standing just inside the door, not sure what to do with myself. “What? No. I haven’t quit working at the Colonial. Bob—the owner—has been pretty cool about the trial and Jer and everything. But customers stare and whisper. Some of them ask questions about Jeremy. Rita can handle them, but I can’t. So I work in back most of the time.”
I can’t keep standing here, arms folded across my chest, like I used to do in fifth grade to hide my “early development.”
“Want something to drink?” I shoot past them to the kitchen and inhale the scent of leather and Ivory soap Chase brought in.
He follows me. “Water would be great.”
“Got any Coke?” T.J. hollers in from the living room.
I open the fridge and find three brands of beer on the top shelf, but no Coke. No juice. No bottled water. No ice cubes in the freezer, just an empty plastic ice cube tray.
I run the tap water and get down two glasses. Chase pulls back a chair and sits at the kitchen table. The chair legs squeal on the linoleum. I call out to T.J. to come in for his water.
Setting down the two glasses, I spot a Snickers wrapper and Rita’s overflowing ashtray on the plastic checkered tablecloth. I sweep both items off the table and dump them into the garbage. Tiny flecks of ash float up, along with the stench of stale cigarettes.
“Sorry, T.J.,” I tell him as he takes a seat across from Chase. “No Coke.”
“That’s okay,” he answers. “Hate to ask, but I’m starving.”
I watched him eat two bologna sandwiches an hour ago. He eats more than anybody I’ve ever met, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. “Sure. Chase?” My brain cycles through the slim possibilities for food in this house.
“Maybe. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Chase answers.
“No trouble,” I lie. I ferret through the fridge, then the cupboard.
No lunch meat. Crackers? No cheese. No cookies
. “I make a killer peanut butter sandwich.”
“Prove it,” Chase challenges.
“Yeah,” T.J. agrees.
I laugh … until I picture my brother sitting at this table taking a giant bite of a peanut butter sandwich. “That’s the one thing I make sure we never run out of—peanut butter. Jeremy would live on the stuff if I let him.”
Before I can get the bread out, Chase is up and searching through our gross fridge. He comes out with the grape jelly, Jer’s favorite.
“Know your way around the kitchen, I see,” T.J. observes.
“I’ve had lots of practice finding my way around strange kitchens. Every time Mom remarries, it’s off to a new house.” He finds our silverware drawer on the second try, takes out a knife, and spreads jelly after I do the peanut butter. “Is this really all your brother likes?” Chase asks. “Peanut butter sandwiches? And bologna. How about hot dogs?”
“He loves hot dogs too.” In my head, I can see Jeremy at a baseball game. He’s wearing a White Sox cap and biting into a ballpark frank. “We got to go to a White Sox game once. Rita was dating some guy who’d just gotten out of prison. Anyway, he took Jeremy and me to a game, and Jer ate six hot dogs and got so sick that he threw them all up … and all over the ex-con.”
Chase laughs.
“You never told me that,” T.J. says.
“I haven’t thought about it in years,” I say, sounding too defensive. T.J. hasn’t told me much about his past either, but I don’t bring that up. It’s nice having the three of us get along like this. Still, it feels a little like we’re balancing on a seesaw. One shift could send the whole thing crashing down.
“Dad and I love going into Cleveland for Indians games,” T.J. says. “We’ve made it to the home opener every year for as long as I can remember.”
“My dad’s never taken me to a major-league game,” Chase admits, picking up his sandwich and slapping on more peanut butter. “He keeps promising to, but he never does. He and Mom used to fight all the time about Dad’s promises. They fought
I can’t keep standing here, arms folded across my chest, like I used to do in fifth grade to hide my “early development.”
“Want something to drink?” I shoot past them to the kitchen and inhale the scent of leather and Ivory soap Chase brought in.
He follows me. “Water would be great.”
“Got any Coke?” T.J. hollers in from the living room.
I open the fridge and find three brands of beer on the top shelf, but no Coke. No juice. No bottled water. No ice cubes in the freezer, just an empty plastic ice cube tray.
I run the tap water and get down two glasses. Chase pulls back a chair and sits at the kitchen table. The chair legs squeal on the linoleum. I call out to T.J. to come in for his water.
Setting down the two glasses, I spot a Snickers wrapper and Rita’s overflowing ashtray on the plastic checkered tablecloth. I sweep both items off the table and dump them into the garbage. Tiny flecks of ash float up, along with the stench of stale cigarettes.
“Sorry, T.J.,” I tell him as he takes a seat across from Chase. “No Coke.”
“That’s okay,” he answers. “Hate to ask, but I’m starving.”
I watched him eat two bologna sandwiches an hour ago. He eats more than anybody I’ve ever met, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. “Sure. Chase?” My brain cycles through the slim possibilities for food in this house.
“Maybe. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Chase answers.
“No trouble,” I lie. I ferret through the fridge, then the cupboard.
No lunch meat. Crackers? No cheese. No cookies
. “I make a killer peanut butter sandwich.”
“Prove it,” Chase challenges.
“Yeah,” T.J. agrees.
I laugh … until I picture my brother sitting at this table taking a giant bite of a peanut butter sandwich. “That’s the one thing I make sure we never run out of—peanut butter. Jeremy would live on the stuff if I let him.”
Before I can get the bread out, Chase is up and searching through our gross fridge. He comes out with the grape jelly, Jer’s favorite.
“Know your way around the kitchen, I see,” T.J. observes.
“I’ve had lots of practice finding my way around strange kitchens. Every time Mom remarries, it’s off to a new house.” He finds our silverware drawer on the second try, takes out a knife, and spreads jelly after I do the peanut butter. “Is this really all your brother likes?” Chase asks. “Peanut butter sandwiches? And bologna. How about hot dogs?”
“He loves hot dogs too.” In my head, I can see Jeremy at a baseball game. He’s wearing a White Sox cap and biting into a ballpark frank. “We got to go to a White Sox game once. Rita was dating some guy who’d just gotten out of prison. Anyway, he took Jeremy and me to a game, and Jer ate six hot dogs and got so sick that he threw them all up … and all over the ex-con.”
Chase laughs.
“You never told me that,” T.J. says.
“I haven’t thought about it in years,” I say, sounding too defensive. T.J. hasn’t told me much about his past either, but I don’t bring that up. It’s nice having the three of us get along like this. Still, it feels a little like we’re balancing on a seesaw. One shift could send the whole thing crashing down.
“Dad and I love going into Cleveland for Indians games,” T.J. says. “We’ve made it to the home opener every year for as long as I can remember.”
“My dad’s never taken me to a major-league game,” Chase admits, picking up his sandwich and slapping on more peanut butter. “He keeps promising to, but he never does. He and Mom used to fight all the time about Dad’s promises. They fought
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