Chapter Twelve
Mom catches Nic and me before we head out the door Mon-day morning. “Did Mrs. E. talk about how often she’s going to pay, Gwen? It would help a lot if I knew if it was every week or every two. And what about you, Nico? Marco and Tony still pay by the job? And did Almeida’s give you some at the end of the night, or . . .”
Nic and I look at each other. A barrage of money questions first thing in the morning can’t be a good thing.
“Like always, Aunt Luce. They bill the houses and then the owners send the checks. But Almeida’s paid.” He heads back into his room, returning with a roll of bills neatly wrapped in an elastic band. “Yours is in here too, Gwenners.”
I reach out my hand, but Mom’s faster. She takes the bills and begins leafing through them, her lips moving as she silently adds the denominations. Finally, she gives a satisfied nod, divides the money carefully in thirds, returning some to Nic, some to me, slipping the rest into her purse.
“Anything wrong, Mom?”
She blinks rapidly, which, if she were a poker player, would be her tell. “Nothing,” she says finally.
“Sure, Aunt Luce?” Nic asks, tapping each of his shoulders 117
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in turn. “Broad shoulders. Ready to listen. Man of the house and all that.”
Mom ruffles his hair. “No worries, Nico.”
Once she leaves, Nic and I have only to exchange a glance.
“Damn, what now?” he says.
I shake my head. “If she starts taking in laundry, we’ll know something’s up.”
Taking in extra is what happened last winter when the hot water heater melted down, the Bronco needed brake work, and Emory needed an orthotic lift in one of his shoes because one leg is slightly shorter than the other. Grandpa Ben also began spending a lot more time at bingo nights, honing his card shark skills.
“Shit.” Nic rubs his forehead. “I don’t want to think about this. I just want to think about food and sex and swimming and sex and lifting and sex.”
“You’re so well-rounded.” I whack him on the shoulder with a box of Cheerios.
“I’m not supposed to be well-rounded,” he says, through a mouthful of last night’s leftover pasta. “Neither are you. And cuz . . . you can’t tell me you don’t think about it.”
“I don’t think about it,” I answer resolutely, concentrating very hard on pouring milk into my cereal.
Nic snorts.
We look up as the screen door squeaks open to see Dad standing there. He looks pissed off and for a second I’m afraid he overheard our conversation. Not a story he needs to know.
But then he drops his aged khaki laundry duffel inside the 118
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door, kicking it to the side wall with one foot. “Screen door’s still broken,” he mutters, scowling.
Nic fixes Dad with a stare, then returns his attention to the steady movement of his fork.
“Top step to the porch is rotting out too,” Dad says. “Fix it, Nicolas. Like I told you last time. Ben could put a foot through that. Or Emory, the state it’s in. A man takes care of his family.”
“Or he just bails on everyone,” Nic mumbles without looking up from texting on his cell. Grandpa Ben, coming in, fresh from the outdoor shower, sprig of lavender in hand to put under Vovó’s picture, gives Nic a warning glance, shakes his head. Dad is slightly deaf in one ear, but not immune to tone.
“What was that?” he asks, plunging his index finger into his ear. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said I’ll get to it, Uncle Mike.” Nic forks up the last of the pasta.
“Told you about it last month, Nico.” Dad grabs his bag again, dumps his laundry out on the kitchen floor near the washing machine in the closet. “A man tends to his own.”
My cousin scrapes back his chair, rolls his shoulders back, stretching, then clangs the plate into the sink. “Going to work.
Then Vee’s. I’ll be back late.” He directs his eyes only to me and Grandpa.
“Too hard on the boy, Mike,” Grandpa says in the silence that follows the clap of the screen door.
“He’s not a boy anymore. He should be thinking first about pulling his weight, not lifting those.” Dad points to Nic’s dumbbell. “Where’s Luce?”
“Where is she always?” Managing to look dignified despite 119
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the towel wrap, Grandpa heads for the refrigerator. He takes out a grapefruit, setting it on the cutting board. “Working.”
Brows lowering, Dad looks at him sharply, but Ben’s face is innocent as the cherubs painted on the ceiling at St. Anthony’s.
Dad says, “You get a hammer and some wood glue, I can fix that door right now.”
“Why aren’t you after me to fix it, Dad? The ability to hammer a nail isn’t just for Y chromosomes.”
“Like I said, it’s the job of the man of the house.”
Grandpa draws himself up straighter, clears his throat.
“The young man of the house. You’ve fixed your fair share of doors, Ben. No one’s taking that away from you.” Dad reaches for the hammer I’ve pulled from the tool kit in the kitchen closet.
He gets the door fixed in about twenty seconds, all the bet-ter to slam it slightly when he leaves a few minutes later.
What was that about? I’m not even sure who provoked who more. Grandpa Ben reaches over and pats me on the shoulder.
“Seja gentil, Guinevere. By Nico’s age, Mike owned a business, was about to be a father, pai.”
His dark brown eyes look old, watery, full of too much sor-row. “Then with two little babies. He didn’t have much chance for horsing around.”
I know every child of divorced parents is supposed to secretly hope their parents fall back in love and reunite. But I never have. Dad’s leaving removed a buzzing tension from the house, like a downed wire that might be harmless but could suddenly shock you senseless if you tripped over it. Grandpa 120
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