brings the face of evil to the earth.”
Paloma said nothing, making a conscious effort to look only at her bowl of fish soup. But she could not resist—it came almost as a reflex—shaking her head as Papa used to, in a way that manifested contempt.
Jo knew the gesture, recognized its origin, and hated it. And so he started to shout. “What do you know? You think you know so much. You don’t know anything! The devilfish is evil. Everybody knows that. Everybody but you. You don’t know anything.”
Miranda recognized the gesture, too, and could see in it Jobim and the conflict he had unknowingly built up between his children. Frightened, she said, “It’s possible, Paloma. It could be.”
Without looking up from her soup, Paloma said, “No, Mama.”
“Don’t listen to her,” said Jo. “She doesn’t know!” He spat toward the fireplace, the way the men of the island did to show that they had won an argument.
“You may think you know, Paloma,” Miranda said, stillhoping to mediate, to placate both her children, to restore peace to the household. “I know there are times when I think I know something, when maybe I just …”
“Mama.” Paloma wanted to stop Miranda’s compassionate rambling. “Let’s leave it.”
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then Paloma raised her eyes and looked into the taut, flushed face of her brother. The arteries on either side of his neck looked as thick as hawsers, and she imagined that she could see them throbbing. His jaws twitched, and his arm—as big around as one of Paloma’s thighs—trembled.
She had wanted to avoid enraging Jo by arguing, and instead had enraged him by being silent—a silence that he interpreted as condescension.
Paloma tried to appear completely calm, confident. She hoped that her eyes did not betray her. She knew for sure that if ever he was driven to act out one of the inner tumults that tortured him, and if she happened to be the object of his fury, he could take her apart as easily as he dismantled one of the engines he so loved to tinker with.
Jo was fifteen, seventeen months younger than Paloma, yet he had the physique of a fully developed adult. From hauling lines and nets since he was a young boy, he had developed massive shoulders and arms. He could not wear a standard shirt, for the muscles in his chest and back burst the seams. From balancing in a tipping boat day after day, his calves and thighs were lined with sinews as tough as wire leader. He was short—five feet six—which suited working in boats, for a low center of gravity made quick, efficient movement easy.
A stranger would not have guessed that Paloma and Jo were siblings, or even distant cousins. She was as lithe as he was compact. She was five feet eight inches tall, and thoughshe had not been weighed in several years, she thought that she weighed about 120 pounds. While Jo looked very much of his people—dark of skin and hair and eyes—she did not. Everything about her was light, from her bones to her skin to her hair, for she was not so much of her people as of her father.
And there, she knew, lay the core of the problem between them. Jo felt that it should be he, not she, who was more like their father. After all, was he not a male? Was his name not made from Jobim’s? And yet every day, what she said, what she did, her entire manner reminded him of how close Paloma had been to Papa and how far—worse, how increasingly far—he himself had been.
Perhaps worst of all, they both knew that Jo had had a chance to be the one close to Papa. When Paloma was feeling kindly toward Jo, she acknowledged to herself that it would have taken a superhuman boy to be the son Papa wanted. What she was less eager to acknowledge was that she, a girl and a kind of son-by-default, had been taught more patiently, forgiven more kindly, praised more freely.
But once the core of enmity had been established between them, almost every other aspect of their relationship seemed to
Paloma said nothing, making a conscious effort to look only at her bowl of fish soup. But she could not resist—it came almost as a reflex—shaking her head as Papa used to, in a way that manifested contempt.
Jo knew the gesture, recognized its origin, and hated it. And so he started to shout. “What do you know? You think you know so much. You don’t know anything! The devilfish is evil. Everybody knows that. Everybody but you. You don’t know anything.”
Miranda recognized the gesture, too, and could see in it Jobim and the conflict he had unknowingly built up between his children. Frightened, she said, “It’s possible, Paloma. It could be.”
Without looking up from her soup, Paloma said, “No, Mama.”
“Don’t listen to her,” said Jo. “She doesn’t know!” He spat toward the fireplace, the way the men of the island did to show that they had won an argument.
“You may think you know, Paloma,” Miranda said, stillhoping to mediate, to placate both her children, to restore peace to the household. “I know there are times when I think I know something, when maybe I just …”
“Mama.” Paloma wanted to stop Miranda’s compassionate rambling. “Let’s leave it.”
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then Paloma raised her eyes and looked into the taut, flushed face of her brother. The arteries on either side of his neck looked as thick as hawsers, and she imagined that she could see them throbbing. His jaws twitched, and his arm—as big around as one of Paloma’s thighs—trembled.
She had wanted to avoid enraging Jo by arguing, and instead had enraged him by being silent—a silence that he interpreted as condescension.
Paloma tried to appear completely calm, confident. She hoped that her eyes did not betray her. She knew for sure that if ever he was driven to act out one of the inner tumults that tortured him, and if she happened to be the object of his fury, he could take her apart as easily as he dismantled one of the engines he so loved to tinker with.
Jo was fifteen, seventeen months younger than Paloma, yet he had the physique of a fully developed adult. From hauling lines and nets since he was a young boy, he had developed massive shoulders and arms. He could not wear a standard shirt, for the muscles in his chest and back burst the seams. From balancing in a tipping boat day after day, his calves and thighs were lined with sinews as tough as wire leader. He was short—five feet six—which suited working in boats, for a low center of gravity made quick, efficient movement easy.
A stranger would not have guessed that Paloma and Jo were siblings, or even distant cousins. She was as lithe as he was compact. She was five feet eight inches tall, and thoughshe had not been weighed in several years, she thought that she weighed about 120 pounds. While Jo looked very much of his people—dark of skin and hair and eyes—she did not. Everything about her was light, from her bones to her skin to her hair, for she was not so much of her people as of her father.
And there, she knew, lay the core of the problem between them. Jo felt that it should be he, not she, who was more like their father. After all, was he not a male? Was his name not made from Jobim’s? And yet every day, what she said, what she did, her entire manner reminded him of how close Paloma had been to Papa and how far—worse, how increasingly far—he himself had been.
Perhaps worst of all, they both knew that Jo had had a chance to be the one close to Papa. When Paloma was feeling kindly toward Jo, she acknowledged to herself that it would have taken a superhuman boy to be the son Papa wanted. What she was less eager to acknowledge was that she, a girl and a kind of son-by-default, had been taught more patiently, forgiven more kindly, praised more freely.
But once the core of enmity had been established between them, almost every other aspect of their relationship seemed to
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