One Way Or The Other (Cont'd.)
 

Again, I pushed away my plate of spaghetti.

"She's NOT for you," Mother said.

"Isn't she?" Father smirked.

Mother looked at me. I looked at my father. He looked at her.

I pulled the coin from my back pocket and flipped it in the air. We looked at the coin.

"Yes, she is." I said.

"Right," said Mother.

"Wrong," said Father.

The End

Today is the twenty-first of December. Many things have happened during the recent months.

In the spring, my father bought Davie's car. He drove it, happily cocking his graying head. The transference of the documents had not been completed, but Davie had suggested Father drove in the neighborhood. Neighbors recognized the car and informed it had been stolen. Sadly, the police confiscated the red Fiat Uno with the famous painted snake, for further investigation.

Father stayed home mumbling to himself. I wish I could repeat it, but I can't. I have my decency.

He took the neighborhood journal and leaned back in his armchair.

I counted: one, two, three.

He jumped back onto his feet. The Private Eye section informed that A, a stocky man with a graying mustache bought sexual favors from D, a young woman with long limbs and hair.

The cops came over. Then came Dona. She had these long limbs and hair indeed, but she smelled like a wet puppy.

Curious people tried to look inside.

Dona yelled (Oh, her temper!): "No one paid me anything!" It did not make things easier for her, or, for that matter, for anyone else.

The police's motto, "There's no smoke without fire," turned my father into the usual suspect. Detectives involved him in various investigations, with satisfying results. He had never paid tax in his life, for example. They also found a growing number of bounced checks.

"I haven't signed them!" he declared. He seemed pale, or maybe it was the light.

"No?" I asked.

"No?!" said mother with a strong intonation. She smiled at me. My artistic talents fascinated her.

We solve our misunderstandings between us. We don't talk to strangers.

Mother and Dona, red cheeked from their quick walk, entered the house in the early afternoon. I can't say I was too surprised. As I've already said, Mother occasionally comes with practical solutions during hard times.

"Don't even think about coins," Mother ordered in a whisper, passing by me.

They acted as if they did what they had to do. They put flowers and colorful adornments around the large windows, they filled the refrigerator with food and drinks and they talked in low voices. When they finished, they went upstairs to change their clothes.

I watch them now and notice they look wonderful, wearing summer dresses that expose their round arms and well-shaped legs. Mother walks like a queen. Dona moves behind her.

I don't approach anyone. I sit in a corner, drinking my orange juice.

By evening, the house fills with people. All the family but father arrives. No one asks anything.

"She has her ways," they explain to each other. It seems to echo.

At seven o'clock, a red haired uncle announces it's time for the first drink.

"For the birthday," he explains.

Mother and Dona fill all the glasses.

"To Izzo!" everybody shout.

I raise my glass and nod. Then I drink. It's nice to disobey my own rules occasionally.

Among my uncles, I finally notice a familiar graying head. I am relieved and delighted. This is important-we are family.

Father tries to hide, but the line of uncles opens up, and there's a sound of laughter.

"To Rita!" a dark uncle yells.

My mother raises her glass. "To better times," she says. There's a momentary silence, but then we cheer. Father takes a glass from the long wooden table and drinks. We drink too.

In the silence that follows, Mother puts on Forro Music and looks up at him. He crosses the room and stands in front of her.

"Shall we," he says.

They smile.

They move their hips to the rhythm, walking to the emptied dancing place. There, Father puts his hand on her hip and turns her full body around. His thighs close over hers like a fork, his arms hold her, and they dance.

I am not a good dancer.

I walk toward Dona.

She sits straight up, balancing a long leg over the other. Her eyes glitter.

"Izzo," she says.

"Dona," I say.

She tilts her head. "Would you ever forgive me? Would you..." The music makes it hard to hear her. I can guess, though.

I have learnt a thing or two in the passing year.

"I'll be right back. Too much beer, I'm afraid," I tell her.

She smiles with affection.

"Quickly," she says.

People only know about us what they want to believe.

I go to the bathroom. There, in front of the mirror I look at my reflection reaching for the coin.

Right before flipping, I stop.

Sometimes, a man can pick one way or the other. Or can't he?

I place the coin against the mirror so I can see its two faces.

Avital Gad-Cykman, an Israeli by way of Brazil, whose previous efforts have been published in Salon.com, Glimmer Train, and Zoetrope All-Story. Her story collection was one of the six finalists for the Iowa Fiction Award, and she is shopping it together with her novel, Quero-Quero.