“You have to woo,” she said.
That night he tried to make a pin. He painted a small wooden
oval with tiny black birds, circling a heart. He used pink paint for the
heart, but it was too chunky, clumping up like bubblegum. He separated the birds and heart by breaking the pin in two. Rebecca would
like the birds, he thought. She understood pain, a dead mother and all.
Lacey needed pink hearts, like Jenn. Like Chloe would. Like all girls that
giggled at football games in their varsity jackets. Nothing screamed femininity more than a lit-up pink emblem of affection. Tony felt foolish and
chucked the broken pin into the garbage.
Tony was going to ask Lacey to Homecoming. He woke up Sunday morning and his mind was set. He wouldn’t do anything crazy, like
ask in front of the school or make a big elaborate pin. He would just ask.
Plain and simple. And if she said no, it was because she was attracted to
wussy men, who felt like they needed to beg. He would just ask. He was
man enough for that.
He went downstairs into the kitchen and was startled to find
his father and mother sitting next to one another at the table. Jenn and
Chloe sat on the other side, lips thin in a perfect straight line. Silvia was
in her wheelchair, sitting quite still like a thin layer of Saran wrap held
her in place. They had something to tell Tony, but no one spoke for some
time. Eventually, it was his father, who spoke with a deep slow monotone.
Silvia was sick, with a real sort of sickness that ends in death. It was going
to be hard on the entire family his father told them, and yes, they were
still getting divorced. If anything, this news made the decision set.
Life would not stop, they kept saying. She could live another
month or two more years. Jenn would go away to school as planned. Jenn
nodded to everything they said, like a bobble-head. Her eyes, painted
with frost, stared out into the space between their mom and dad. Silvia
remained frozen, already a corpse. Chloe cracked her knuckles like Tony
did under times of stress, like he should have been doing right now. Instead, he ran to his bedroom.
He pulled out the painting of the woman from his closet. Tiny
tears dribbled off his nose into her eyes, blinding his woman.
“My grief will never end,” he said, feeling like Romeo. “Come,
bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once
run on the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!”
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