Page 167 of Five Brothers

I hide it anyway, just for now. Just a day or two until I know he’s okay.

I put the towels back where I got them and head downstairs. I don’t bother getting dressed, still in my sleep shorts and T-shirt as I enter the kitchen.

Breathing in and out, I force my heart rate to slow down, and lift the window to my left. I draw in the fresh air. The curtains blow, and I push the images from my mind, and all the questions I can’t answer, or that he won’t answer if I ask. He sleeps in that room where she did it. He sees that rafter every day.

I open all the windows downstairs, letting in the warm breeze and the smell of the trees as I put on some music. “Take the World” plays on low volume. Moving around the house, I decide to pitch in on a few things, not really because I want to but because it’ll give me an excuse to be in the house.

Like throwing out the slimy green onions in the fridge.

But then I find expired milk, green sausage (that’s not green because it contains spinach), and three opened bottles of ketchup that should be bled into one. Before I know it, I’m tearing the whole refrigerator apart and cleaning it. Then I move on to the freezer and toss out the expired food in the pantry.

I arrange an extra disposal can for recycling, which they’ve just started to take part in. I’ll break that news to them tonight. Then I vacuum out all the spilled rice from the kitchen drawers and cabinets.

I find some candles and set them around, lighting them, because candle flames are pretty, and then I start an early dinner to simmer on the stove before I finish the dishes.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but I finally finish up by starting the dishwasher and hand-washing the pan from breakfast when the door to the garage swings open. Macon steps in, stopping when he sees me.

He stares, and my eyes drop momentarily to his sweaty chest and olive skin, and the way his jeans hang off his hips with nobelt. He’s losing weight. I jerk my gaze back down to the pan in the sink.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Why aren’t you at work?” There’s a bite to his tone, but not like when he’s talking to his brothers. More like he’s just unpleasantly surprised.

“I, um …” My vision fogs as my heartbeat picks up pace again. “I just wanted a quiet day.” I meet his eyes. “Aracely’s sister is filling in for me.”

He pinches his brows together, looking down at the dishes. “You’re cleaning.”

Now his tone sounds like he’s confused.

“Well, Icando it,” I joke. “When I want to.”

He gives me a look, and I swear, there’s almost a smile there. He’s in and out several times over the next couple of hours, getting something to drink, washing his hands, pulling his phone off the charger.

I clean the living room and get started on the floors, lifting the corner of the couch to roll up the area rug and take it outside.

I heave it up, but I’ll never get it on my shoulders. Dragging it across the floor, I stop short when I realize someone is pulling it. Looking back, I see Macon lift up one end and put it on top of his right shoulder, and I do the same with my end. “Thanks.”

We take it outside, hanging it on the fence to air out, and I go back in to sweep and mop.

He goes upstairs, and I start sweating the moment he goes into his room. He’s going to notice his gun missing.

I think every muscle in my body is tensed for ten whole minutes as I wait for my head to roll from his wrath.

But when he comes back down, his hair is wet from the shower, and he’s wearing clean jeans, not even making eye contact with me.

I exhale.

I empty the dust pan into the garbage, and he walks to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot.

He inspects it for a moment, finally asking, “What are you cooking?”

Well, if he can’t tell, that’s not a good sign.

“I found it in a box of recipes.” I set the dustpan down and grab the notecard, showing it to him. “Ropa vieja.” I try again, properly. “Ropa … vieja?”

He eyes the card, a look passing behind his eyes, and then lifts the spoon.

“Pork?” he asks, studying the ingredients.

I nod.