“Oh, let me see him,” croons Valerie, arms extended, crowding Amadeo.
“I’ve got him.” Amadeo swivels, blocking his sister with his back.
“Jesus, Dad,” says Angel, pulling plates from the cupboard. “You can hold him whenever you want.”
Connor gives a twitching half-smile. “See?” Amadeo says. “He wants to stay with me. He’s smiling.”
Angel glances. “Gas.”
“Bullshit. No one smiles when they got gas.”
“Seriously, Dad. Give him to Valerie.”
Amadeo complies grudgingly. “You got to hold his head. He don’t like to be held too loose.”
“Doesn’t,” Valerie corrects automatically. “Loosely. I’ve held babies before, Amadeo.” But her voice is sweet, because she’s already nuzzling Connor.
Amadeo has a memory of Valerie hugging him tightly on the couch when they were kids. After their father died, they did this every day when they got home from first and sixth grade: had their snacks—ramen noodles or cheese melted on their grandmother’s tortillas—and then just clutched each other as if their lives depended on it while they watched TV. They never, as far as Amadeo can remember, spoke about their long silent hugs. Amadeo remembers his arms reaching up and around his sister’s neck, his own neck cricked, his hand turning numb from where it was caught between Valerie and the back of the couch, remembers not wanting to shift even a fraction for fear of reminding them both of the strangeness of what they were doing. Eventually they must have untangled themselves, because certainly they’d have parted by late evening when their mother got home from Santa Fe with cold caught in the seams of her coat, kissed them tiredly and started dinner. Amadeo wonders if Valerie remembers any of this—she must, she’s vain about her ability to remember obscure moments from her childhood. He wonders if, as she’s treating him like shit, she thinks of it.
He watches his sister cradle little Connor, her face bright with happiness, and misses her, misses himself as he once was. When he was in elementary school, he’d depended on his big sister; while his mother was at work, Valerie helped him get ready in the morning, assembled his lunches, after school she helped him with his fractions. Even when she bossed him, she’d been there for him, which is maybe why he resented her so much when, as a teenager, she became focused on her own life, on getting herself into college and away from Amadeo and his mother.
Tíve shows up late and grunts in reply to the women’s enthusiastic greetings. Honey the dog pokes her long snout past the door, eager to join the party, but finds herself forced back by Angel, who briskly latches the screen.
“Hey, Uncle,” Amadeo says, but Tíve just nods and allows Yolanda to kiss his cheek and take his jacket.
The food, as always, is perfect: the mashed potatoes, of course; also gloriously crunchy green beans and slivered almonds sautéed in butter; golden pork chops with a mustardy breadcrumb crust, edges caramelized; and, because it’s Angel’s favorite, a whole baking dish of red chile enchiladas, the heat of the chile tempered by the tang of the cheddar. Amadeo’s mother has always been able to pull together varied and flavorful meals with barely any effort at all.
All through dinner, Amadeo feels an itchy unpleasant impatience as the voices swim around him: Angel’s high, Yolanda’s oddly muted and careful, Valerie’s fake and patient. Periodically one of his nieces will pipe up with a precocious observation that will be met with enthusiasm only by their mother.
Lily holds her speared pork chop aloft, regarding it with skepticism, then drops it back on her plate. “Do you know pigs are smarter than dogs?”
“Smarter than most humans, probably,” says Valerie. “So when are you going back to your program, Angel?”
“Our Open House is next Friday.” Angel looks from her grandmother to her father. “You guys remember, right?”