With teeth clenched, I snarl, “I hate—”
“Yer still gorgeous. Got a couple of years left and a tight cunt too. So, shut yergub, complain to someone who gives half afeck.”
The room is filled with a suffocating silence. If I ever shed another tear for this motherfucker, I’ll blow my brains out with the same twelve-gauge shotgun my father may or may not have done himself in with.
The minute hand on the glossy, wooden clock moves a quarter before Big Brody strides in. There are red marks on his neck where his linen shirt survived. Some buttons popped off for good.
He’s grumbling about food. “Son, Chevelle. Ye’re over here, and ye’re all thefeckin’way over there.”
“Get to it, Da.” Leith laughs.
Big Brody snorts, claiming the seat across from me. “Hon, if I had it in me to give words of wisdom tonight, I would. Start fresh tomorrow, aye?”
“Sure,” I manage to reply.
“But promise me, nae going to bed angry at this rascal. Nan lives by that saying.”
Leith laughs. “Go to bed angry? That’s all she knows, Da.”
“Leith,” he reprimands in a short tone.
“Big Brody, did my father kill himself and my mother?” I say the words I’ve always dreaded out loud.
His lips pull together, sympathetically. “Nae, Chevelle. He was innocent.”
“What happened?”
Big Brody’s eyes land on Leith, imploring his son to sit next to me. Worry knits his eyebrows at my husband’s lack of response.
I seize the moment. “Thanks, but I’ll handle the truth without anyone holding my hand.”
Exasperated, Big Brody slams a hand onto the desk. “Son, get yerarseover here!”
“Forgive me,Brody Boy,” Leith sneers, “but myfeckin’days are running together. Was it twenty-four, thirty-six hours, or something like that when ye told yer detective friend that ye was needing three new sons—one to replace yer namesake, one for the American, and one for me?Witson? Huh? All yer boys, three of them, or the whole lot of ‘em are bairns, aye?”
Big Brody shouts, “Get out!”
I glance back. My husband fists a bottle of whiskey, downing the venom like water. “Nae, Da. I’m staying, love me a good story.” He places his boots on the table, legs locked about the ankle.
Lips trembling, I sit straight forward. “Please, just tell me what you know, Big Brody.”
The muscles in the older man’s jaw constrict. He softens his tone. “Chevelle, do ya mind a man name, Fausto DeCastillo?”
Uncle Fausto?“Yes, I remember him. I thought he’d take me, ahem, instead of my adoptive mother.”
“Adoptive. . . .” Leith’s voice breaks into fragments of quiet laughter. He swigs more alcohol. “That’s another thing, Chevelle’s a scary one. Angry at thearseholewho showed her nothing but love and forgive—”
“Shut up!” I’ve had about as much as I can take from Leith.
“Nae. The bitch who adopted ye could be deid. But ye forgive the wrongfeckers.” Slowly, he drunkenly spews venom. “I’d place my hands around her neck, like so?” Now, he’s just being a dick.
“Aye, and choke the lass,” his father rushes, annoyed. “Leith, mind yer manners if ye have any love for yer mam!”
“I do.”
Big Brody’s fingers curl under. His chest expands, then compresses a few beats. “Fausto grew up with yer da. They did everything but pass the bar exam together. Fausto attended a shitty law school while yer da graduated from a prestigious university.”
A fond memory creeps into my mind. Uncle Fausto was always coming around. Like Mia demanded presents from her newaunties, I always expected and received gifts from Uncle Fausto.