“Right. I’m just saving it. To pay for college for the human being I’m growing. No big deal.”
“Hey, hijitos.” Yolanda pulls the door shut behind her quietly. She glances at the mess in the living room. “So it arrived.” She lets her bags and jacket slide off her shoulders and onto the floor. She drops even her keys and travel mug onto the pile at her feet. Closing her eyes, Yolanda presses the heels of her hands into her temples.
Amadeo feels a thread of alarm—she looks exhausted. “Maybe one day I’ll have a shop,” he says to cheer her up. “My own windshield repair shop.”
Yolanda seems about to say something, then shakes her head ever so slightly. “Well, good. If it’ll get you on track, hijito.”
Angel stands to hug Yolanda, then starts gathering the stuff by the door. She deposits cups in the sink, hangs Yolanda’s purse off the back of a kitchen chair, then goes back to wash up.
“Oh, I’ll get all that,” says Yolanda, but she makes her way to the couch. She sits gingerly on the edge of the cushion, hands planted squarely on her thighs, as though she’s waiting at the dentist.
“I’ve got it. You want a drink, Gramma? I can make you some chamomile tea.”
“My mother used to make that from the flowers. Used to grow them in the garden.” Her voice is thin and high. Amadeo peers at his mother. There’s a thin stripe of silver along her part. The skin under her eyes is purple and dented.
“So you want some?”
“No. Thank you.”
The ice machine growls, and Angel emerges with a glass of water, which she hands Yolanda. Without taking a sip, Yolanda places it on the coffee table. On TV, the polo-shirted man is frozen in his explanation of the nuances of windshield repair. The ice crackles as it settles.
“If you guys don’t mind, I’m just going to keep watching?” Amadeo hits play.
“Oh, sure. Anyway,” says Angel as though continuing a conversation, “it’s cool that Gramma’s your investor. So now she gets a cut of your earnings.”
Amadeo pauses the DVD again. This has not occurred to him, and it probably hasn’t occurred to Yolanda, who is accustomed to investing in him without any return. Now that Angel has said it, Amadeo can’t not give his mother a cut, not without looking like an asshole.
“Of course I’ll pay her back.” Already Amadeo can see his income being eaten away. He thinks with despair about advertising. And taxes. Why hadn’t he thought about taxes? “You think I won’t? I’ll pay you back,” he tells his mother.
He waits for her line—No, mi hijito, you save your money—but she doesn’t say it. Instead she looks at her hands, traces the veins that pop out. “Okay, honey.”
His mother doesn’t have savings beyond her retirement fund; he’s aware of that, but, especially when he’s thinking of borrowing money, he prefers not to think too closely about her financial situation. “Look, here. It’s all official.” He arches his ass off the couch to slide some business cards out of his back pocket and hands one to her. She turns it in her hands, smiles dimly, and places it beside her glass on the coffee table.
His only hope is if she doesn’t cash his checks. Or if he gives her a payment the first couple months and then they both gradually forget.
Angel shrugs. She’s enjoying this, he can tell. “You don’t just got to pay her back. You got to pay her back, then give her a cut of every repair. So, like, if you charge ten bucks for each windshield, maybe you give her, like, five. She did cover all your starting costs. That’s how investment works.”
He looks at her, incredulous. “You learn this shit at Smart Starts!? Your precious Brianna teach you all this?”
Angel twists her mouth. “Don’t you know anything? Don’t you even pay attention when you watch TV?”