.” The word pulses, replicating, making distorted copies of itself. Yolanda grabs one of them, holds it before her in her mind, but cannot for the life of her think what it connotes.
She understands that she’s freaking Monica out, that she should muster her old personality, but she’s too tired.
“Are you here alone, Yo? Is anyone taking care of you?”
“My son,” Yolanda says, dismissing the parade of bucket, relieved that these other words, singular and meaningful, click into place. “My Amadeo.”
At the sound of his name, Amadeo appears in the doorway. He is barefoot, hangdog.
“Ah,” says Monica. “Good.”
“Hey.” Amadeo avoids Monica’s eye, and she avoids his.
“My son can fix your car,” Yolanda says. “You can, right?”
Monica hesitates. Amadeo clears his throat. “I’m sorry I . . .” he starts, then trails off.
“Yes?” Monica regards him. “You’re sorry for—？ Please go on.”
Amadeo licks his lips.
“People make mistakes, but to run off like that, that was wrong.” Monica is trembling. “You didn’t even apologize.”
Yolanda looks on with interest.
“Listen, lady, you want work for free, you can—” Amadeo stops, looks wretchedly at Yolanda.
“What am I doing?” says Monica. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry, Yolanda.”
Just then, Angel crashes through the door with her bags. “Hi, everyone!” Connor is limp in her arms, asleep. Yolanda closes her eyes against the noise, but nonetheless relaxes.
“You must be Angel. Monica.”
“Oh, the chief clerk! My grandma really admires you.” She shifts the baby and sticks her hand out.
“She has only wonderful things to say about you.”
“I’m here,” Yolanda reminds them, opening her eyes.
Her son is still in the doorway, as if he doesn’t know whether to come into the room or flee to the back of the house. Yolanda pats the arm of her chair as if to invite him over to her, but he doesn’t see.
“So my dad fixed your windshield?” Angel squints through the front window. “It looks great, Dad!”
Monica regards Amadeo steadily. What is between them? Could they be attracted to one another, her boss and her son?
“Well,” says Amadeo. “Actually.”
“It turned out I had to get a new windshield, anyway.” Monica stands. “I should let you rest, Yolanda.” In a moment, she’s rewrapped her scarf, kissed Yolanda, and the BMW is backing down the driveway.
Yolanda didn’t even ask who has replaced her, but as soon as she thinks the question, she loses interest.