Rosie was born Roberto to Italian parents who had long names I didn’t care to remember. He was the youngest of six and the only boy, a child his father had waited for, but Roberto hadn’t waited long enough. He was born three months early, scrawny and gray. His dad called him a failed miscarriage, which was nearly as shitty as what my dad had said about me. I’m sure if they had been Russian and not Italian, Rosie’s parents would have sung him death lullabies too. I guess Rosie always felt like he should’ve been born a girl or not born at all. He was mostly ignored, but his parents paid enough attention to catch him wearing his sisters’ clothes as a teen. When he couldn’t stop sneaking their garments, his folks had kicked him out on the street, and somehow the gamin had found his way to Chicago, to Abraham, to Cal, the latter of whom was incredibly protective of him. It was endearing, the way Cal cared for Rosie. Maybe that’s why I didn’t make a big deal about the chorus moll spending time with us. I wouldn’t have had the capacity to be as tender toward Rosie as Cal was. After all, I liked Cal immensely, and I often found it difficult to be as expressive as I wished I could and was glad I could not be.

Surprisingly, Cal wasn’t as open to sharing his own story as he was in relaying Rosie’s. It hadn’t taken me long to realize Cal said a lot, yet nothing at all. His statements were meaningful and made me reflect, but they were deflections, whether he meant for them to be or not. In all fairness, I hadn’t shared more than was necessary about myself either. Yet, we knew each other, understood what mattered. Who needed focus on the past? We were made the way we were made, messed up the way we were messed up. There was nothing either of us could do to change that, so we negated it, whether purposely or otherwise.

While he didn’t talk about his family much, Cal spoke of the people he met in his life often, telling me their stories rather than his own and asking weighty questions in reaction that we both answered. He was the most interesting man I’d ever met, in every way. I wondered if he found me interesting too. It seemed he did. He looked at me when I said something. I liked that.