you give me just one boy?
God hadn’t answered his prayers, or maybe he had and he’d just said no, but he sent Belly the next best thing: a girl who
could do boy things, daughter number three. She could throw anything—baseball, Frisbee, boomerang. She could beat any boy
her age at the one-hundred-meter dash and she could dance ballet, too. The perfect kid. God gave him the perfect kid and then
He took her away.
Maybe happiness wasn’t the point: he’d had so little of it. The one good vacation was to Port St. Lucie, Florida, home of
the Mets spring training. Myrna went off to rehab and he left the bar in his father’s hands and took the four girls on a plane,
lapel pins and playing cards for everyone. They had all behaved themselves beautifully without their mother there to infect
them. Everyone got along, and Nora helped out with Eliza, nine years her junior, who still needed extra attention. The girls
swam and Belly watched, and they’d feasted on lobster and scampi and gone to Mets games, slept soundly all night piled into
one breezy hotel room.
He walked into the dining room now and Bonnie was already laying out the plates, leaving Jimi to do the silverware and Stevie
Ray to fold the napkins. They worked like an assembly line. He had the urge to run up and snatch the plates away from her,
form a wall between her and the boys to prevent infection. But it was too late. The three of them were laughing, the baby
in his high chair pounding his little fists.
Belly inspected the table. “Don’t you boys know the fork goes on the right?”
Stevie Ray yawned. “No, it doesn’t.”
“I know that, I was just checking.”
Nora entered with a steaming soup tureen. “Looks fancy, boys,” Belly said.
“Good old-fashioned Irish beef stew,” Nora announced. “I figured since you were actually going to show up for dinner tonight
I’d make something you like. Stevie, get the potatoes.”
As soon as they were seated, Nora started in on him. “So, you’re going by JG’s tomorrow?”
“Who’s that?”
“The pallet factory. JG’s. It’s on your release plan.”
“Can we not talk about this in front of the boys?” Bonnie got that reporter look in her eyes, like she needed a pen. “What
are you looking at?”
“What’s a release plan?” she asked.
“You fill out this paper saying what you’re going to do when you get out of prison,” said Nora.
“Interesting.”
The boys stared at the food getting cold on their plates.
“Yes, and Belly signed a federal contract saying he was going to work for Gene. Now, if you’d gone out and found yourself
something else … but you haven’t. So you need to go there tomorrow.”
Belly laughed. “You can’t make me work somewhere I don’t want to work.”
“No,” Nora said. “I can’t. But Ms. Monroe can.”
“You talked to my parole officer?” He lifted his napkin with the tines of his fork.
“Of course I talked to her. You don’t think she called here to check out where you’re staying? That’s her job.”
It was quiet, very quiet, with Bonnie and the boys all staring at their laps, and Nora staring at Belly, and Belly staring
out the windows to the dilapidated front porch.
Nora cleared her throat. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”
Belly said under his breath, “No, we won’t.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Bonnie, would you say the blessing?”
“Excuse me? It’s my second night back and Bonnie says the blessing?” He saw Jimi chew on a carrot. “Put that down, kid. You
don’t eat until you thank Jesus.”
“Thank you, Lord,” he said, and Belly pointed his index finger at him so fast that Jimi dropped the carrot.
“Bonnie is our guest,” said Nora. “She can say the blessing.”
“What about me?”
“You’re not a guest,” said Stevie Ray. “You live here.”
“I don’t live here,” Belly said. “I’m just visiting.”
“Let’s all join
God hadn’t answered his prayers, or maybe he had and he’d just said no, but he sent Belly the next best thing: a girl who
could do boy things, daughter number three. She could throw anything—baseball, Frisbee, boomerang. She could beat any boy
her age at the one-hundred-meter dash and she could dance ballet, too. The perfect kid. God gave him the perfect kid and then
He took her away.
Maybe happiness wasn’t the point: he’d had so little of it. The one good vacation was to Port St. Lucie, Florida, home of
the Mets spring training. Myrna went off to rehab and he left the bar in his father’s hands and took the four girls on a plane,
lapel pins and playing cards for everyone. They had all behaved themselves beautifully without their mother there to infect
them. Everyone got along, and Nora helped out with Eliza, nine years her junior, who still needed extra attention. The girls
swam and Belly watched, and they’d feasted on lobster and scampi and gone to Mets games, slept soundly all night piled into
one breezy hotel room.
He walked into the dining room now and Bonnie was already laying out the plates, leaving Jimi to do the silverware and Stevie
Ray to fold the napkins. They worked like an assembly line. He had the urge to run up and snatch the plates away from her,
form a wall between her and the boys to prevent infection. But it was too late. The three of them were laughing, the baby
in his high chair pounding his little fists.
Belly inspected the table. “Don’t you boys know the fork goes on the right?”
Stevie Ray yawned. “No, it doesn’t.”
“I know that, I was just checking.”
Nora entered with a steaming soup tureen. “Looks fancy, boys,” Belly said.
“Good old-fashioned Irish beef stew,” Nora announced. “I figured since you were actually going to show up for dinner tonight
I’d make something you like. Stevie, get the potatoes.”
As soon as they were seated, Nora started in on him. “So, you’re going by JG’s tomorrow?”
“Who’s that?”
“The pallet factory. JG’s. It’s on your release plan.”
“Can we not talk about this in front of the boys?” Bonnie got that reporter look in her eyes, like she needed a pen. “What
are you looking at?”
“What’s a release plan?” she asked.
“You fill out this paper saying what you’re going to do when you get out of prison,” said Nora.
“Interesting.”
The boys stared at the food getting cold on their plates.
“Yes, and Belly signed a federal contract saying he was going to work for Gene. Now, if you’d gone out and found yourself
something else … but you haven’t. So you need to go there tomorrow.”
Belly laughed. “You can’t make me work somewhere I don’t want to work.”
“No,” Nora said. “I can’t. But Ms. Monroe can.”
“You talked to my parole officer?” He lifted his napkin with the tines of his fork.
“Of course I talked to her. You don’t think she called here to check out where you’re staying? That’s her job.”
It was quiet, very quiet, with Bonnie and the boys all staring at their laps, and Nora staring at Belly, and Belly staring
out the windows to the dilapidated front porch.
Nora cleared her throat. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”
Belly said under his breath, “No, we won’t.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Bonnie, would you say the blessing?”
“Excuse me? It’s my second night back and Bonnie says the blessing?” He saw Jimi chew on a carrot. “Put that down, kid. You
don’t eat until you thank Jesus.”
“Thank you, Lord,” he said, and Belly pointed his index finger at him so fast that Jimi dropped the carrot.
“Bonnie is our guest,” said Nora. “She can say the blessing.”
“What about me?”
“You’re not a guest,” said Stevie Ray. “You live here.”
“I don’t live here,” Belly said. “I’m just visiting.”
“Let’s all join
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