Only three things make Valerie bearable: First, she’s gotten fat and she’s self-conscious about it. Second, she was hit by her ex-husband, which makes her skittish around any displays of masculine strength, so Amadeo need only flex his fist or massage a bicep to disconcert her. Third, her kids are pretty cute.
Or used to be. Now that she’s twelve, Lily acts just as superior as her mom. She reads far beyond her grade level, no surprise, given her glasses and frizzy mop of hair. She and her little sister are still standing in the doorway, the screen propped open against their bottoms, staring solemnly at his beer and his bandaged hands, as if they’re afraid to step all the way into the house with Amadeo there. Uncle Amadeo, erratic, mean drunk. He can imagine what Valerie tells them: watch out for Uncle Amadeo, never get in a car with Uncle Amadeo, whatever you do, don’t end up like Uncle Amadeo.
Before he can help himself, he is making a nasty face at them, mouth wide, tongue nearly to his chin. “Rah!” he snarls, raspy and sudden. Lily flinches, then regains her composure and rolls her eyes behind her glasses, but Sarah, the seven-year-old, breaks into a delighted gap-toothed laugh. She’s an adorable child, large-eyed, with a sweet black bob, skinny legs poking out of soccer shorts. Amadeo grins back, his irritation transformed into affection for this niece who is, it seems, still too young to despise him.
“Hijitas! Get in here!” cries Yolanda, and they rush their grandmother, the screen thwacking.
Angel grins at her cousins. “Holy crap, you guys are big!”
“Man,” says Amadeo, slouching against the wall. It’s not easy to grip his beer around his bandage, but he’s managing. “Today really took it out of me. They got me on painkillers and everything.” He holds up his hands, but no one sees. At Mass this morning, several people touched his sleeve with reverence. “You done real good,” Shelby Morales murmured, and he and Amadeo hugged gingerly, each careful of the other’s tender back. Al Martinez rested a gentle hand on Amadeo’s wrist. “God bless, son.”
His performance wasn’t just a performance, but a true crucifixion. How many people can say they’ve done that for God? Though Amadeo will never admit this to a living soul, while the priest droned on about joy and resurrection, he allowed himself to fantasize about being invited to the Vatican. Saint Amadeo. It has a dignified, archaic ring to it.
Maybe his hands are infected. In fact, they probably are. He unwraps the left bandage, which is moist and smelly. So is the wrinkled, pale flesh of his hand. The nail hole itself doesn’t seem too bad, though—just boiled-looking. The holes didn’t even require real stitches, just a kind of paper tape, a tetanus shot, and a prescription for antibiotics. “Keep the wounds clean,” the nurse told him, “and they’ll close right up.”
“That is disgusting,” Angel says. “Don’t do that crap in front of us.”
“How’d it go on Friday, Dodo?” Valerie calls. Cupboard doors open and shut. She’s grazing; she’s got a handful of chips, which she eats swiftly, one by one, her fingers delicate pincers.
“Oh, it went just great,” says Angel aggressively. “Ask him how his hands are.”
“I heard,” says Valerie. “Unbelievable.”
Yolanda glances at Lily and Sarah and says with guarded cheer, “We don’t need to talk about this now. How’s school, girls?”
His mother might have slapped him. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“Of course not, honey, but blood and whatnot, not at dinner. Careful, Valerie. Watch your Points. We’ll eat soon.”
“I’m not doing Points anymore.” Valerie pushes a cookie into her mouth whole.
“I’m an atheist,” brays Lily. “I believe Jesus was a person, but that other stuff just got made up.”
“Oh,” says Yolanda mildly, “let’s not talk like that, either.”