"Maria Antonia Carlotta Catalina Higgins!" Race huffs out, and even though I'm just as pissed off as he is, I still find it amazing that he can get all those syllables out in one breath. Who the hell names their kid that, anyway? And how did it even fit on her birth certificate? I actually kind of feel bad for her, having a name that's bigger than she is.
Racetrack breaks off my chain of thought to continue his tirade. "How could you do this to me? Worse, how could you do this to yourself? What about your life? You have so much ahead of you and you've just gone and fucking ruined it!"
"Daddy," Maria squeaks, sinking further into the couch. "Daddy, it's not that big of a deal, it won't even be that expensive if I just get an a--"
"Don't you dare even say it," he snaps. "We are Catholics. We don't do that sort of thing." He shoots an icy glare at her. "You know what else Catholics don't do? Have sex before they're married!"
Maria stands up and squares her tiny shoulders, like a miniature boxer preparing for a fight. "Isn't there something in the Bible about a man not laying with another man?"
"Oh, don't pull this 'boo-hoo, my father is gay' shit with me now, Maria. It's not going to work and I'm just not in the mood for bullshit," Race shouts, pointing to the couch. "And sit back down!"
Maria obeys and looks down at the floor, wiping at her eyes as they begin to overflow. I see Race's face soften, if only for a second, before he goes rigid again. "Who's the father, anyway? Do you even know?"
I wince at the last comment and elbow him gently in the ribs. He has every right to be angry, but that was just uncalled for.
Maria looks up in shock. "Of course I know who the father is! I'm not some two-bit whore, Daddy."
"Coulda fooled me at this point. What's his name?"
"Everybody calls him Spike."
I can't help but laugh. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Race just throws up his arms and leaves the room.
--
A week later, Race is pacing in front of the door, waiting for Spike and his parents to arrive for dinner and a very stern talking-to. He's not in a good mood.
"What the hell kind of parents raise a child who goes by Spike? What's wrong with these people?"
"I think you have more in common with his parents than you think, Daddy," Maria says from the couch, flipping nervously through a magazine.
"Just what is that supposed to mean?" Race sighs. "You know what? Just... don't even talk for the rest of the evening. I'm still too pissed at you to hear anything you have to say."
"Race!" I snap, glaring at him. "Would you stop? It's not helping anything." Before he can respond, I take Maria by the arm. "Honey, why don't you come help me in the kitchen? You can, um, toss the salad or something."
Despite everyone's bad mood, Maria snickers. "Oh, shut up," I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and going into the kitchen.
"Do you think Daddy'll ever forgive me?" Maria asks as she pours dressing and cheese onto the lettuce.
"He'll calm down, I promise." I stir the pasta in the pot and lean against the counter. "Honey, your Daddy is just going through some things. He's worried about getting older, and the fact that he's going to be a grandparent, well, that isn't going to sit easy with him. Especially since you're only fifteen." Maria turns to look at me, frustrated. I shrug. "Well, it's not like I can change that. I can't ignore it, either, sweetheart. I love you, but you made a very bad decision. You're way too young for this."
She sighs and stares into the salad for a moment, then looks back at me. "It's not like I chose this."
I lay my hand on her cheek, patting it gently. "Yes, Maria, you did."
"They're here," Race calls from the entryway, and Maria grabs my hand as we walk out. I can't help but smile.
My smile, however, turns into a look of sheer shock as I see who's standing in my doorway.
Flanking the aptly-named Spike, who is dressed in leather and metal with his hair gelled up every which way, are two very familiar men.
Adam "Skittery" Michaels and Oscar DeLancey look equally surprised to see us.
"Well," Skittery says, looking Race and I over, "at least our little hellian chose to fool around with the daughter of decent people."
--
"So, young man," Race starts after dinner, sitting directly across the coffee table from Maria's boyfriend.
"Spike," he grumbles back, glaring down at his glass of water.
"Marcello," Skittery corrects.
"Marcello, huh?" Race smirks. "That's a good name. Tell me, Marcello, do you intend to marry my daughter?"
Marcello scoffs. "Hell no," he says, his New York accent far too exaggerated for this area of the state. It sounds Brooklyn-gangster, and we're far, far from Brooklyn. "I ain't never gettin' married."
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Maria," Race says, rolling his eyes. "Couldn't you have at least fooled around with someone who speaks English?"
Marcello starts to rise out of his seat. "Look here, you little guido piece of--"
Oscar, having been silent all evening, shoots his arm out and grabs Marcello by the collar, yanking him back down. "Listen, kid, I don't care how pissed off you are, you will respect this man in his home."
"Pop, he's talkin' to me like I'm stupid or somethin'!"
"You are stupid or somethin'," Oscar says, rolling his eyes. "You knocked up his daughter. He's got every right to be pissed off at you." He looks over at Maria, smirking. "Though I don't blame you."
"Anyway," I interrupt before Race can lash out at Oscar and probably get himself killed, "how are you two planning to support this child?"
Maria shrugs. "I guess I didn't really think about it."
"I got plans," Marcello says coolly. "I ain't got time to take care of some kid."
"And what, pray tell, are those plans?" Racetrack sits back in his chair and smirks, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Well, I gotta finish bar-tending school and then I'm goin' into the Marines."
"What do you intend to do in the military?"
"Kill people," Marcello replies, without the slightest change in his expression.
"Gee, I'm so glad you're the father of my grandchild. Now, what do you intend to do when you run off to join the Marines and we sue you for back child support?"
Marcello just sits there, dumbfounded.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skittery smirk. When I look at him, he stifles a laugh and clears his throat. "Looks like you're going to have to change your plans, Marcello."
"You can come work at the garage for me," Oscar says. "I'll put you on the payroll, you'll start out at minimum wage."
"But Pop..."
"Don't argue, kid," Skittery snaps, his gentle nature suddenly broken through. "This is more important than any stupid plans you'll ever make. We raised you to be a decent person, and damn it, you're not going to throw that away now." He stands up and grabs Marcello by the ear. "Let's go. We'll keep in touch," he says to Race and me, then marches with his son out to the car.
"My boys," Oscar says with a smile, before nodding to the three of us and following Skittery outside.
--
The evening has finally wound down, and with Maria sulking in her bedroom, Race and I have a moment alone as we get ready for bed.
"You okay, Race?" I ask as I pull my pajama pants on.
"Not really," he grumbles, crawling into bed.
I follow suit, laying down next to him. "Everything's going to be okay."
"How can you say that? My fifteen-year-old daughter is having a baby. She's in the best school in the state and she has a great future ahead of her, and she's pregnant. I'm going to be a grandfather at forty."
"You'll be forty-one when the baby is born," I offer.
"God damn it, Spot," he sighs, turning his back to me. "You're not helping."
"Neither is your sulking," I mutter.
"Well, excuse me for being upset because my life is going to shit."
"Your life is only going to shit because you're letting it."
Race sits up and glares at me. "Can't you just spare me your uplifting philosophical bullshit for one night?"
"Race--"
He climbs out of bed and walks over to the closet, grabbing a pillow and blanket.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm sleeping on the couch. Maybe then I'll get a little peace."
He turns off the light as he storms out, slamming the door behind him to leave me in the dark and silence.