Angel’s eyes dart almost imperceptibly toward her mother’s face, then back to the screen.
Marissa kisses Angel on the head, but Angel doesn’t move. “I love you.” Marissa pauses, and then, when she gets no reply, gives a strand of Angel’s black hair a gentle tug and crosses the living room, her steps jerky and self-conscious. “Take care, Amadeo,” she says from the door. “Say hi to your mom for me.”
“What was that about?” asks Amadeo. “Why’d she make him move out?”
Angel’s gaze is locked on the television. For a very long time she says nothing, cheeks flushed and eyes dry and bright, until Amadeo figures she’s ignoring him. Then she says, “How should I know.”
THREE WEEKS AFTER the baby’s birth, Tío Tíve agrees to come for dinner. Amadeo’s mother, has, of course, arranged it, with her usual optimism that this time everyone might get along. Angel’s been stomping around in the same puke-covered cupcake-print pajamas, but today she showers, blow-dries her hair, puts on a strange shimmering mauve shirt with blousy sleeves and a bow at the neck and a line of unnecessary buttons up the back. “What?” she challenges Amadeo when she catches him looking at the bow. “Gramma loaned it to me. She says it draws the eyes up. Away from this.” She thumps her soft middle with real hatred. Honestly, if Amadeo didn’t know better, he’d think she was still pregnant.
In the kitchen, Yolanda is whipping potatoes with butter. Amadeo swipes his finger in the bowl. Uncharacteristically, his mother doesn’t swat him away. Instead she waits for him to remove his hand a second time before grinding pepper. Without raising her head she says, “Your sister’s coming to meet the bobby, so you need to be nice to her.” She pauses. “The baby,” she corrects slowly. “She’s coming to meet the baby.”
Amadeo snorts so vigorously that a droplet shoots from his nose to his shirt. “What happened to Amadeo is a drunken psycho? Jesus, Valerie can’t stand to miss nothing.” He yanks open the fridge and all the jars clank in the door. He searches the shelves. His mother’s back is tense over the bowl. “You hid the fucking beer from me?”
“It’s not there?” asks Yolanda in a voice so transparent he almost laughs again. “Well, a night without beer won’t hurt any of us. And you’re being sober now.”
Maybe he wouldn’t even drink it, but it’s up to him. Hasn’t he been sober since Easter? Hasn’t he been doing fine on his own? He doesn’t need her condescension, her punishments, as if she’s withholding a treat from a bad dog. “One mistake and you think I’m a fucking alcoholic.” He slams the refrigerator so hard the ceramic fruit and vegetable magnets drop and scatter.
“I told Valerie you weren’t drinking, honey. She’s proud of you. We’re all very proud.” He feels a pang when, with a sigh, she kneels to gather the magnets herself. He’s relieved that the beer is gone, because it’s out of his hands.
“And otherwise, what? She wouldn’t come meet Connor? She’d punish a little baby to make a point?”
“Otherwise I’d have to ask you to leave for the evening. So be good.” The firmness of her tone stuns him into silence.
When Valerie shows up, she takes one look at Amadeo, then grabs each daughter protectively by the hand. His nieces gaze up at him with clear, distant eyes. “Hello, Amadeo.” She arches a skeptical eyebrow, then turns smoothly away. However, her stony face softens when she sees Connor lying in his little bouncy seat. “Oh, look at you.” She drops her daughters’ hands, leaving them to fend for themselves in the presence of their monstrous uncle, and advances on the baby.
Because Amadeo’s plan for the evening is to prove to all of them what a good grandfather he is, he gets to Connor first. He lifts him by the butt and head, supporting the fragile little neck the way he’s been instructed. Connor makes fists and squints crossly into the overhead light.