I shook my head, still studying America as she leaned forward to slide me the plate. But instead of continuing, she cleared her throat a little and pulled up her shirt to cover more of her chest. My eyes plummeted to the tabletop once I realized how hard I’d been staring into the shadowed parts of her flesh, nerves burning with anticipation, the kind that grabs you during the climb of an amusement park ride. I kept my gaze down, focused on eating the first homecooked meal I’d had in Pops’s world since some long-forgotten time. But the flavor didn’t register on my tongue. All the feeling in my face had been pounded out by the drum within my cheeks.
Well, America said, bouncing back to her peppiness. It all started when your father stopped by my work…
She went on to tell me how she pulled a retail management gig at the same discount store where Pops bought his office getups and my boxers, the only clothes that weren’t purchased for me by my mother. When she mentioned the joint’s name, a rope of anxiety coiled around my ribs, thoughts jumping to the stickiness my dream had produced, how the underwear she’d probably rung up for Pops had trapped it all against my flesh.
He showed me your school picture, America cooed. The one he has tucked into his wallet—says he updates it every year. He couldn’t stop talking about you—kept telling me you’re his pride and joy.
Before continuing, my father’s America placed a hand on my forearm. The rope tightened hard, trapping breath in my lungs, stopping my fork midmotion.
That’s when I knew your dad was a good man, she said. The warmth of her palm was drawing goosebumps from my skin, but the sensation was dampened by America’s statement, how it tiptoed into my ear with the timidness of a question, as if she wanted me to confirm or deny the truth of my father’s character. The sweat coating my brow felt like a reminder that I didn’t have an answer.
Sure he was handsome, America continued, just like you, sweet thing—but that’s easy pickings. What’s special is that your dad is a guy with his priorities set—you know what a priority is, right?
I bowed my head, but my body was on autopilot, mind stretching thin as my thoughts bounced between the euphoria of America calling me handsome and the suspicion of her attempting to pry responses from me.
Of course you do, she chirped. Such a smart young gentleman—just like your dad told me. You’re his world, sweet thing.
Silence cut into the moment then. America was biting her lip and gazing down at the counter, as if debating whether she should say more—or maybe she was reevaluating what she’d already said. But then she pulled me close, kissed my forehead, and the rope split my stomach in two.
I excused myself from the table, explaining that it was my bedtime, raining down thanks without looking America in the eye. I rushed into the hallway, which arrowed in the direction of my father’s room. I could hear his door unlocking, its knob twisting, and then his voice gassing toward me. It was a soft sound, pleasantly surprised, as if he was actually happy to see me heading his way. But I just quickened my step in response. All I wanted was to kill the lights, dive under my sheets, and let the TV’s drone wash away my thoughts.
In bed I tried to calm myself with rationalizations, counting them like sheep. I reminded myself that it didn’t mean nada—America’s words or affection or praise—’cus there was no fucken way this would last. The doubt that had crept through America’s comments was all the proof I needed, proof she was aware of the shit Pops was pulling. Cabrón still brought other women around. Every now and then, on the nights America didn’t stay over, I would catch a duet bleeding through the walls, starting with the cymbal crashes of some stranger’s drunken laughter, followed by the bass drum of my father’s speech, driving her to his room. I poured the pain of these memories into a single container, all while telling myself, right before drifting into sleep, that my father’s America was as permanent as a snowflake in the desert.