What I Thought Was True Read Free Page A

houses with my
    Vovó, her mother, the year she turned fifteen to make money
    for college, still cleaning them (no college) all this time later.
    It’s not what Dad did either, taking over the family business at
    eighteen because his father had a heart attack at the grill.
    It’s just temporary.
    Not a life decision.
    “Hon . . . did your dad pay you for your days yet? We’re
    running a little behind.” Mom brushes some crumbs off the
    couch without meeting my eyes. “Nothing to worry about,
    but—”
    “He said he’d get it to me later in the week,” I answer
    absently. Em has moved from Mom’s feet to mine, not nearly as
    sore, but I’m not about to turn him down.
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    Mom stands, opens the fridge. “Lean Cuisine, South Beach,
    or good old Stouffer’s tonight? Your choice.”
    Gag on Lean Cuisine and South Beach. She stabs the plas-
    tic top of a frozen entrée with her fork, but before she can
    shove it into the microwave, Grandpa Ben saunters in, his usual
    load of contraband slung over his shoulder, Santa Claus style. If
    Santa were into handing out seafood. He pushes one of Nic’s
    sweat-stiffened bandannas to the side of the counter, unload-
    ing the lobsters into the sink with a clatter of hard shells and
    clicking claws.
    “Um, dois, três, quatro. That one there must be five pounds at least.” Excited, he runs his hands through his wild white hair,
    a Portuguese Albert Einstein.
    “Papai. We can’t possibly eat all those.” Despite her protest,
    Mom immediately starts filling one of our huge lobster pots
    with water from the sink. “Again I ask, how long will it be
    until you get caught? And when you go to jail, you help us
    how?” Grandpa’s fishing license lapsed several years ago, but
    he goes out with the boats whenever the spirit moves him. His
    array of illegal lobster traps still spans the waters off our island.
    Grandpa Ben glares at Mom’s plastic tray, shaking his head.
    “Your grandfather Fernando did not live to be one hundred
    and two on”—he flips the box over, checking the ingredi-
    ents—“potassium benzoate.”
    “No,” Mom tells him, shoving the tray back into the freezer.
    “Fernando lived to one-oh-two because he drank so much
    Vinho Verde, he was pickled.”
    Muttering under his breath, Grandpa Ben disappears into
    the room he shares with Nic and Em, emerging in his at-home
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    mode—shirt off, undershirt and worn plaid bathrobe on, car-
    rying Emory’s Superman pajamas.
    “Into these, faster than a speeding bullet,” he says to Emory,
    who giggles his raspy laugh and races around the room, arms
    outstretched Man-of-Steel style.
    “No flying until you’re in your suit,” Grandpa says. Em skids
    to a halt in front of him, patiently allowing Grandpa Ben to
    strip off his shirt and shorts and wrestle the pajamas on. Then
    he cuddles next to me on Myrtle as Grandpa fires up a Fred
    Astaire DVD.
    Our living room’s so small it barely accommodates the
    enormous plasma-screen TV Grandpa won last year at a bingo
    tournament at church. I’m pretty sure he cheated. The state-of-
    the-art screen always looks so out of place on the wall between
    a cedar-wood crucifix and the wedding picture of my grand-
    mother. She’s uncharacteristically serious in black and white,
    with the bud vase underneath that Grandpa never forgets to fill
    every day. It’s a big picture, one of those ones where the eyes
    seem to follow you.
    I can never meet hers.
    Lush, romantic music fills the room, along with Fred
    Astaire’s cracked tenor voice.
    “Where Ginger?” Emory asks, pointing at the screen.
    Grandpa Ben’s put on Funny Face, which has Audrey Hepburn, not Ginger Rogers.
    “She’ll be here in a minute,” Grandpa tells him, his usual
    answer, waiting for Emory to love the music and the dancing
    so much that he doesn’t care who does