Page 98 of Tears Like Acid

“Are your brothers around too?”

He stabs a potato and stuffs it in his mouth. “Somewhere.”

“We don’t speak with a full mouth,” Sophie says.

He sneers. “What do you know?”

“She’s right,” I say. “At my table, you don’t.”

Rolling his eyes, he shoves a big chunk of chicken into his mouth next. He eats as if he hasn’t eaten in days. I let him eat in peace, knowing he must be starving.

Sophie says proudly, “Heidi showed me how to hold a fork and knife properly. Look.”

“Who the fuck is Heidi?” he asks around another mouthful of chicken.

“No swearing,” I say. “When you’ve swallowed, you can ask again, and Sophie will answer your question.”

He scoffs but swallows before asking, “So, are you going to tell me or not?”

“She’s a really nice lady who cooks for Angelo,” Sophie says in her serious voice. “She’s going to take care of me when Sabella has to go away with Angelo, but only for short whiles.”

He chugs down a glass of water. “You’re staying here now?” He points the fork at me. “With her?”

“Yes.” Sophie adds salt to her potatoes. “She’s very nice too. She’s Angelo’s wife.”

He squints at me. “That true?”

“Is that true? Yes,” I say. “I’m Mr. Russo’s wife.”

He waves the fork at his sister. “That she’s staying here.”

“Don’t point at people with your eating utensils,” I say. “That’s bad table manners too.”

“What the fu—” He catches himself. “What’s with all the manners?”

“Like I said, these are the rules in my house.”

“This your house now?” He lifts his fork to indicate the house but stops midway.

“Is this my house now?” I correct. “I live here now, yes.”

“Ha.” He sucks a piece of chicken from his teeth, watching me as he drinks more water. “You cleaned up the place all nice.”

“Why did you make such a mess of it in the first place, if I may ask?”

Engrossed in eating, Sophie doesn’t seem to pay attention to our exchange.

“There was nobody to clean it.” He shrugs. “The cook got scared.” He takes another bite of potato and makes a show of swallowing before adding, “She left. After that, Grandpa didn’t care if the goats got in the house.” He reaches across the table for another piece of chicken with his hand.

“We don’t use our hands,” I say. “We use the serving fork and spoon. Would you like seconds, or do you want to save space for dessert?”

He grumbles but pulls back his hand. “Seconds.”

“Excuse me?”

Rolling his eyes again, he says, “Please.”

I serve another helping on his plate. “Now you say thank you.”

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