Reckless Kiss

Walking slowly to the metal table, I sit on the edge of the chair across from him.

“What?” I don’t try to keep the annoyed tone out of my voice.

He frowns. “Don’t act like a child.”

“Stop treating me like a child.”

He takes a drag, causing the orange tip of his cigarette to fire brighter. “I know you think I’m being too hard on you.” He exhales before continuing. “You have to trust me, Carmie. I know what’s best in this situation.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” His dark eyes level on mine. “Honor is all we have here. These people judge us before they even know who we are… that’s why it’s called prejudice.”

“Please don’t give me a lesson in English. You pre-judged Deacon without even giving him a chance—”

“I’ve told you all you need to know about that guy.”

“You actually told me very little. According to Valeria, you repeated a story that might not even be true. And it has nothing to do with him. We can’t control our grandparents.”

He takes another hit off his tumbler, and his white teeth catch the light. I’m not sure if he’s smiling or grimacing at me.

“Our father went to his grave a broken man. A poor man.” Beto’s voice simmers. “His biggest regret was not avenging his father’s murder.”

I can’t answer this.

Mamá talked about the hate here. She talked about shadows drowning out the light—it’s why she took me away from this place, away from the anger and bitterness, to her family’s estate in Mexico.

She said it was why she made the deep blue and black crosses. She had abandoned the idea of God, but she believed in the symbolism of the cross. She said the vertical was our spiritual relationship and the horizontal was our earthly. She said if our relationship with the vertical was out of balance, our horizontal relationships would not work.

I was so little, I didn’t understand. Now I can’t help noticing how much my brother’s anger sounds like Winnie’s bitterness. They’re two ends of the same horizontal.

“You don’t believe me.” He misinterprets my silence.

I don’t know Beto well enough to tell him our mother’s philosophy, but I’m pretty sure if I mention the cross, he’ll get pissed.

My voice is quiet. “I’m very tired. Can we talk about this another time?”

He exhales and stands roughly, shoving his chair back. “You’re my sister. It’s my job to protect you. That’s what I intend to do.”

“Even if I don’t need protection?”

“Even if you’re wrong.” He stubs out his cigarette and goes into the house.

I exhale slowly, my eyes warm with tears. I’m tired and I miss Deacon.

Mamá said to love my family more than anything, to be loyal. I wish she were here, because I have so many questions about how to love people who won’t give anyone a chance, who won’t listen, who are determined to hold onto their wrong assumptions no matter what.

I just really need some wisdom, because I don’t believe. And I’m starting not to care.

15

Deacon

Vandella Landry is a petite woman with small black glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her skin is smooth, and I would think she was in her early forties, if I didn’t know how old her mother was and if her black hair wasn’t streaked with grey.

“Those were hard times.” She shakes her head, looking at the letter I handed her. “People disappeared, people were killed… and the perpetrators walked around in broad daylight.”

My stomach tightens, and I’m picking at an old wound. “Do you know what happened to my grandmother?” I need to know this, as much for my family as for Angel’s.