“Windshields? Christ.”
Yolanda dragged her hands down her face. “Why can’t you help him instead of getting mad at him? You’re the counselor. You should help him.”
Valerie exploded with a long, garbled wail. “Help him? You think that’s what you’re doing? He’s thirty-five years old and unemployed. He still gets an allowance. That hasn’t helped him yet.”
“He’s thirty-three.”
“He should go to college,” Sarah volunteered.
“Stupid,” said Lily to her sister. “You can’t go to college when you’re thirty-three.”
“You were always so mad at Dad, but you let Amadeo and his addiction run roughshod over this family.”
“Your brother is sick, Valerie.” Yolanda’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“I know he’s sick. So was Dad, but you never had any sympathy for him. Did you ever help him?”
Angel stepped closer to her grandmother.
“I cannot believe it’s come to this. But until he gets help, or moves out, we’re not setting foot in this house. Get your things, girls, get in the car.” Sarah and Lily trotted inside. “The girls have seen enough violence, Mother; I’m not going to expose them to any more.”
Valerie was calming down now, bolstered by her plan.
“And you, Angel.” Valerie fixed an accusing expression on her. “I think you should seriously consider whether you want to bring a baby into this house.”
“Okay,” Angel said obediently, despair seeping through her like black ink. How many options does Valerie think she has?
“He’s a good boy,” Yolanda kept saying.
Somehow they’d split into teams: on one side, Valerie and her daughters, and on Team Amadeo, Angel and her grandmother. But Angel didn’t want to be on her father’s team. She was glad he was gone. She’d been scared, and even more than scared, embarrassed by his behavior. But, she supposes, the fact of her embarrassment only underscores her connection to him.
On Friday, when they’d cut him down, he’d swayed on his legs, then dropped to the dirt. “It hurts,” he kept whispering through chapped lips, looking up at her through tear-clotted lashes. “It hurts.” She’d felt the weight of his need settle across her back.
SHE MUST HAVE FALLEN asleep, right there on the living room carpet, because she wakes to a car crunching up the drive. Headlights brighten the living room window, an engine idles, a door slams, heavy, metallic. Fear grips her as the headlights swing around, grazing Angel’s body where she leans against the couch, and the rumble of the engine recedes. Her father’s steps on gravel, and then he’s inside. Behind him the screen door gives its pneumatic wheeze, then snaps shut.
He gropes the wall and then flicks on the overhead.
“You’re up,” he says, surprised, and for a moment they regard each other. “What time is it?” His face is puffy.
Angel doesn’t answer, but glances at the television’s digital display. Three thirty. The baby somersaults.
He steps closer until he stands above her. Her father’s gaze is clouded, and he lists just a bit. He toes the pile of baby clothes. “Jesus. What a load of crap.”
Angel wants to get away from him. His eyes are red-rimmed, and she’s afraid he’s going to cry. Again the thought hits her, how little she knows her father, really, how rarely she’s been alone with him, and with this thought, a taut thread of fear vibrates in her veins. She flashes on Mike, his hands around her throat, then bats that memory away. Sweat trickles down her sides.
Angel begins to gather the baby clothes into a bag. “I have to go to bed.”