His Brother's Keeper. Dawn Atkins

“If you get to cut, then I get to color,” Shanna said. “You would totally rock blond highlights, Gabe.”

       “I like my hair like I like my coffee—straight and black.”

       “You’d look hot.”

       “I don’t need to look hot.”

       “Yes, you do,” Shanna said. “You need to start dating. It’s been a year.”

       “I’m fine.” He had dated, though his sisters didn’t know. Right after the breakup with Adelia he’d hooked up with women who wanted no more than one-night stands. Before long, the sex had begun to seem pointless. He’d gone without for a while now.

       “Wait! That reminds me,” Trina said. “Adelia! I saw her at the DMV. She misses you, asked me all about you. She’s doing a mural on 20th Street and Indian School. You should stop by and see her.”

       “I might.” Though the breakup had nearly killed him, they were on friendly terms now. He’d thought she was the one, his soul mate. They had the same background, the same world view, wanted the same things in life.

       “And she told me that guy was a total mistake.”

       She’d begun to make a name for herself as a Latina artist and muralist when she cheated on Gabe with a guy who’d bought one of her pieces.

       “Could we drop this, please?” Adelia had claimed she’d strayed because Gabe was too closed off to truly be hers. Bullshit, he’d thought…at first.

       Over time, he’d realized she might have a point. He’d given all he had, but maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough. Maybe he didn’t deserve a soul mate. His head hurt thinking about it, so he’d stopped.

       “Pretty please,” Shanna whined, returning to the subject of his hair.

       “Still no.” He adored his sisters. He’d taken care of them during the years his mother was out of it. They’d been cooperative and uncomplaining right up until puberty, when they’d been hell on wheels for a while—belligerent, rebellious, secretive.

       They’d hated high school, but hung in to graduate. They loved beauty school and wanted to open their own shop one day. He’d love to have enough cash to set them up.

       “We’ll do any favor you ask,” Trina said. “Washing? Ironing?”

       “I like to iron.” Turning a crumpled wad of fabric into a crisply smooth shirt was stupidly satisfying to him.

       “You’re so domestic,” Shanna said. “You cook, you iron, you keep your house pretty clean. You’ll make some girl a great wife.”

       “Shanna, don’t insult your brother,” his mother said.

       “No worries, Ma. My manhood is secure.”

       “Ew. Don’t talk about your manhood at the dinner table,” Trina said.

       Meanwhile, Giorgio and a waiter brought out the food: delicate lamb chops—Gabe’s favorite—melt-in-your-mouth moussaka, flaky spanikopita and minty dolmas, along with a big Greek salad. Another waiter poured sparkling grape juice for all, since they avoided alcohol around their mother. Giorgio lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to our beautiful family. Those who are here and those we remember.”

       They all murmured agreement.

       “I miss Robert every day,” his mother said softly.

       “He used to draw cartoons of us.” Trina sighed.

       “He was so talented and so smart,” his mother said.

       “You didn’t think so when he got drunk and stole your car,” Gabe said to lighten the mood.

       “He borrowed the car. And that was because of that girl. That Cici.”

       Gabe groaned inwardly. Cici again.

       “She was wild, that one. Always looking for trouble, out all night. Where was her mother? She showed up with the lawyer right quick. Got her daughter off, left Robert to rot behind bars.”

       Gabe felt a rush of shame. That very afternoon, he’d been casually flirting with Cici, ignoring what she’d done to his family. He looked around the table. What would they say if they knew?

       “Tell us about your trip,” he said to change the subject. “How was Greece?”

       “It was gorgeous, was it not, my love?” Giorgio asked his wife, who blushed. Giorgio and Mary took turns describing their accommodations, the visits to Giorgio’s family, the clear blue water of the islands, the boat they’d sailed on, the meals they’d enjoyed.

       Gabe let the conversation wash over him, grateful to Giorgio, who was solid, full of love and patient as time. Plus, he was magic with a lamb chop. Gabe ate the last bite, then leaned back in his chair.

       Before Giorgio, Gabe would cook supper for his mother and the girls a couple nights a week. He missed that, he realized. His birthday wasn’t far away. He always cooked a family meal then. Afterward, he’d start a new tradition, maybe dinner at his house once a month.

       After supper, they climbed into Gabe’s van to go to the cemetery, each carrying a memento for the grave. The vase Gabe had had engraved rested beside him. They were quiet on the drive. The sky was gold and pink with sunset, but there were dark clouds and the air smelled of ozone. Rain was on the way. Unusual for March.

       The cemetery was old and small, tucked into the barrio, colorful with flowers, trinkets and painted saints.©There was one other car and a cab parked on the narrow lane, and he spotted a family standing around a grave.

       The first few years, Robert’s friends came to the cemetery to honor him. At the funeral, Robert’s friend Mad Dog, new in the Doble, had muttered about revenge, a piece shoved into his waistband. Gabe had gotten in his face, made him swear not to retaliate. He’d obeyed out of respect for the Ochoa name, but he’d held a stone-cold hatred for Gabe ever since.

       Now he ran the Doble.

       Gabe put the desert poppies his mother had brought into the stone vase and watered them at a standing faucet. Mary studied the fresh copy of Robert’s school photo she’d brought to replace the sun-faded one in the silver frame. “He would be thirty-one. What a fine man he would have been.”

       “But see what a fine man you still have.” Giorgio nodded at Gabe.

       “You have always been my rock,” she said to Gabe. “If only Robert had had your strength and good sense. You looked out for him.”

      But not enough. Not nearly enough. He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked out over the grass. The acres of graves always hit him hard. All these people dead and gone. What had their lives meant? What had Robert’s meant? His own?

       When Gabe gave his boys a place to sleep, a number to call, a loan, a job reference, he hoped he was making up in small ways for failing Robert. Was there more he should do?

       Sensing his distress, Trina reached up to run her fingers through his hair. “Look at this mess. Can’t you hear your split ends crying? ‘Help us. End our suffering.’”

       “Cut it out,” he said, smiling at her effort to cheer him. His sisters had been his joy during those hard years. They still made him grin.

       They started toward the stand of mesquite trees that hid Robert’s grave, Gabe leading the way, the marble vase cool and heavy in his hands, followed by the twins. Giorgio held Mary close and they walked more slowly.

       Gabe made the turn around the trees, startled to see that a woman knelt at Robert’s grave. She’d laid flowers down. They were rust-colored snapdragons—the same flowers Robert used to bring to their mother.

       Hearing them approach, the woman turned. It was Cici. He should have recognized the flyaway hair. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said, burning with fury.