tonight. I can’t handle another one of those depressing stories.” He curls into himself on the couch and unbuttons his collar. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. Thaddeus, what do you think of the neighborhood?”
“Very impr—”
“And then last year,” Steven interrupts, “his father was run over by a car.” There’s a cruel sort of excitement nipping at the edges of his words. “You wonder how a thing like that manifests itself when they’re older.”
“Maybe he’ll end up like that serial killer,” Peter says, shooting Steven a look.
Cheryl snaps to attention. “What serial killer?”
“It’s nothing you have to worry about,” Steven says without taking his eyes off Peter.
“He targets the gay clubs,” Peter says. “It’s been in the paper.”
“Well, do the police have any leads? They must have something. Don’t these people always leave a calling card or something?”
Peter shrugs. “It’s complicated. Apparently.”
“It’s not even clear that the deaths are linked,” Steven says.
“I don’t want to hear this.” She hands Gertie to Thaddeus and returns to the kitchen. “I’ll never understand that kind of thing. My question is always: Where were the parents? You don’t just turn out that way.”
Thaddeus balances Gertie on his knees while playfully sticking his tongue out at her. He bends a thousand funny faces, and though initially reluctant to encourage his tomfoolery, she eventually claps. After that, each new face causes her to shake more and more with excitement.
“Ha!” Thaddeus says. “Will you look at that, Stevie? I think she’s warmed up to me.”
Steven glances at him and rolls his eyes. “I’m sure the killer has his reasons.”
“For God’s sake, Steven,” Peter says. “You don’t have to defend everyone.”
“But it’s true,” Steven says. “What, you think it’s accidental? You think a serial killer isn’t trying to make a statement of some kind? I mean, if it even is a serial killer.”
“Well, I don’t think about it,” Cheryl says, grabbing dinner plates from the cabinets.
“And you think that’s a healthy approach?”
“How many of those kids of yours go to the clubs anyway?”
Steven laughs. “You think it’s one of them? Maybe it should be.”
“This is so morbid,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes. “And not what I need with a pounding headache. Let’s talk about something else. Does anybody want a drink? I think we have some gin.”
“I think these kids get totally ignored,” Steven says. “Gay people in general.”
“Here we go,” Peter says, walking to the bar. “Saint Steven and his righteous indignation.”
“I always pay attention to lesbians,” Thaddeus says, but everyone ignores him.
“Oh, Steven,” Cheryl says. “You’re being extreme.”
“Maybe. But do you know all the hoops we had to jump through just to adopt Gertie? Maybe this killer has the right idea. Kill off enough gay people and society starts paying attention.” He pops a grape into his mouth. “After all, if it weren’t for the Holocaust there’d be no Israel, right? Or just look at Baltimore, or even here in Florida. People are starting to pay attention to the race problem we have in this country precisely because of public violence. It’s unfortunate but it’s true.”
“Anybody else for a g and t?” Peter asks.
“Right, that’s the solution. Just get drunk instead of engaging in a dialogue.”
“First of all, I’m not getting drunk. I’m having a drink. There’s a difference. But maybe you’re conflating the two things just like you’re conflating the actions of some psychopath with a legacy of institutionalized racism.”
“I’m not conflating anything. I’m merely offering an interpretation—”
“You’re ignoring everything we’ve accomplished! Your mother’s right. You’re just being difficult.”
Steven shrugs. “You can call it difficult if you want, but people respond to bold actions.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “So now he’s a hero.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but that’s what you’re implying.”
Steven waves away the comment.
“Nobody’s a hero,” Cheryl says with finality. “Now, come on—everybody to the dining room. Dinner’s almost ready.”
LAILA PUSHES THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR WITH THREE gallons of water in each hand, the static weight paining her joints. “Alex, you home?” she calls. “Come help me get this stuff in the house. I got called into work. Alex?”
The same silence from this morning permeates the house. There’s no sign that Alex has been back. Son of a bitch, she thinks. She’s going to have to call Esther.
She sets the gallons down on the kitchen floor and pushes them into the pantry with her feet, then heads back to the truck for the rest of the supplies. Three trips later the Morales household is prepared for whatever Mother Nature has in store for them tonight. Laila, however, feels depleted. All she wants is to collapse on the couch and take a quick nap, but with traffic bad returning from the gallery, now she’s running late. Sanjay expects her soon and she still needs to change and drive to Apopka. Drawing on her reserves, she wills herself upstairs to hunt for her work clothes, sequestered somewhere in the escalating entropy that is her bedroom. As she changes, she calls Esther.
Her stepmother greets her with a yawn. “Oh, Laila, I’m surprised to hear from you.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Jorge”—the gardener—“came by earlier. He says he needs to rip out the tree your father planted. Que tiene un bicho o algo, I don’t know. Now the county is saying they all have to go.”
Her lab coat cuts through the pile of laundry like a vein of marble in a mountain. She pulls it out, dumping half the clothes onto the carpet in the process. With no time to iron, she’ll have to rely on the heat and humidity to relax the worst of the wrinkles.
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been difficult to hear. Did you take anything?”
“Lo que me mandó Dinenberg.”
“The Klonopin? Are you taking anything else with it?”
She tears apart her bed hunting for her name badge before finding it clipped to the medicine cabinet mirror. The engraved lettering is chipped from years of banging around in purses and pockets,
