The Son of Every Man

Chapter 8.4

Back down on the lawn, Eddie stood alone once again, along the fence line, casting a despondent look at the grass.

"Where's Lydia?" Miguel asked him.

He looked up, shaken from his daze. Miguel guessed he was well on his way toward getting drunk. "Huh? Oh, facilities. Should be back soon."

They flanked him like inadequate bodyguards.

He kicked a polished black shoe into the lawn. "What do you even say to people?"

Surveying the crowd, starkly white and buttoned-down, Miguel suddenly grasped the spirit of the remark. He reached a hand up, resting it on his boss's massive shoulder. "You make up stories and see how they react."

Eddie chuckled. "I've never had the balls to do that kind of thing."

"What are you going to do—tell them the truth? I'll bet you've been asked a dozen times today about your line of work. It's not like you can give any of these people an honest answer."

Eddie shrugged. "Most of them will talk around it. It's nothing half of them don't know already."

The kid stared up in disbelief. "Is that true?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah."

Miguel wasn't so surprised. He knew the way large families worked, how secrets spread like wildfire.

"Isn't that dangerous?" asked Gabe.

"Don't worry," Eddie assured him. "Anyone of concern gets what they're after."

"What does that mean?"

"It means a windowless envelope, once a year."

A kind of grave silence washed over the three of them as they saw Lydia approaching, edging her way around the tables, now decked-out with elaborate place settings. She had procured herself a fresh drink. Miguel felt like he needed one, too.

Before that evening, Miguel had never spared a thought to how much Lydia knew of her husband's dealings. Evidently she was predisposed, like them all, with an unusual knack for compartmentalization. But how far into the whole operation did her knowledge extend? Miguel's fascination had emerged like a sprout from soil, nurtured by the seemingly paradoxical nature of her being—intelligent, upstanding, raising no fewer than four kids whom she knew would one day face a world harsh enough on its own, absent these extra hazards...and yet she had entrenched herself, just as deeply as any of them had. Did she worry what her children might become, growing alongside this stifling presence like saplings tied to a stake? Had she dared dream up a day in the future when one of them—no doubt the oldest and most precocious—would ask, "What's really going on?"

A call to be seated came not long after. The four of them found their places together at the end of one of the table rows, nearest the pool's edge. The water had become still, gradually collecting a rainbow pallet of flower petals which seemed to hover just above the glassy surface in the late-day sun. Champagne flutes were filled in formation by staff. Candles were lit in each centerpiece. Once this was done, Otero stood at the far end of their table. The guests became quiet. He looked suddenly older than the image Miguel had always kept in his mind, dark hair fast receding, forehead pink with a mild sunburn.

"Thank you for coming. I am grateful to count you all as my close family. I extend this consideration not just to those related by blood or marriage, but to all gathered here beneath this beautiful evening sky." (At this, Otero cast an unmistakable glance their way.) "I pray for many happy returns of days such as this. Please enjoy yourselves."

That was it. Everyone took a drink, Otero took his seat and the night carried on.

They started in on the meal's preliminary courses, drinking champagne replenished earnestly by the hired crew. Miguel locked eyes a few times with the inexperienced male server assigned to their table. Easily younger than Gabe, he stepped back repeatedly to verify the order of events with an older colleague in hushed Tagalog.