At Rita O’Dea’s direction, Alvaro escorted her upstairs, showed her to a room, and gave her towels for a bath. Later Rita O’Dea told Alvaro to make himself scarce. She wanted to be alone with her husband. Ty O’Dea, who had avoided Alvaro’s eyes, was sitting awkwardly on the sofa. Rita O’Dea approached and said, “Alvaro’s my houseboy.” “Is that what you call him?” he said. He was tired, a little punchy. His head lolled. “I was being cute, Ty.” She studied him. “I think you could use a drink,” she said and went to the liquor cabinet, where she dug out a bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. The amount she poured was generous, and he accepted it gratefully, his hand trembling a little. She said, “You still got a liver left?” “I don’t drink like I used to,” he said. “You could’ve fooled me. Be careful, Ty. Everything catches up. Everything can hurt.” She dropped herself into a chair near the sofa, beside a small marble-top table that held upright pictures of her mother and father.
