the pillow story.” He took my arm and pressed it against his side. “Tell it again.”
It was a relief to laugh. “Why did everyone freeze up when I said you were a great driver? Should I be bringing a crash helmet?”
Billy gripped my elbow as he led me around a patch of ice. “She doesn’t trust my driving. Ever since Michael was killed.”
I wanted to kick myself down the street. Billy’s cousin Michael had died in a car crash when he was sixteen. “No wonder she hates me,” I said.
Billy sighed. “She hasn’t left the house in five years,” he said. “She went to my cousin’s funeral and then she never left the house again. At first we didn’t notice it. She’d always make me run errands, buy the groceries, and told me not to tell my dad. She even sent me to the dress shop a couple of times. I almost got beat up on the way home, carrying that bag. But my dad figured it out. Now everybody pretends it’s all right. All the family — they say she has headaches, poor Angela. The doctor comes to the house, the food is delivered, her clothes, they just send them over, all the stores on Federal Hill know Angela Benedict. God forbid she gets a toothache, she’ll rip it out with pliers. So don’t take it personally.”
But I did. It was personal. I’d seen hatred in that woman’s eyes. “I guess she doesn’t want to let go of you.”
“She won’t let go of anything.” We reached the end of the driveway and stopped by the car. He stepped back from me and jammed his hands in his pockets. “I just want to punch something.”
“That’s why you’re on the boxing team.”
“I quit.”
“You didn’t tell me. Don’t you like it anymore?”
He swung open the door and held it for me. “I started to like hitting the other guy a little bit too much.”
The interior light illuminated his face, his full mouth so taut. I touched his arm. “It’s all right. It’s just family. We’ll make our own one day.”
“Not here. Not in Providence. We’d never have a life here.” He looked back at the house. “You never talk about what my father does.”
I shrugged. “He’s not you.”
“We pack away lies in that house like you pack away Christmas. We put them in boxes and tape them over. My mother is a great hostess — that’s what everyone says. She never comes to anybody’s house, but she cooks like crazy on holidays. My father is a stand-up guy, defending people in the neighborhood. You should see the fruit baskets we get at Christmas, the liquor, the presents … for what? For getting some murderer acquitted? Do you think he sleeps at night, my dad? I hear him walking around….”
“Billy —”
“Can you honor your father if you think he’s a louse? And he wants me to be him! Benedict and Benedict, that’s his dream.”
“It’s okay if it’s not yours.”
“I want to take pictures, I want to travel the world —”
“You can do anything.” I said the words firmly. “Anything you want.”
He dipped his head and rested his forehead against mine. “You put up with a lot from me. I don’t want you to have to put up with my family, too.”
“They’re part of you.”
“No.” He shook his head, back and forth, his cool forehead moving against mine. “You’re my family.”
When he kissed me, his lips were so cold they made me shiver.
“I hate deviled ham,” I whispered.
We laughed, and something eased in him. He took my arm and helped me into the car, even though I didn’t need it. The upholstery felt stiff and cold through my coat. He closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. I watched him through the windshield. I never got used to how beautiful he was. I had watched him box once — only once — and I’d seen how the elegance of his movements translated to a ring. He had been a beautiful thing to watch — until the blood began to flow, and I had to run out of the room.
Later, at the dance, we held each other closer than we ever had. All he had to do was touch the small of my back and I shuddered. With his lips close to my cheek, he said, “Thank you for tonight.”
“For what?”
“For not kicking the tray of sandwiches over. For not dumping your coffee in her lap. For not insulting her the way