The Son of Every Man

Chapter 8.3

Saturday, August 7th, 1999

Both of them fashionably late, but Miguel more so, was the agreed-upon chronology. The day crept around with impossible speed. He felt uneasy about attending an event that just one year prior would have been out of the question, as Marco's lingering legacy simply would not have allowed for it. But times were changing. Fast. Better to stay current than continue propping up tired policies that may as well never have existed.

Eddie had made a couple things clear about the occasion. It was fundamentally an extended family social, for Otero and his. But there were exceptions for special non-family members here and there. Eddie and his wife had attended for the first time the previous year. Miguel should not treat the significance of his inclusion with disregard.

He was feeling the weight of that as he emerged from underground at Old Town's eastern station, not long past four-thirty. He had approximated the location of Otero's residence on a city map, a ten-minute walk from the station. While Old Town was not particularly affluent on the whole, Otero's neighborhood on the east side of it was. The houses here were some of the oldest in the city. These gorgeous Victorian structures (so intimately plotted that spiders spun glistening and lucrative webs between them) formed an ineffaceable living wall, ingrown, draped in deep-green ivy and ornamented by window boxes of overflowing wisteria. Mature citrus trees trimmed the front corners of nearly every yard, bursting over stone fences to both shade and drop their overripe fruit on the sidewalk.

The specific house belonging to Otero would have stood out spectacularly on any normal street, but here it merely fell in among the ranks. Miguel tried his best to do the same in his short-sleeved white button-down and dark gray slacks, letting himself in (as the silver placard on the front porch directed him to do). The smell inside, and to a lesser degree, the decor, reminded him of his parents' townhouse in Allentown. He held his breath and passed like a ghost through the home, swift and unseeing, into the backyard.

Fifty-odd people roamed its manicured limits, sweating on the lawn, hands clutching tumblers or martini glasses or long-stemmed vessels of white wine. Not a beer in sight. Gabe stood poolside with Eddie and his wife in the foreground of a hydrangea tree covered in fat white blooms.

He went over to them.

The kid was dressed similarly, but had one-upped Miguel with long sleeves and a scarlet tie, a blood rift cutting down his front. He was drinking what looked like scotch (of all things) which he used to gesture at Miguel. "You call that semi-formal?"

Gabe had certainly found new social confidence as of late, especially with Lydia—Eddie's wife—looking on. During the few occasions they had met, she had struck Miguel as, somehow, both lifeless and ferociously intimidating. A perfect match for Eddie.

Miguel motioned back at Gabe with a hand that felt suddenly very empty. "Nice tie."

"Can I get you something to drink, Miguel?"

It took a second for Miguel to fathom the question's originator: Eddie Nguyen. He blinked once, pointed at Gabe's glass. "What he's having—please," he added, stuffing both hands uncomfortably in his pockets.

Eddie left in a flash, clearly happy to have assigned himself a task.

"You boys enjoying your weekend so far?" Lydia dropped a hip beneath her small blue dress, adjusted her ovular sunglasses and ran a finger through her straight blond hair, chopped at the shoulders.

"Guess so."

Gabe grinned at him. "You guess so?"

"It only just started."

"Otero told us we should bring Gabby." Lydia jutted her chin toward some splashing at the far end of the pool. "Those kids look a little old for her to play with, don't you think?"