—You know what I mean, he barked. He shoved more bread in his mouth and said, crumbs flying out with his words, And you know how she gets. So tell her to relax about it.
I choked my fork in my hand to keep from saying No duh the way Jillian would. Another waitress came by and slid two identical plates of scrambled eggs on the table, the pink flecks of ham scattered atop each heap like wet confetti. We both looked down and sat up straight, away from our plates, neither of us seemingly very hungry at all.
—I don’t have to tell her anything, I said.
—?Todo bien? the waitress asked, and we said yes without looking at each other.
He unwrapped his silverware, tossing the little paper band off to his side. Digging into the eggs, mixing them even though they were already very much mixed, he said, You know what? Do whatever you want.
—She’s just volunteering, I said. But I couldn’t even convince myself: my mom would say exactly that in her own defense. I pushed my eggs around my plate.
—Volunteering. Sure she is. If that’s what she calls what she’s doing.
He waved one hand like a blade across his throat and shut his mouth, started over.
—Like I said, do whatever you want. It’s not my problem.
I shrugged and said, Fine, not mine either then.
He didn’t speak again until his eggs were gone, though that was only maybe a few minutes. About halfway through them, with me still on my fifth or sixth bite, I faked a mean laugh and said, Hungry much? But the only response was the clank of his fork on the plate.
When nothing but specks of egg were left, he grabbed his napkin and pulled it to his face. He wiped around his mouth in a wide arc, and from that move, I knew he’d shaved recently; he was still used to a goatee, to a big food-catching swath of hair clinging to his face. The empty feeling was still new to him.
—So the party’s at Zoila’s house again?
I had a freak flash of panic—he was planning on coming and making a scene. My dad had missed Noche Buena only a couple times before: one time because of a fight with Mami, after which he went instead to Fito’s apartment and hung out there; and one time because his grandmother was dying and he wanted to spend it with her, since she’d pretty much raised him. I imagined him making his last stand in Zoila’s driveway, but then he leaned back in his chair and let out a puff of air—a muted burp.
—Yeah, I said.
As he rubbed his belly through his shirt, I searched for what to say next: What are you doing for Noche Buena? Are you sad you aren’t coming with us? Where did you even go before you came to Mom’s family’s party? Do you feel bad now that you aren’t invited? As bad as we felt when you decided to make us homeless?
—I have something, he said.
He sat up in his seat. A present, I thought, and something shot through my hands, the pinkie and ring fingers going numb. I hadn’t gotten him anything—hadn’t expected anything from him. I hadn’t gotten gifts for anyone, not even Dante. I’d planned to explain that I was going to shop the day after Christmas—I was so busy up at school!—but I’d forgotten to give this explanation to anyone.
—Papi, you didn’t need –
—It’s nothing, he said.
He lifted himself from the seat a bit and reached his hand behind him. In his fist, when the hand returned, was his wallet. He flipped it open.
—No, really Dad.
He shushed me. From the gap where money went, he tugged out three bill-sized crumpled envelopes. Two were blank, but scribbled on the third was the word Dante.
—It’s not a lot, so listen, just take it. There’s one for Leidy and one for the kid. You give it to them for me, okay?
He held the envelopes out across the table, the three of them fanned out and trembling a little. Please, he said. It’s fine, just take it.
The one marked Dante was on top. The name was written in all caps, with the D written over and over again, like the pen had stopped working. Almost every Christmas before this, he’d sneak off in the days leading up to the holiday and buy Leidy and me something that he hadn’t discussed with my mom: when I was nine, it was a Nintendo; the year before Leidy got pregnant, he bought both of us a really nice Seiko watch. The next year, with Leidy three months away from having Dante and Roly still staying away, it was nothing. Later, I understood that his not getting us something on his own was a sign he was planning on leaving, even before I made it easier for him by confessing what I’d done. And later, his choice to forgo gifts would be vindicated when I showed him the acceptance packet to a school he didn’t know I’d applied to, that he didn’t even know existed. But now, with these envelopes, a new possibility opened up: he’d been too disappointed in Leidy, by her and Roly’s choices—too angry at how little control he had over anything—to pick something out.