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store to get the nails, Esteban introduced me to his uncle, at the deli next door. He asked him to give us extramussels for the paella.
    A voice said, “She doesn’t need extra mussels, Esteban. She’s muscled her way in very well, hah?”
    It was Gioconda, of course, with her mean mouth and her crinkly eyes. What was said next was in Spanish, was angry, both pairs of Santiago eyes flashing. Gioconda pointed at me, her long nails blood-red daggers. Esteban made a fist and held it up to her face as though he would punch her, but she didn’t flinch. He finally let his arm drop, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe the things she would do. She marched out the door and he stomped after her, calling over his shoulder to his uncle to make two good paella plates to go.
    â€œSlow down, Esteban,” I said as we drove back. His old 80s Pontiac kicked up dust along the highway.
    â€œI am sorry you have to see me so angry, amante ,” he said. “Gioconda makes me undignified. Now that we are away from home, she bosses me as though she is mi madre .”
    All I really heard was “amante.” A first. I remembered that from Spanish II. I watched him in profile. I thought of the two songs I liked that he sang at Jungle Pete’s. The one about the needy street kid reminded me vaguely of my dad. Every Christmas he collected money from Seaview merchants for toys he’d give to poor kids. His orders were: No clothes, nothing that is good for the child, just playthings so this little boy or girl will know what our kids find under the tree. I hoped Esteban had a caring nature, too. That was as sexy to me as the other song he sang: “Dare to Forget Me.”
    â€œI don’t care if you’re undignified,” I said.
    â€œBut I care! In my life at this time, I have only my pride and my dignity. They are everything.”

SIX
    â€œD ONE !” E STEBAN called in to me.
    I put the outside lights on so we could see, but it was already too dark.
    â€œIt is just a roof,” said Esteban. “Nothing much to see. It was not hard. You know, Anna, if I become a carpenter, I will have real money for a change.”
    I felt like saying, Not if you work for my father . He paid apprentices eight dollars an hour and his regulars ten. But Esteban wouldn’t have to work for him long. He could go into business forhimself after he learned everything. He could become a contractor.
    â€œDon’t you want to be a singer, though, Esteban?”
    â€œI am no Juanes. I’d like to write music too, but you need learning. You need it for everything, and I don’t have it.”
    â€œWho is Juanes?”
    â€œYou don’t know him? He won one of your Grammys one year for a song called ‘A Dios Le Pido…’ But my making songs and my singing is a dream. I work for tips at Jungle Pete’s. That’s why I work there only one night. A lot of customers don’t tip at all. Hey, let’s go in. The mosquitoes are biting.”
    I made Esteban lie down on the leather couch while I warmed up the paella in Dad’s new kitchen. Esteban’s uncle had given us extra mussels and even pieces of lobster mixed in with the chicken and rice. I didn’t want Esteban to do anything. I swiveled the table up and put a cloth on it with candles in star-shaped holders. Dad had been over to Pier One and bought littleextras: lilac soap for the bathroom, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of swans, white napkins with tiny gold swans on them, even a swan vase he had put fresh daisies in.
    I put down our best dishes, white ones with gold stars in the middle. Mom had found them years ago on eBay. We hardly ever used them. But I noticed Dad had moved them from the house to the screening room.
    I poured cold green tea into tall clear glasses, remembering Dad’s new notion (or Larkin’s) that you should always be able to see the color of your drink. He announced