“Don’t go, Dad,” said Joe quietly. “Please.”
“This is my job. You know that,” said Salvatore without conviction. He sounded like a robot in his own ears. “I’m sorry,” he said. He was—he was so sorry.
Salvatore texted Peach, not meeting his children’s eyes. Joe stood, threw his iPad onto the floor, and ran outside. Allie was sobbing theatrically. Peach arrived within minutes.
“I really appreciate this,” said Salvatore. “Joe’s in the side yard, I think.”
“Oh, Sal,” said Peach. “I’m glad to help. I know you’re having a hard time.”
Salvatore wanted to disagree, but Peach was right. Hewashaving a hard time.
As he put the car in gear to drive away, Salvatore looked out the window and saw his son, holding a football, watching him leave. He remembered a gang member tell him once, “Fear turns to rage in the end, man. It always does.”
He raised his arm to wave at Joe, but Joe turned away.
—
THE FONTENOT HOME, DEFYINGthe neighborhood trend toward modern, was what Jacquie had called “an architectural sampler”: it seemed there had once been a reasonable, traditional home, but the Fontenots had added Roman columns flanking a front door that looked to be larger than a normal front door, wings on either side of the house that each boasted giant dormers with strange balconies to nowhere and even a turret on top with—Salvatore squinted—yes, it was a widow’s walk, which overlooked not ocean but an expanse of paved driveway. The McMansion even held a four-bay garage. Salvatore could onlyimaginewhat the backyard looked like (he guessed a tiki bar and pool with naked cherubs “peeing” into the water). For once, he was not jealous of a Barton Hills home.
A balloon sign reading “Annette is an American! GO USA!” seemed to herald a big party in progress. The street was packed with cars and an impressive stereo system blasted Dale Watson tunes. Salvatore loved Dale Watson.
He approached the front door, lifted a large brass knocker shaped like an alligator, jaws open, teeth glinting. A harried-looking woman with a clipboard opened the door. “Welcome!” she said, her attempt at cheerfulness failing pretty badly.“Here’s your party pack! Be sure to wave the mini–American flag during the fireworks champagne toast. Go, America!”
Salvatore clutched his party bag and saw that the speakers weren’t playing a recording of Dale Watson but that Dale Watsonhimselfwas singing by a pool filled with floats shaped like the state of Texas. The enormous backyard was full of party guests, everyone wearing red, white, and blue. Salvatore tugged at his Thrift Town tie. “Are you Annette Fontenot?” he asked.
“No, I’m Mandee, the event planner,” said the woman. “Annette’s over there, in the red sequins. Enjoy the party!”
What Salvatore wouldn’t give to enjoyanything. To grab a mini–crab cake or head over to the giant table of beef where it looked like…yes, it was Aaron Franklin himself slicing brisket. To crack open a cold Shiner bock and dance to Dale Watson. He sighed. “Is Robert Fontenot here?” he asked Mandee.
She smiled and held her hands up. “No idea,” she said.
Salvatore walked past her into the party. He scanned the guests, looking for Robert. There were a few teenagers splashing in the pool, so he moved in that direction. He took a second to pause by Dale Watson, to listen to a song he loved, “Tupelo, Mississippi and a 57 Fairlane” (his second-favorite Watson tune, after “Louie’s Lee’s Liquor Lounge”). When a woman who might have been an actual Dallas Cowboys cheerleader offered him a pig in a blanket with “Annette Dipping Sauce,” he took it—why the hell not? It was absolutely delicious.
By the pool, he asked a young woman in a bikini if she knew where he could find Robert. “Bobcat?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Salvatore.
“Maybe in the gaming grotto?”
The goddamn gaming grotto. Salvatore wanted to be rich.He thought of his sweet son and Joe’s old iPad. He thought about how much Joe wanted a pair of Air Force 1 sneakers.
Salvatore wanted to go home. But when home, he wanted only to escape. There seemed to be no relief.
“Hello, friends and family! And friends who are our family!” A voice rang out over the speaker system. Salvatore turned and saw a short man in snug jeans, alligator boots, and a Stetson standing next to Dale Watson on the stage. “Welcome to the Annette is an American party!”
People cheered and a spotlight lit up a nervous-looking woman in a red dress, her Dolly Parton–blond hair held back with sapphire combs. She wore ivory-colored boots with American flag inlays. “Thank you for coming to my party,” she said nervously. Annette Fontenot looked tired.
The short man (Robert’s father?) held up a glass of champagne. “Cheers to my wife, the love of my life! Congratulations, Annette!”
Salvatore glanced up as a fireworks show began. Watson and his band launched into “The Star-Spangled Banner” and deafening cracks preceded an American flag in the sky, followed by a fireworks Texas flag, followed by what may have been a woman’s face, followed by the letter “A.”
Where was Robert? Salvatore wandered among the guests, each exclaiming as the fireworks display grew louder and more elaborate. He felt dizzy as champagne corks popped and people jumped into the pool and the party grew rowdier. Watson and his band kept rocking on the stage.
Under a live oak strung with lights, he spotted Annette again. She was being hugged by two women. One wore a short silk dress, her dark hair in an elaborate topknot. The third woman was Liza Bailey. Salvatore couldn’t believe it—she was definitely the woman from the Damnations show.They were talking, heads bent low, champagne glasses catching the light.
He walked toward the women. Liza turned and saw him. He may have been mistaken, but he was fairly sure she recognized him. She squinted as he approached. “Do I know you?” she asked.
How he wanted to sayYes.
