She told me that last time too.
“Stop washing things.”
“No, ma’am.”
She turns and walks back inside. Torres watches her go, then looks at me.
“Hayes talked to you.”
“She said cookies aren’t evidence.”
“She’s right.” Torres takes the last cookie from the Tupperware, which she’s been holding this entire time. “But this helped. The rig thing. Cap notices effort.”
“She didn’t seem impressed.”
“Cap never seems impressed. That’s her whole thing.” Torres bites the cookie. “Same time next week?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Bring more cookies. And don’t wash anything without asking first. If you touch the hoses Liz will have your head.”
“Who’s Liz?”
“Liz doesn’t work here. She just has opinions about hoses.” Torres waves her hand. “Long story. Go home.”
I go home.
* * *
Mom made her chicken, her favorite thing to make anytime. It's practically her comfort food. It’s on the table when I walk in, along with rice and collard greens and the good plates, which means we’re having a family dinner and I’m expected to be present in body and spirit and gratitude.
Dad says grace. He always says grace. Even when we’re eating pizza on a Friday, he bows his head and thanks God for the food and the family and the blessings we don’t see, and he means every word of it because my dad is a man who does not say things he doesn’t mean. He got that from his mother, who got it from hers, and somewhere in the lineage of Kimball integrity there’s a gene I’m missing because I’ve been lying to both of them for a week and a half.
“How’s the gym?” Mom asks.
“Good.”
“You’re going a lot.”
“I need to stay in shape for the job.”
“Speaking of which.” Dad sets down his fork. He does this when he’s about to say something he’s been thinking about, the fork placement, like he needs both hands free for the weight of his words. “I talked to Gerald at church. His son-in-law is at Station 24. Says it’s a good house. Good guys. They do community outreach on the weekends.”
“That’s great.”
“He said Medina’s solid. Fair. Runs a clean operation.” Dad picks up his fork again. Subject delivered. “You’ll be fine.”
“I know I’ll be fine.”
Mom looks at me. She’s got the look. The one that says she can hear what I’m not saying and she’s choosing not to press it yet but the choice is costing her something.
“Baby, are you excited?” she asks. “About starting?”
“Of course.”
“Because you seem a little…” She waves her fork in a circle, searching for the word. “Unsettled.”
“I’m not unsettled. I’m just adjusting.”
