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“Go eat if you’re hungry,” she said.
“Are you coming? You haven’t eaten, either.”
Haven stubbornly shook her head. “I’m not eating when she can’t.”
Her mama sighed. “Eat if they’ll let you, Haven. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
“No.”
Carmine’s brow furrowed. “Why can’t she eat?”
“Master feeds us at night, but never during the day . . . and definitely not with them.”
“I forgot about that,” Carmine said. “That’s bullshit. You should eat when you wanna eat.”
“It’s fine.”
Carmine let go of Haven and went for the house. “No, it’s not. Wait here. I’ll fix this shit.”
* * *
A few minutes later, the screen door slammed as Carmine stepped outside, heading toward them with two plates. Haven smiled when he approached. “You’re so good to me.”
“Hey, that’s my line,” he said playfully, handing Haven a plate. “Quit stealing my shit.”
He held the other one out to her mama, who made no attempt to take it, so Haven did. She eyed the sandwiches, the bread smashed down with a handprint in the center of it. “Did you make this?”
“Yes,” Carmine said. “I can make a sandwich, you know.”
Smiling proudly, Haven thrust the second plate at her mama. “Eat.”
She took it, her hands shaking. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Carmine said. “You two sit down somewhere and eat.” Haven went to sit right where she was, but Carmine grabbed her arm. “You can’t sit somewhere less dirty?”
Ignoring him, she plopped down. “I’m already dirty.”
Carmine shook his head as a small dust cloud rose into the air. “Now you got me dirty.”
“Unless you plan to do your own laundry, I don’t see why you’re complaining.”
He laughed. “Because it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t complain. Enjoy your sandwiches. It’s the best I could do. You know I can’t cook, but I do love you.”
He kissed her before heading to the house as her mama finally sat down beside Haven. The frailty and exhaustion was still evident in her face, but she appeared at peace.
* * *
Carmine stood at the window, watching Haven out in the yard as time wound down, the sun dipping below the horizon and turning the sky the color of glowing coal.
He could feel Michael’s eyes boring into him from where he sat across the room, puffing on his third cigar. The stench of smoke made Carmine’s stomach turn. Michael wheezed when he breathed, like he was constantly struggling to speak, but not a word had come from him in more than two hours. Fucking coward.
Corrado strolled over to Carmine, both of them taking in the scene outside.
“You have to help her,” Carmine said, the thought of separating them tearing him up inside.
Corrado continued to stare straight ahead. “Do you remember when your grandfather died?”
“Vaguely,” he said. “I was only six.”
