I decide not to inform her people in Louisiana eat nutria. I’ve had enough fun, and I’m pretty sure she won’t make the mistake of inviting me to dinner again.
The sound of forks lightly clinking china is the only noise as an awkward silence falls over the table. I press my lips together as I chew, studying the life-sized painting of a cattle drive hanging on the opposite wall. It’s gorgeous, with red-browns, oranges, and yellow highlights.
My dinner is almost done, and I start to make an excuse to get back to work when Winnie breaks in. “You said your uncle is a used car salesman?”
“He owns a car dealership.” I manage to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“What does your father do?”
Blinking down, I hold my expression neutral. “He died when I was a little girl.”
“Oh.” She glances at her plate. “I suppose that’s more common in your community.”
Our eyes meet, and I’m this close… Instead, I smile. “What do you and your nephew talk about when he visits?”
“Deacon?” A smile breaks across her face. “This and that. Finance mostly. That’s his line of work. He’s a financial adviser. Some would call him a wealth adviser.”
I tell myself I can tolerate this woman because she’s so obviously proud of the man I love.
She continues wistfully. “I hope one day he settles down with a nice, Texas girl.”
“Is that so?” So many snappy replies are on the tip of my tongue, but I want this job—and I am a nice Texas girl. So I stand and place my napkin beside my plate. “Thank you so much for dinner. I really should get back to work now.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to block the muse.”
Or cause me to take longer than fifty hours… I leave the room quickly. The door closes, and I fall back against it exhaling deeply. Of all the unpleasant dinners… A quick mental reminder of how much she’s paying me is all it takes to get me moving, heading to the room where I can get this fucking job done.
It’s after eleven when the car drops me in front of Beto’s enormous mansion. My brother bought me a Lyft card because his sister “doesn’t ride the bus,” which I like to imagine him saying in Lourdes’s exaggerated Beto-voice.
To be honest, I’m not complaining. I’d be broke paying for my own rides, and I don’t like catching the bus late at night. Not to mention, I’m exhausted. My eyes are tired from working on the portrait all day, and my brain is tired from dodging Winona Clarke land mines.
Instead of digging out my keys, I walk around to the backyard, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see the orange tip of a cigarette in the shadows. My purse falls off my shoulder, and my brother steps into the light.
“Jesus, why are you lurking around back here?” I pull my bag up my arm, annoyed.
“I don’t like the smell of cigarettes in the house.” My brother walks to the patio, lifting a tumbler of what I assume is his usual Mezcal.
“Then why don’t you quit?”
“Why are you coming home so late?”
I exhale heavily, heading to the back door. “I’m working. You know this.”
“Hang on.” He sits in a metal chair. “Sit with me for a minute.”
I stop at the door. “Beto, I’m really tired, and I have to get up at six-thirty to catch a ride with Rosalía.”
“Why is this woman making you work so hard?”
“She’s not. I just want to finish as soon as possible.” It’s not entirely true. Winnie still has this idea I shouldn’t need more than a week or two, and the last thing I want is her assuming I’m lazy.
“Sit down. I want to talk to you.” He leans back in his chair, and my shoulders drop.
Walking slowly to the metal table, I sit on the edge of the chair across from him.
“What?” I don’t try to keep the annoyed tone out of my voice.
He frowns. “Don’t act like a child.”
“Stop treating me like a child.”
He takes a drag, causing the orange tip of his cigarette to fire brighter. “I know you think I’m being too hard on you.” He exhales before continuing. “You have to trust me, Carmie. I know what’s best in this situation.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” His dark eyes level on mine. “Honor is all we have here. These people judge us before they even know who we are… that’s why it’s called prejudice.”
“Please don’t give me a lesson in English. You pre-judged Deacon without even giving him a chance—”
“I’ve told you all you need to know about that guy.”
“You actually told me very little. According to Valeria, you repeated a story that might not even be true. And it has nothing to do with him. We can’t control our grandparents.”
He takes another hit off his tumbler, and his white teeth catch the light. I’m not sure if he’s smiling or grimacing at me.
“Our father went to his grave a broken man. A poor man.” Beto’s voice simmers. “His biggest regret was not avenging his father’s murder.”
I can’t answer this.
Mamá talked about the hate here. She talked about shadows drowning out the light—it’s why she took me away from this place, away from the anger and bitterness, to her family’s estate in Mexico.
She said it was why she made the deep blue and black crosses. She had abandoned the idea of God, but she believed in the symbolism of the cross. She said the vertical was our spiritual relationship and the horizontal was our earthly. She said if our relationship with the vertical was out of balance, our horizontal relationships would not work.
I was so little, I didn’t understand. Now I can’t help noticing how much my brother’s anger sounds like Winnie’s bitterness. They’re two ends of the same horizontal.
“You don’t believe me.” He misinterprets my silence.
I don’t know Beto well enough to tell him our mother’s philosophy, but I’m pretty sure if I mention the cross, he’ll get pissed.
My voice is quiet. “I’m very tired. Can we talk about this another time?”
He exhales and stands roughly, shoving his chair back. “You’re my sister. It’s my job to protect you. That’s what I intend to do.”
“Even if I don’t need protection?”
“Even if you’re wrong.” He stubs out his cigarette and goes into the house.
I exhale slowly, my eyes warm with tears. I’m tired and I miss Deacon.
Mamá said to love my family more than anything, to be loyal. I wish she were here, because I have so many questions about how to love people who won’t give anyone a chance, who won’t listen, who are determined to hold onto their wrong assumptions no matter what.
I just really need some wisdom, because I don’t believe. And I’m starting not to care.
15
Deacon
Vandella Landry is a petite woman with small black glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her skin is smooth, and I would think she was in her early forties, if I didn’t know how old her mother was and if her black hair wasn’t streaked with grey.