Page 30 of Brutal Vows

Somehow, it encapsulates his disbelief that I’m able to put together an edible meal along with an acknowledgment of my father’s passing. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, considering most of his vocabulary is probably composed of such nonverbal expressions.

Barnyard animals aren’t known for their witty discourse.

I take another swig of the Pinot from my glass. My plate of food remains untouched. My stomach is unsettled and my armpits are damp, and I can’t wait for him to finish his supper so I can smash his plate with a hammer and dump it into the trash, ensuring no civilized person can ever eat from it again.

That fork he’s using will have to go, too.

There isn’t enough bleach in all the world to clean his germs off it.

Tearing into a piece of focaccia bread with his teeth, Quinn says, “Does Lili cook?”

Mamma glances at me, waiting to hear how I’ll handle the question.

I go with a neutral-sounding “Yes.”

“This well?”

I hesitate, not wanting to admit that Lili has been banned from the kitchen for starting not one buttwofires, one in the microwave and one on the stove.

“She’s learning. I’m sure in time she’ll master it. If you recall, she’s only a teenager.”

I say the last part acidly. I’m gratified to see it gives Quinn pause.

He looks at me steadily for a moment, a lump of bread bulging in his cheek, then chews and swallows, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

He sits back in his chair, takes a swallow of wine, then says somberly, “Aye.”

Then he exhales heavily, as if he’s troubled by her age.

Mamma shoots me another wordless glance, her eyebrows raised.

Before I can pounce on the opportunity to shame him for wanting to marry a child, he says to me suddenly, “How old are you?”

Mamma cackles. “Ah,gallo sciocco,you have a death wish,sí?”

Setting my wineglass down carefully on the table—so I don’t break it—I hold his penetrating gaze and say, “What charming manners you have, Mr. Quinn.”

“Nearly as charming as yours, Ms. Caruso.”

“I’m not the one asking impolite questions.”

“Why is it impolite to want to know my future aunt’s age?”

“Aunt-in-law,” I correct, wanting to wash my mouth out with soap just hearing it. “And it’salwaysimpolite to ask a woman’s age.”

“As impolite as it is to shower a new relative with such…” He regards my withering gaze and my stiff posture. “Warmth and hospitality?”

Mamma says, “Don’t take it personally, Homer. She doesn’t like anyone.”

“I like some people just fine!”

She looks at me. “Tch. Name two.”

The Irishman grins, leaning over his plate and setting his elbows on the table. He props his chin in his hands and says, “Thirty-eight.”

My inhaled breath is sharp and loud. “I amnotthirty-eight years old.”

He pauses to take a leisurely, half-lidded inventory of my face and chest. “Thirty-six?”