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“I’m hungry,” Henry complained, one booted foot stomping on the ground.
“Me too, kid,” I said and slid out from underneath Cici. “Sandwich time?”
He nodded, his blond curls bobbing. “Yeah.”
I stood up with a groan, wiping the oil on my jeans and dragging a hand through the thin layer of sweat on my forehead.
“Uppy, uppy!” he crowed.
I obliged, kneeling down so that Henry could clamber on my back and intertwine his limbs through mine. Together, we trotted to the desk in the east corner, where I snatched up our twin salami sandwiches and baby carrots. For the record, I can cook. It’s not like a salami sandwich is the height of my culinary expertise. But when you’re a single parent, sometimes a salami sandwich is just the best you can manage for lunch.
Henry still fastened to my back, I walked outside to where I’d set up a small white painted iron table and two chairs, creating a lunch nook for us. It’d been the first adjustment I’d made to Big Bob’s shop, saying that since I was homeschooling Henry, the place would need to be more kid-friendly. In classic form, Big Bob’d shrugged and told me to do ‘whatever the fuck I wanted’ because it was ‘no skin off his arse.’ Much to my dismay, he still talked like that around my boy, who I suspected was already picking up on the language.
My son dropped off my back, hitting the ground nimbly and darting into his chair. He’ll be an athlete someday, I thought, though I hoped I could steer him in the direction of something safer, like engineering or accounting.
Sometimes I looked at Henry and was overwhelmed by all the dreams I had for him, the hopes that I’d pinned on his small head. My son deserved the world, and dammit, I’d give it to him.
Henry snatched the sandwich from my hand, and together, we tore into our lunch.
“Today,” I said, gulping down a bite of bread, “we’re doing presidents.”
He rolled his eyes, a gesture he’d only picked up recently, probably from Charlie, the cook at the diner Henry and I went to exactly three times a week. We couldn’t afford a fourth visit.
“George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jef-fee-son,” he recited confidently. “And then…”
Henry trailed off and looked at me, unsure. “Mon-woe?” he questioned, his brow scrunching up and the ‘r’ getting lost somewhere in the mix.
“James Madison,” I corrected. “But hey, you’re doing great.”
Henry beamed with pride. “I know more than you do.”
“That’s probably true,” I laughed.
Traditionally, you’re supposed to homeschool a kid by setting aside hours of the day for their studies. But I worked a full-time job, and didn’t have a partner to help. I twinged again at this thought, one that never failed to make me sick to my stomach. I knew, in my heart that Henry was infinitely better off without that woman in the picture, but that didn’t help quell my constant worry that I was letting him down.
He was six. Technically, he should’ve started kindergarten last year, should be starting regular school this year, in just a few weeks or so. But there was no state-ran school in Rough and Ready, and certainly no ‘preschool prep’ school. Just a few dirt roads, couple of shops and miles of cactuses.
I had decided to homeschool Henry for the time being. I was willing to revisit my decision in a few years, but I wanted him nearby and the long bus ride to and from the nearest school meant that he would have been on the bus for at least an hour each way, which was a long time for a six-year-old boy.
But what Rough and Ready lacked in educational opportunities for a single-parent family, it made up for in anonymity. I was disconnected from the outside world. Cable companies didn’t bother to come out here, especially the edge of town, where you could not see or hear your neighbor. It wasn’t worth their time or money to set up decent Wi-Fi. The only way to get on the internet was to go to the public library in the next town over. And the library there was as simple as could be. You were pretty much limited to the classics, such as Shakespeare or grocery store romance novels. Needless to say, I was only reading Henry the former.
When we’d escaped to the town a few years back, I thought I’d feel lonely. I was abandoning all my family and friends for a small scratch of land in the middle of nowhere and the dim hope that my son and I could get the fresh start we so desperately needed. Instead, it was the first time I hadn’t felt alone in years. There was no terror breathing down my neck, no monster who went bump in the night. Just me and my kid — the way I liked it.
