Page 168 of Five Brothers
“My mother used beef.”
“Oh.” I read the card again as he takes a taste. “It said any meat was fine.”
“It is.”
I watch him replace the spoon and lid, telling him, “It probably needs more salt. I’ve noticed I have blander taste buds thaneveryoneelse on this side of the tracks.”
“It’s not bad,” he mumbles, turning to the fridge. “If they want more salt, they can add it themselves.”
He grabs a soda and sets it on the counter, turning to me. I jump when he takes my face in his hands, and I watch him with wide eyes as he comes in close. But then he turns my face side to side, and I realize he’s checking my bruises. “If this ever happens again, I’m going to make an assumption about who was responsible and deal with it, you understand?”
So, if I don’t tell him, he’ll guess. I don’t want them risking anything for my sake.
I pull away and grab a plate, doling out rice and stew, handing it to Macon.
But he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
He grabs his soda, moving for the garage door, and I sit down with the plate, grabbing a fork out of the basket to eat by myself.
The next thing I know, he slams the door and walks to the stove, making himself a plate.
I smile to myself. He sits at the head of the table, and I look down from the foot, watching him as he eats.
He takes up the whole room. The whole house. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him quiet. I’ve never seen him happy. Or in love. Or scared.
Where does he hide it?
He bleeds apathy. Dispassion. Indifference. Control. Nothing else gets out. No wonder he’s sick.
“What?”
I shift in my seat, realizing I’m still staring. He doesn’t look at me as he chews, but he knows I’m watching him.
I stick my finger in my dish and lick it, tasting the gravy. “I remember hearing about you as a kid,” I start to tell him. “A man over here hit his wife, and you forced his hand into the spinning wheel of a motorcycle. Is that true?”
He doesn’t reply. Or look at me.
The house sounds peaceful for once. Quiet.
I breathe slowly. “You and Army sold drugs in order to pay the bills after your parents died?” I repeat another story I heard.
Still, nothing.
“You keep the alligators well fed?”
His mouth twitches, and I see it. The smile as he stares at his food, taking another bite.
A shot of pride hits me.
I continue. “In the tall grass field just before the bay, overlooking Del Mia Island, you allow duels,” I press on with another rumor.
He shakes his head, amused.
I dip my fork in and out of my dish. “There’s treasure concealed in some of the graves at Santa Maria Cemetery.”
Still no comment.
“You cut yourself and make people drink your blood to prove their loyalty,” I tell him.