Yolanda leans forward in confidence. “I won big.” It’s remarkable, how easily this happy grandmother act comes to her, even feeling as bad as she does. She plucks a number at random. “Three thousand dollars.”
“Are you joking me?” cries Angel. “Three thousand dollars?”
“I’m glad you’re here, honey. This is your home, too.” She comes around to hug Angel and pats the girl’s stomach. What a wonderful, necessary, joyful distraction she and her new baby will offer. “I’ll give you more when the baby comes.”
Outside, tires crunch as Amadeo’s truck pulls in. “Wope,” says Yolanda, looking to the window. “Your dad’s here.”
Amadeo is in high spirits. “Mom! You’re home!” he cries, hugging her. “What happened to your hair? I didn’t know whose car that was.” He’s shaved and smells of soap and cologne. Both hands are bandaged, the stubby tips of his fingers peeking out of the gauze.
“It’s a rental. You look nice, hijito.”
Amadeo beams. “I just went to Mass. It was great. I’m starving, though, you know, from fasting. You should’ve come, Angel.” He shoots his daughter a pointed look.
“Ha,” she says flatly. Angel holds up her bills. “Look what Gramma gave me. Isn’t that nice?” There’s an edge of cruelty in her steady bland smile.
Amadeo looks to Yolanda in horror. “What’s she going to do with that kind of money?”
Angel grins. “And she’s going to give more to the baby. She won three thousand dollars!”
Yolanda avoids her son’s eyes. “I just thought we could give him a little start,” she says apologetically. Now’s the time for her to give Amadeo a gift, and they both know it, but part of Yolanda stands aside and watches with a kind of gleeful defiance as she busies herself with wiping the counters. The moment stretches and passes.
Amadeo turns away and looks out the window. “You rented a Mustang?”
Yolanda shrugs. “I wanted a convertible. Wanted to see the sights.” She ties up the trash bags, then sets them at Amadeo’s bare feet. “You can take these out for me, honey.”
“I can’t.” Amadeo holds up his bandaged hands. The medical tape is grubby around the edges. “I got the nails on Friday.”
“I heard.” Yolanda pats his cheek, then turns to fit a last glass into the dishwasher. “I’m proud of you, hijito. Bring in my luggage, too, will you? Be a nice chance for you to look at the car.” Yolanda measures detergent, clicks shut the dishwasher.
“I’ve seen a Mustang before.” His tone is hurt.
“How was the procession, hijito?”
His shoulders hunch and he scowls, and Yolanda sees him, as she so often does, as the three-year-old he once was. It pains her to think of him so overgrown and vulnerable.
“It was fine,” he snaps. He makes no move to leave with the garbage bags. Instead he announces piteously, “I’m getting sick.” He clears his throat. “I’m coming down with something. Maybe from the stress of Lent and Calvario and everything.” Amadeo coughs into a bandaged hand. At first it sounds dry and unconvincing, but he tries again, and this time he taps into something.
“Well, then stay away from me,” says Angel. “I don’t want to be doing no labor breathing with snot coming out my nose.”
From the bowl on the counter, Amadeo fumbles a softening orange. Bracing it against his middle, he manages to remove two sticky chunks of peel, juice dripping into his bandage and his shirt, then glares at the overripe flesh. The too-sweet scent fills the kitchen.
“Help me clean up and I’ll make you both some honey and lemon. We have a lot to do before Valerie and the girls get here.”