every time he walked away toward anything—anything at all—Joe felt as if he were walking right out of his life.
Joe had worried that a boy growing up without a mother would become too hard, too tough. Tomas had grown up with nothing but masculine influences around him—even Miss Narcisa with her brusque ways, stern face, and icy revulsion toward sentiment was, as Dion had noted on numerous occasions, more male than most of them. The boy had also grown up in a soldier’s culture, where the men around him wore guns somewhere on their person—he’d have to have been blind not to notice a few of them over the years—and a couple of those men had disappeared. Where they went, Tomas couldn’t know because no one ever mentioned them again. It surprised Joe to watch his son, with no softness in his life, develop into a quiet, gentle boy. If he found a heat-sick lizard on the gallery (and that’s where you usually found them in the summer, already calcifying), he would slide a matchbook under it and carry it down to the garden, release it into the moist earth beneath dark leaves. When he was younger, he’d always befriended the boys who were bullied at home or bullied at school. He wasn’t athletic, or maybe he just wasn’t interested. His grades were only so-so, yet all his teachers agreed he was smart for his age. He liked to paint. And sketch in thick pencil. The paintings were usually cityscapes, the buildings always slanted for some reason, as if all cities were built on crumbling land. The sketches were all of his mother. There was only one photograph of her in the house and half of her face was in shadow, but the sketches he drew over the years picked up an uncanny resemblance for a nine-year-old boy who’d just reached his second birthday when she died.
Joe asked him about it once. “How do you know what she looks like off one picture? Do you remember her?”
“No,” the boy said. There was no loss in his voice. It was as if Joe had asked him about anything else from that time period—Do you remember your crib? Your teddy bear? That dog we had in Cuba that ran into the path of a tobacco truck? No.
“So how is it you draw her face so well?”
“You.”
“Me?”
Tomas nodded. “You compared things to her a lot. You’d say, ‘Your mother’s hair was that color but thicker,” or ‘Your mother had those beauty marks, but they were along her collarbone.’”
Joe said, “I did, huh?”
Another nod. “I don’t think you realize how much you used to talk about her.”
“Used to?”
His son looked at him. “You don’t anymore. Not much anyway.”
Joe knew the reason why, even if his son didn’t, and he sent a silently apology to Graciela. Yes, honey, you—even you—fade.
DION SHOOED HIS BODYGUARDS off to the side and he and Joe exchanged handshakes, then stood in the long shadows of the church and waited for the brothers DiGiacomo.
Dion and Joe had been friends since they were kids running the streets of South Boston. They’d been outlaws, then criminals, then gangsters together. Dion had once worked for Joe. Now Joe worked for Dion. Kind of. The specifics could get cloudy. Joe was no longer a boss and Dion was. But Joe was an active member of the Commission. A boss had more power than any single memberof the Commission, but the Commission had more power than any one boss. It complicated things at times.
Rico and Freddy didn’t keep them waiting, though Rico and his matinee-idol looks and charm pressed a lot of flesh on his way over. Freddy, on the other hand, looked as sullen and confused as ever. He was the older of the two, but his younger brother had received all the proceeds from the genetic jackpot. Rico got the looks, the charm, and the intelligence. Freddy just got the itch for thinking the world owed him something. Everyone admitted Freddy was a good earner—though, not surprisingly, not nearly as good as his brother—but given his taste for needless violence and some
Joe had worried that a boy growing up without a mother would become too hard, too tough. Tomas had grown up with nothing but masculine influences around him—even Miss Narcisa with her brusque ways, stern face, and icy revulsion toward sentiment was, as Dion had noted on numerous occasions, more male than most of them. The boy had also grown up in a soldier’s culture, where the men around him wore guns somewhere on their person—he’d have to have been blind not to notice a few of them over the years—and a couple of those men had disappeared. Where they went, Tomas couldn’t know because no one ever mentioned them again. It surprised Joe to watch his son, with no softness in his life, develop into a quiet, gentle boy. If he found a heat-sick lizard on the gallery (and that’s where you usually found them in the summer, already calcifying), he would slide a matchbook under it and carry it down to the garden, release it into the moist earth beneath dark leaves. When he was younger, he’d always befriended the boys who were bullied at home or bullied at school. He wasn’t athletic, or maybe he just wasn’t interested. His grades were only so-so, yet all his teachers agreed he was smart for his age. He liked to paint. And sketch in thick pencil. The paintings were usually cityscapes, the buildings always slanted for some reason, as if all cities were built on crumbling land. The sketches were all of his mother. There was only one photograph of her in the house and half of her face was in shadow, but the sketches he drew over the years picked up an uncanny resemblance for a nine-year-old boy who’d just reached his second birthday when she died.
Joe asked him about it once. “How do you know what she looks like off one picture? Do you remember her?”
“No,” the boy said. There was no loss in his voice. It was as if Joe had asked him about anything else from that time period—Do you remember your crib? Your teddy bear? That dog we had in Cuba that ran into the path of a tobacco truck? No.
“So how is it you draw her face so well?”
“You.”
“Me?”
Tomas nodded. “You compared things to her a lot. You’d say, ‘Your mother’s hair was that color but thicker,” or ‘Your mother had those beauty marks, but they were along her collarbone.’”
Joe said, “I did, huh?”
Another nod. “I don’t think you realize how much you used to talk about her.”
“Used to?”
His son looked at him. “You don’t anymore. Not much anyway.”
Joe knew the reason why, even if his son didn’t, and he sent a silently apology to Graciela. Yes, honey, you—even you—fade.
DION SHOOED HIS BODYGUARDS off to the side and he and Joe exchanged handshakes, then stood in the long shadows of the church and waited for the brothers DiGiacomo.
Dion and Joe had been friends since they were kids running the streets of South Boston. They’d been outlaws, then criminals, then gangsters together. Dion had once worked for Joe. Now Joe worked for Dion. Kind of. The specifics could get cloudy. Joe was no longer a boss and Dion was. But Joe was an active member of the Commission. A boss had more power than any single memberof the Commission, but the Commission had more power than any one boss. It complicated things at times.
Rico and Freddy didn’t keep them waiting, though Rico and his matinee-idol looks and charm pressed a lot of flesh on his way over. Freddy, on the other hand, looked as sullen and confused as ever. He was the older of the two, but his younger brother had received all the proceeds from the genetic jackpot. Rico got the looks, the charm, and the intelligence. Freddy just got the itch for thinking the world owed him something. Everyone admitted Freddy was a good earner—though, not surprisingly, not nearly as good as his brother—but given his taste for needless violence and some
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