Sunburn(5)

"Or even, like, heah," Vincente said, "when you first come out the house. There's no drama to it, it's boom, all of a sudden you're onna patio. But maybe, some kinda archway like—"

They heard the front door open.

"Joey's home," said Sandra.

"Yeah," said his father, "you'll talk to Joey, you'll decide what kinda statues."

———

Later, in bed, Sandra said, "Joey, I hate to complain, but it's getting to me, it's been almost two weeks, your father is driving me a little bit bananas. "

Joey swallowed his first impulse, which was to stand up for blood no matter what. Married just short of three years, he still sometimes had to remind himself who his life's true ally was. He exhaled slowly, stroked his wife's short blond hair.

"I know he means well," she went on, "but he's got this way about him. Like he knows what you want better than you know what you want. He's sweet but he's bossy."

"Force a habit," Joey said. "He's the Boss."

"Not in my house, he isn't," Sandra said.

Joey leaned back on his pillow and pondered this. He knew his wife was right, and it was a breathtaking notion: They were the grownups here, this was their place; they owned it and they ran it. True, the old man might occasionally conduct his coded business on their phone, might now and then commandeer the study to receive an emissary from New York or Miami, but it was still their house, it lay beyond his father's power like an embassy lay beyond the power of the country it was standing in.

"Joey, try to understand. I just don't like someone telling me I need more furniture. I don't like someone telling me I need a carpet. It's my dining room, I don't want a stupid chandelier—"

"Sandra," Joey interrupted. "Coupla days, Gino'll be down. "It'll take some a the pressure off."

Her green eyes glinted a faint silver in the dimness. "Gino? Take the pressure off? That'd be a first."

Sandra, on a roll, was right again. Had Gino Delgatto, Joey's older, legitimate half-brother, ever in his life made anything easier for anybody? Not that Joey could remember. Gino was a schemer, and not bright enough to keep his scheming simple. He pulled other people in, used them. Last time he'd been in Key West, he'd almost gotten Joey whacked. True, that misbegotten caper had bankrolled Joey in his new, civilian, perfectly legal career—but that hadn't been any thanks to his big brother.

"I just mean," Joey said, "Pop'll have someone else around, other things to talk about."

Outside, a light breeze made the palm fronds rattle, moved the thin curtains around the open bedroom windows. Moonlight filtered in. The air smelled of jasmine and cool sand.

"What kind of other things?" asked Sandra. "Hm?"

"Gino. Why's he really coming down? He's doing business in Florida again?"

"Sandra, hey, his mother just died. He wants ta spend some time wit' his father. 'Zat so hard t'understand?"

Joey didn't say it loudly, didn't get up on an elbow, but there was enough of a rasp in his voice to let Sandra know he shared her qualms about Gino's visit. It let her know, as well, that his restraint was about exhausted, that the reflex to stand up for blood might now be triggered by a single syllable. Sandra simply snuggled up against her husband's shoulder. When a marriage works, it is in no small part because a woman and a man have come to recognize in precise measure when enough has been said.

But while Sandra had griped and was now serene, Joey was less so. He blinked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, let it out so it puffed his cheeks. "Sandra," he said, "don'cha know why Pop is askin' ya these things? About carpets, statues, furniture?"

"He isn't asking me, Joey. He's telling me what—"

"He wants to buy us something. A housewarming, like. He's tryin'a figure out what you want. ... I know him, Sandra. Innee old days, he woulda took me aside and handed me cash. But money, ya gotta understand, money is a gift but it's also control, a way ta remind ya who ya gotta go to ta get it. Now he's tryin' ta do somethin' different. Somethin' for both of us. For the house. It's like his way a sayin', OK, ya got your own life now."

There was a silence. Shadows of palm trees played on the bedroom curtains.

"Now I feel like an ungrateful bitch."

"Nah, there's no reason for you to feel like that. Pop, he doesn't make it easy. I mean, someone else, he'd just say, 'Hey, I'd like ta get ya somethin',' you'd say 'Thank you,' and that'd be it. Wit' my old man, it's more complicated. His way, I guess he thinks it's more elegant, more dignified. More somethin'. It's like he's talkin' a different language. A language from a different time. T'understand it, I guess ya gotta know 'im a lotta years."