No Witness But the Moon(24)

His mother. Today she would have been sixty-four. The shooting had nearly wiped her birthday from his thoughts. He owed it to her that he was living in a place like this at all. She was the courageous one, the one who left her home and her friends, first at seventeen to move from a mountain village in Puerto Rico to New York, and then again when Vega was eleven to move from the Bronx to Lake Holly. The second move was only a geographical distance of about fifty miles. But in many ways it was a bigger change. Lake Holly back then was a place where everyone spoke English with an American accent and parents traveled two by two. A Puerto Rican single mother was neither welcomed nor understood.

She didn’t make the move for herself. She did it for him, because she believed he deserved a better life and a set of dreams that included college. He’d hated her for it at the time, hated sticking out like a Devil Dog in a sea of Twinkies. But it was because of her that he could effortlessly swim and ice skate and ride a bicycle. It was because of her that he finished college. She moved back to the Bronx when Vega was grown. She missed her friends. Her world. But those years she sacrificed in between put Vega solidly in the middle class and gave him the skills to move comfortably between the Anglo and Latino worlds. He wouldn’t have this life if she hadn’t given up so much of hers.

He made two more turns and then headed onto his street. There was a white Volvo parked on his tiny gravel patch of driveway. Vega recognized the car. It had once belonged to his ex, Wendy. Now it belonged to his daughter, Joy. Vega was touched that she’d driven all the way up here on a Saturday morning to see how he was doing. He was glad he’d given her her own key. He was also exhausted and needed a shower so he hoped her visit would be quick.

Vega pulled his truck to the side, so as not to block her car. As soon as he got out, he heard her music blasting inside—even through the closed windows. It was probably some female pop vocalist who was big on the college circuit right now. Joy had never had exactly rarefied taste in music.

He opened his front door. She hadn’t locked it. She should have. He swallowed back his fatherly concern. He didn’t want to greet her with a reprimand. He expected to see Joy right there in the open kitchen or adjoining living area. The house was only about a thousand square feet. The first floor was basically one big room with a fieldstone fireplace and a counter separating the kitchen from everything else. Upstairs were two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom under the eaves. It had the look and feel of a place owned by a man. Lots of electronics and dark wood. No curtains. Piles of bills and mail scattered across the kitchen counter. Nothing living, not even a plant. Vega turned off the music speakers. Joy had to be upstairs. He didn’t want to scare her if she hadn’t heard him come in.

“Joy?” Vega threw his keys and mail on the kitchen counter. His answering machine light was beeping. He didn’t even want to think about how many messages he had. He was keeping his cell phone off for the same reason.

“Dad?” She peeked at him from the top of the stairs. Vega felt a catch in his throat when he saw those big dark eyes and long black lashes. He saw the woman and the child all at the same time. He remembered when she was all arms and legs and braces glinting from her teeth. He forgot for a moment that she was now eighteen.

She raced down the stairs and into his arms. She was a small girl with a ballerina’s build, delicate as spun glass. Vega hugged her tight, thrilled and humbled that she hadn’t stopped loving him even if right now, he felt supremely unlovable.

“It’s going to be okay, chispita.” Little Spark. His Spanish nickname for her as a child, taken from a Mexican soap opera his mother used to enjoy. Even now, with too much eyeliner, long sparkly earrings, and jangly bangles, she was still his little girl.

“We’ll get through this,” he promised. She shivered beneath his touch. Even though the house was now insulated, it still tended to be cold in winter. Yet here she was, in nothing but a thin, long-sleeved shirt. She always tended to underdress. “Let me get you something warmer to put on.” He broke away and noticed a suitcase and some boxes piled in a corner. “What’s that stuff?”

“My things.”

“Your things?”

“I’m moving in.”

“What? Why?”

Her face dropped. “Don’t you want me here?”

“Of course I do! You’re always welcome. But—why now? This is so much farther from school and work than your mother’s house.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

Vega felt touched by her concern. But another deeper part of him cringed with embarrassment and shame. He didn’t want to be the object of his daughter’s pity. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly. “I don’t need anyone taking care of me—especially not my daughter.”

“Don’t get all defensive, Dad. It’s not like I’m going to cook for you or anything.”

“Thank God for that.” The last time his vegan, gluten-free daughter cooked for him, she made a tofu lasagna that tasted like someone had mixed wallpaper paste and grass clippings.

“We can talk about this later if you want,” said Joy. “After we get back from the Bronx.”

“The Bronx?”

“Don’t you remember, Dad? Today is Lita’s birthday.” Lita—short for Abuelita—Grandma in Spanish. “You promised we’d go put flowers on her grave.”