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“The practice is said to summon demons,” Angelica went on. “I know this because—”
“You’re doomed, pal,” Vinny said and nudged Clay. “You can’t go an hour without whistling. You whistle in the bathroom like a goddamn canary.”
“A dozen canaries,” Susan agreed.
“Because as a young girl I spent my formative years in—”
“We got birdwatchers scaling the side of the house with binoculars, trying to get a look in at all these goddamn canaries.” Vinny smirked.
“I was enrolled in a school in which—”
Susan was reddening with giggles. “They’re all likeHoly crap! It’s a flock of rare, endangered Bostonian canaries all converging on this one modest bathroom.”
“I don’t whistle that loud,” Clay sighed.
“Yes, you do.”
“You actually really do.”
“The school in which I—”
“There’s whistling to yourself, like you don’t even know you’re doing it,” Vinny said, “and then there’s whatyoudo. You whistle like you’re trying to call ships in from the sea. Like you want people to notice that you’re whistling and comment on it. LikeJesus, can this guy whistle or what?”
Susan was laughing hard now. “Is he classically trained? Did he study for that?”
“DOESN’T ANYONE WANT TO HEAR ABOUT MY EXPERIENCES IN RURAL LITHUANIA?” Angelica roared.
The room fell silent. It was in the hush that Clay noticed the boy, Joe, standing in the doorway.
“I’m hungry,” the child announced.
“Come here, kid.” Clay pulled out the third chair at the little table. “Take a seat. We’ll get you a snack.”
“You wanna sit here, you gotta work,” Vinny said, pointing his knife tip at the child.
“You can keep us entertained with conversation,” Clay said and put a hand on the tiny boy’s shoulder. “That can be your work. Where’s your mom?”
“Still sleeping.” Joe kicked his legs under the table, his blue eyes following Vinny’s gnarled, scarred hand as he moved the blade. “We’ve been driving a long way, sometimes at night. She’s tired.”
“I bet.”
“What are you guys making?” Joe asked.
“Personal pies,” said Susan as she fished around in the cupboard, examining boxes of crackers. She put a stack in front of Joe. “We’ve counted you and your mom in.”
“What’s a personal pie?” the boy asked.
“Once a week somebody’s in charge of making dinner here,” Clay explained. “Susan makes these great beef pies. Only, when she did it the first time, she figured three big pies would be enough for all the residents to share. But—”
“But it’s nearly impossible to divide a circular pie equally,” Angelica sniffed. “Particularly three large pies being divided between seven people by someone with an obvious bias toward male dinersanddiners toward whom she has an established romantic affection.”
“So now everybody gets their own personal pie.” Susan rolled her eyes. “No dividing necessary, no bias possible. It’s a lot more work but a lot less drama. I bet they teach you in school how important it is to share, don’t they, Joe?”
“I don’t go to school anymore,” Joe said.
“Oh, why not?” Clay asked.
“School is stupid and boring.” He gave a wide grin. “It sucks big time!”
