Shelter (16 page)

For a moment, she felt like she was fifteen again and had just come bounding down the front staircase to greet her relatives, the promise of chocolate chunk brownies after dinner making her mouth water.

But then, her hand found Carlos’s and she laced their fingers together as they reached the threshold of the family room. Here went nothing.

It was a large space made smaller by the volume of occupants.
Her aunt Liz and uncle David, her cousin Tanya and her husband Rod. Diane’s brother Greg and his wife Claudia, their three children, the oldest of which was twelve and the other two who were engaged in some kind of wrestling match on the rug in the middle of the room. Tanya’s brother Hayden who had just had a baby, the little bundle squirming and crying in his wife’s arms.

With the exception of the two little boys pushing and shoving one another, everyone else in the room fell silent at Alma’s appearance, which did nothing for her comfort level. Carlos squeezed her hand and she took another deep breath. “Hey, guys,” she said in a small voice she didn’t recognize as her own. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

All of their expressions, even twelve-year-old Alison’s, were knowing. Diane had told all of them about her nutjob widow daughter’s forbidden fling with her dead hubby’s cousin. Fantastic.

Tanya was the first to find her voice and a halfway convincing smile. “Hey, cos,” she got to her feet and came to give Alma a hug, which she hated because it meant she had to let go of Carlos’s hand. But it shook everyone else loose and then she was set upon by all
of her family.

**

Alma may have tried to distance herself from them through her behavior, her outlook on her surroundings, and of course, her choice in men. But as he stood off to the side like an unfortunate passerby, he was struck by the contrast between himself and the girl he loved. Her family might grow short-tempered with her, shake their heads and cluck their tongues, but she would always be one of them. She’d never be a broke-ass Puerto Rican kid who’d crammed everything he owned in a Kroger shopping bag and found his way to his aunt’s doorstep. She might be a waitress now, but that was only short-term. She had a college degree and he would spend the rest of his life digging trenches wearing a shirt with his name on it. As she forced a smile for her aunts and uncles, accepted their hugs and well wishes about the baby, managed not to recoil when her aunt Claudia pressed a hand over her belly, she was absolutely beautiful; you couldn’t hide good breeding. Even if he wasn’t bad looking – Alma had told him he was “hot” while she’d gazed at him with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes – he was a mongrel.

What’s wrong with her?
He had a very Diane moment as he stood with his hands in his pockets, invisible to all the people around him. Why in the hell would Alma go out with a guy like him? Like Sam? What was in it for her? He didn’t belong here at all.

Alma’s hand on his arm brought him into the ring of conversation. “Do you remember Carlos?” she asked her aunt Liz as she turned to him. She offered no explanation as to who he was, and when her eyes met his, he knew it was because it was too uncomfortable for her to describe him. And what could she say?
Here’s my husband’s cousin who also used to garden for my folks and who kissed me once when I was sixteen…

But he forced a smile for Liz. Nodded. “Hey.”

Liz looked very much like her sister, and though she was more polite, there wasn’t so much as a trace of recognition in her eyes as she greeted him.

The uncles shook his hands. The kids looked at him curiously. And then Diane appeared.

She came from the kitchen, a pair of oven mitts in her manicured hands. She was obviously where Alma had inherited her lean frame, today showcased in khakis, heels and a sweater that could only be described as Thanksgiving orange. Her hair, her makeup, everything was in its place, pressed, glossed, powdered and slicked to perfection – Alma had inherited her mom’s beauty routine too, not that he minded. Diane was not at all a frightening visage on the surface, but the light in her eyes told him to be very, very careful. A flicker of emotion ran across her face when she saw Alma, and then her gaze landed on him. If she’d had telepathic powers, she would have set him on fire right there in her living room.

Instead, she gave herself a little shake, smoothed her expression, and came toward them.

“Your mom,” he said quietly to Alma, and she spun around, hair fanning out like a dark halo, face a jumbled mix of nerves, fear, and defensiveness.

Carlos felt that now-familiar tension in his gut: his automatic reaction to the notion that someone or something might try to harm Alma. Even if it wasn’t his place to, he thought of her as his, and he conjured up an absurd image of himself diving between her and her mother, protecting her from her own mother. He really was losing it.

Diane didn’t whip out her claws, though, or even give her daughter one of those patented purse-lipped deep-sigh combinations that bespoke of disappointment and sympathy. Instead, her face remained neutral and her hands hesitated a moment as if Alma was breakable and she was afraid to hug her. She said, “Happy Thanksgiving, baby,” and pulled Alma into her arms.

Then, over her girl’s shoulder, her eyes met his again, and a warning shined clear and bright in them. She’d accused Sam of stealing Alma away, and she was hoping, maybe even threatening, that he’d walk away on his
own before she had to resort to outright defamation of character.

Not scared,
he thought. If Alma came to her senses and kicked him to the curb, he’d be absolutely wrecked, but he wouldn’t blame her. Tom and Diane, however, weren’t running him off.

**

Alma’s morning sickness ebbed and flowed like waves at the beach. Nauseous waves. Some days she felt fine, others she could barely choke down some saltines and covered her nose with her arm when she went back into the kitchen at work because the normally delicious smells of baking bread made her want to puke. Today, thankfully, was a good day so far, of which she was grateful because it would have looked beyond rude to turn down her mother’s turkey and stuffing. And because the food was heavenly. She’d been cooking for Carlos, though rarely from scratch and never with such a deft culinary flare.

With so many people around the table, it was easy to keep the conversation light and chatty; her uncles swapped memories and the younger generation chimed in only occasionally. She heard Hayden’s wife Amy ask Carlos what he did for a living, but his response was drowned out by Alison’s inquiry about her pregnancy. The meal passed with relative ease, and before Alma knew it, Diane and Liz were gathering up plates and Tom was talking about scotch and cigars. Alison went to the living room to put on a movie for her little brothers.

Alma had been waiting for an opportunity, and now felt like one, though the prospect of talking one-on-one with her mother was terrifying. She glanced over at Carlos who was rising from his seat. He seemed uncomfortable with the notion of joining the guys for a cigar, but she figured he didn’t want anything to do with the women of her family either. The poor guy was in a bad position.

“I think I’ll -
” she started, and he grinned.

“Take your time.”

“Thank you,” because they were alone at the table, she pressed a kiss to the bristly top of his head. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Damn straight you will.”

Her legs were rubber as she stood and gathered his plate and hers, began the short walk to the kitchen that somehow, in this moment, felt like walking down the long hall of her high school toward the principal’s office on the one occasion she’d misbehaved. Only this time, it wasn’t an intentional dress code violation, but her future that needed discussing, and her mom was more intimidating than her principal had been.

Alma had never cared what others thought – not friends, peers, relatives or strangers – but on some level, even when she’d denied it to her core, she’d fretted over her mother’s disapproval. What bothered her most was the knowledge that she’d never tried to defy Diane. She hadn’t been a rebellious teenager – had
n’t pierced anything strange, never dyed her hair a crazy pastel color. She’d never slammed doors or cursed her parents. In fact, she’d been a geek: honor roll and disinterested in football games. A pretty nerd, Carlos always told her.
A smart chick in a shallow chick’s body
Sam had said once and she’d nearly shot coffee out of her nose. So it had always been puzzling and hurtful to know that Diane was ashamed of what she’d become. She’d constructed emotional barriers, had sharpened her tongue and drawn claws to protect her heart from her mother’s disparaging comments. But now, as she walked into the kitchen, she felt opened up and exposed. Reaching out, making a gesture left her vulnerable, and she hoped this encounter went better than the last.

Diane and Liz were at the sink, working in tandem on the no
n-dishwasher-safe pots and pans; Diane washed and rinsed, Liz dried and set them aside. Alma set the dishes she’d carried on the counter above the dishwasher that was chugging away, leaving them with the rest of the dinnerware that had to wait for round two, and took a deep breath. “Here, Aunt Liz,” she offered. “I can do that.”

“Oh, no, sweetie, I’ve got it.” When Liz glanced over her shoulder, Alma nodded toward her mother, and mouthed
please
. “Oh, well…I guess I could make the coffee…”

“Don’t let her,” Diane protested as they traded places. Alma stepped up to the sink and held out her hand for the clean, dripping sauté pan in her mom’s hands. “You’re pregnant.”

“I’m in my second trimester, I think I can handle some household chores.”

Diane pursed her lips, but passed the pan over, reaching for the next that lay submerged beneath a sea of Palmolive bubbles in her half of the sink
. Liz shuffled around behind them a moment, but then she walked around the corner to the breakfast nook and the big 12-cup stainless coffee brewer housed there.

They worked in silence at first, the clang of steel against steel buffered by water the only sound. Alma gathered her voice and opened her mouth twice, only to close it again. Her nerves were getting the best of her. In situations like these, she’d learned to give a vague compliment about the dinner, the house, the smell of the new candles, but she couldn’t do that this time. She’d arranged this little moment in the kitchen between them and she had to follow through with her plans. If for no other reason than
to save Carlos who was possibly alone with her father and uncles somewhere.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” It was a quick, disinterested sound.

“We went for my first u
ltrasound a couple of weeks ago.”

Diane went stock-still, soapy hands suspended in midair.

“I was about twelve weeks along, so they couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl, but Dr. Laramie said all my stats looked good. It seems healthy.”

“You,” her voice seemed oddly tight, not her usual mocking stiffness, but a true, emotional tautness had crept into the words. In profile, Alma could see lines form at the corners of her mouth and eyes. “You’ve been taking care of yourself then?”

“Yes, Mom,” she said softly. “I looked up all this information on the internet and - ”

“Folic acid. Are you taking it? You need prenatal vitamins so the baby will develop fully.”

Indignation made her cheeks hot, but Alma took a deep, calming breath. She had to stop pushing people away. Had to start reading situations better. Just like Carlos hadn’t meant any disrespect to Sam when he’d stared at her longingly on the sofa that night and wished they could have been together all along – and that idea still freaked her the hell out if she thought about it too hard – maybe Diane wasn’t insinuating that she wasn’t up to speed on her nutritional needs. Maybe it was something else…

“Uh-huh,” she kept her voice soft and low. “Dr. Laramie gave me this brochure about spina bifida and it looked awful.”

“Oh it is,” Diane said, nodding. She splashed water on her sleeves and didn’t seem to notice as she reached for the next pot. “Those poor babies with their spines just sticking out of their skin. It’s awful! No, we don’t want that.”

“Calcium’s important,” Alma continued, “but you know how milk upsets my stomach.”

“Soy.” Her mom set the pot back in the water and turned toward her, eyes wide and brimming with excitement. “Or almond. Your father’s been putting this almond milk in his cereal and he says it tastes better than the real thing.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Here, let me show you.”

As Diane abandoned her task and went toward the fridge, Alma released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
The conversation could still blow up in her face, but watching her mom was watching a woman transformed. This was the Diane who’d helped her pick out school clothes, who’d showed her how to French braid her hair so it looked like a crown ringing her head. Diane the way she’d known her as “mama,” and not the well-dressed enemy who wanted to poke at her ego and berate her man.

“See?” she opened the stainless fridge and withdrew the carton of Silk Pure Almond. “It’s vanilla flavored. You wanna try some?”

“No, thanks,” Alma smiled. “I trust you. I’ll have to pick some up at the store.”

“Or I could grab some the next time I’m out, I could bring some by your…” she trailed off and some of the spark left her eyes. Her smile slowly slipped away until it was a mere echo of what it had been. She averted her gaze so she was staring out the picture window that overlooked the backyard. “Oh.” Her voice changed, became the clipped, cold one she’d been using the afternoon Alma came to tell her about her new job. And in the diner. And at Chili’s…pretty much her standard voice as of late. “I guess you’re staying with…
him
.”