Home Sweet Home (Emily)
“We don’t want a big wedding, just to go and sign the papers,” I say.
I always thought I’d wanted a big wedding, but now it doesn’t even matter at all. Steel and I have already had my wedding, now it’s only about the paperwork.
“Whenever you want, Emily. I’m just happy to have you back,” my mom says. She reaches across the table and pats my hand.
“Thanks, Mom. I was really worried you’d never forgive me. But Steel said you would. He said it was important for me to have your help and support when the baby comes, and that he wants the baby to know its family,” I say, blurting out everything that’s been balled up in me.
“Coming back was Steel’s idea?” she says, her brow creased.
“Do we have to call him Steel?” my dad says into the air.
“You can call me Kayden if you want, but I can’t guarantee I’ll realize you’re talking to me,” Steel says.
Kayden. I don’t think I could ever get used to calling him that. But I like it, it’s a good name. A strong name, just like him.
“And, Kayden, you don’t have a job yet? To care for my grandchild?” my dad asks.
“Not yet, we only got here this afternoon,” Steel says.
“Where are you staying, Emily?” my mom asks.
“At a motel in Woburn. We’re still deciding which town to move to permanently,” I say.
“You should stay here with us while you’re figuring things out. There’s no point wasting your money on a hotel,” my mom says.
I look straight at my dad, and say, “I didn’t think we’d be welcome here.”
“Greg,” my mother says in her sternest voice, “they’d be welcome here, wouldn’t they?”
My fingers are laced through Steel’s, and I examine them. My hand is rough from the months spent putting up and taking down Cess’ booth. I used to always have long nails, polished during my regular manicures. Now my nails are jagged. Even after finishing the carnival a week ago, a layer of dirt is still stuck underneath them.
“I said, wouldn’t they, Greg,” my mother repeats.
I don’t know what to say now. I’m not even sure what to say if my father invites us. Would Steel want to stay here? Would I?
“I’m not sure we know enough about Kayden to welcome him into our house,” my father says.
My mother lowers her voice, and leans into my father, but I can still hear her say, “What do you mean, he’s the father of our grandchild.”
“What do you want to know, Dad? I’m not saying we want to stay here anyway, but whatever it is you want to know, you go ahead and ask.”
My father clears his throat, and says, “For starters, Kayden, why do you have a neck tattoo? Are you in a gang?”
Steel screws up his face, and says, “No, I ain’t in a gang. I’m from the carnival.”
“Then why?” my dad asks.
“Come on, Dad, get with the times. Lots of people have neck tattoos now,” I say.
“Not ones with decent jobs,” my dad says.
“Sure they do. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because you’ve answered my question — we wouldn’t be welcome here.”
“Anyway, Kayden,” my father says, ignoring me, “What type of job are you looking for?”
“I’m good with my hands, strong, and work hard. I’m not too worried about finding something,” Steel says, gripping my hand tightly.
“Funny, I hear that a lot in hiring, and it always ends up to be the opposite,” my dad says.
“I’ve held down the same job for ten years, I worked my way up to ride foreman. Ain’t no way Papa Smurf would’ve kept me around if I wasn’t a hard worker,” Steel says. There’s fire in his voice and he squeezes my hand tighter still.
My dad laughs. “Papa Smurf?” he says, scoffing.
“He’s the carnival owner,” I say.
“And he’s a real hard-ass to work for. If I can last with him, I can survive anywhere.”
“So you’re prepared to work and provide for this baby?”
“Of course I am, I already said that,” Steel says.
“I know you said it, but do you mean it?” my dad says, raising his voice.
“I’m here ain’t I? I would’ve stayed with the carnival if I wasn’t serious.” Steel turns to me, and says, “Maybe we should’ve raised the baby in the carnival, we’d get less shit there.”
I flinch at his words, and my mother whimpers.
“You know you don’t mean that,” I say, my voice strained. I glare at my father. “I already told you, Dad, it was Steel’s idea to come here. Remember?”
No one says anything. All of the air in the room hangs with the tension. My heart is speeding in my chest, but I refuse to let my father get to me.
Finally, my mother breaks the silence and says, “Emily, you and Kayden are welcome in my house anytime. If you say he’s a good man, I trust your judgment.”
I look at Steel and catch his eyes. Blinking back tears, I say, “He is a good man. The best.”
My mother’s never seemed to trust my judgment at anything I’ve ever done. Maybe she’s finally accepted that I’m grown up. And not an idiot.
“I’ll tell you what. Just to make my daughter happy,“ my father says, his eyes burning into me, “You come down to the dealership in Woburn tomorrow, if you’re a hard worker, like you say you are, I’ll find something for you.”
Steel glances at me, his mouth a tight line, and says, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What? I’ve just sat here and offered you a job, and you’re turning it down? You just said you were hard working,” my dad says.
“I can find something myself,” Steel says. His leg jiggles under the table, and I can see the tension in his neck.
“Unbelievable, Carol,” my dad says, looking at my mom and shaking his head.
“Dad,” I say, widening my eyes.
He looks at Steel, tilts his head, and says, “You could at least take it until you find something else.”
Steel doesn’t respond, and my breathing stops, waiting for something to happen.
“Goldie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Steel asks, his voice pleading.
“Okay,” I say, my brow furrowed.
I stand, and lead him by the hand to the den. The room is far away from the breakfast area, but I shut the door anyway.
“What is it?” I ask.
Steel’s breathing is fast, he closes his eyes and says, “I don’t got no social security number.”
“So, we can apply for one, it’s no big deal. My father doesn’t have to know you were paid cash all these years.”
“No, Goldie. You don’t understand.” He turns and walks to the window, staring out at the vast lawn.
His actions, with both my father and now, have my insides filled with butterflies. I wait for him to tell me what’s going on. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Are you going to tell me why, so I do understand?”
He spins back, his eyes sunken but his stance strong.
“I’m going to tell you, because you’re my wife, and deserve to know. But I don’t know what to do about telling your parents.”
“I don’t understand. Oh my God, are you an ex-con?”
“It’s not that.”
“But are you one?”
“Listen to me, I can’t get a social security card because I don’t have a Green Card.”
“Green Card? Those are for foreigners.”
This makes no sense.