“What’s that, honey?” Andy’s grandma had asked. Lori fiddled with her necklace, another gold cross. With her head bent, and no eye shadow or mascara, she looked as young as she must have looked in high school, except her nails were still long and red and filed into sharp-tipped ovals, and when she clasped her hands her sweater gaped open, showing the top of the tattoo on her breast. He thought it was a flower, or maybe it was a name, spelled out in fancy script, but that was one of the many, many things that Andy knew not to ask about. He could see the creases on her forehead, and he could hear her breathing, deep and slow, the way she did when she was angry but trying not to be.
“Thank you for coming,” she began.
“It was lovely,” said Andy’s grandma. His grandfather didn’t say a word. Andy thought that he was staring at the tattoo, like maybe he hadn’t known that it was there.
“You know how important it is to me to keep Andy in Catholic school. To make sure he has a good education.”
His grandma murmured, “Of course.” His grandfather was still silent. Pull up your sweater, Andy thought, as hard as he could, but his mom didn’t hear.
“I work five, sometimes six days a week at the salon. I’m on my feet for sometimes ten hours a day.” Andy’s grandfather gave a noisy sniff. His mother flinched but kept talking, her eyes on her lap and her hands pressed together, like she’d rehearsed the speech and was going to say it straight through to the end, no matter what. “I hate to ask. You know I do. I just need a little help right now. My car won’t pass inspection, and Andy’s tuition is due . . .”
His grandfather, who’d been sitting so still, finally spoke. “Why don’t you ask Andrew’s father’s family for help?”
Lori’s hands twisted against each other. “Dad, you know that’s not going to happen.”
“I can’t say that surprises me,” said her father. “No, I can’t say that at all.”
Lori cut her eyes toward Andy. “Honey, go into the bedroom,” she said, in the tone he knew never to argue with. He walked down the hallway, hearing her say, “Either tell me yes or tell me no. But don’t insult me.”
“If you’re asking for my money, don’t tell me how to behave,” her father said. Andy stopped before he reached the bedroom door, knowing that no one was thinking about him anymore. As far as the three of them were concerned, he might not even be there at all.
“Your mother and I wanted better than this for you,” his grandfather was saying. “We tried to raise you right. We thought you’d meet a boy, a nice boy, and marry him, and live somewhere decent, maybe near us, in a house, with a yard, good schools for your kids. Now look at you.” His voice was full of disgust. “Look at this.” Andy could imagine him sweeping his arm across his heavy body, indicating the shabby apartment, the frayed carpet and peeling walls, the folding table with its metal legs visible beneath the tablecloth. “We did our best. Scrimped and saved to send you to Hallahan, and what do you do? Spread your legs for the first black boy who smiled at you.”
Andy heard his grandmother then, her voice high and shaky and shocked. “Lonnie, that’s enough.”
Grandpa ignored her. Then he must have turned back to Lori. “If you had any sense you’d let Andy come live with us.”
“I am never giving up my son,” Lori said, her voice icy. Andy’s face was burning, his stomach twisting in a way that made him think he was going to throw up, and he was rocking back and forth, he was glad, glad that his mother wouldn’t give him away like a pet she didn’t want anymore, except he was also thinking about his grandparents’ house in Haddonfield, the basketball hoop over the garage door and how there was a room there, just for him, with a bed with a blue-and-green-plaid bedspread, and a guest bathroom that only he used because he was the only guest. It would be nice—and then he shut that thought down, clamped it off like stepping on a hose to stop the flow of water. How could he even think that way?
His grandmother came down the hall, hurrying him into the bedroom, pressing his face into her middle. Her sweater smelled of roast turkey and Tide. “You made your bed,” his grandfather was yelling, “see how you like lying in it,” and his mother was saying, “Get out of my house and don’t ever come back,” and “You’re dead to me, both of you, dead to me,” and—the worst thing—“You can forget about ever seeing Andy again.” His grandmother had stood there, squeezing Andy tight, squashing him against her, saying “Oh, sweetheart” over and over. And he must have been scared because he’d been holding on to her, his arms around her waist, until his grandfather came into the room.