Rosa said. She had walked into the house close at his side, glancing at him with little smiles of pride, touching him, as if after thirty years she could not yet believe this beautiful man was her first-born. “We need you, Alberto.” “Please,” Bea said. “His name is Albert. Or Al. It is not Alberto. It never was. It isn’t now — ” “Oh, stop it, Bea,” Al said. Bea looked about the shadowy room with its ancient furniture, scuffed and marked by the children and the dogs and time itself. She hated this room, hated the religious paintings, the religious articles secured to the dark walls. She wanted to get as damned far from this as she could, and drag Al with her because it was best for him whether he knew it or not. “I think your people call you Alberto just to annoy me,” Bea said, sitting on the edge of a couch. Rosa shook her head, looking at Al as if he were some fine statue she’d never seen before. “Always I call him Alberto,” she said, tilting her head. “This is the name of my grandfather.
