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Chapter 13
About a year or so after moving into Gram’s, he’d come home from school crying about how the D.A.R.E program lady had told him that the cigarettes Gram smoked could kill her. He’d been terrified. Neither of them knew where his father was at any given time, and they had very little else by the way of family. She’d been the only person he’d had—in certain ways, she still was—and because of that, he’d refused to lose her to something as silly as those “cancer sticks.”
It had taken him months to convince her to quit smoking. With enough crying and begging and home-based book reports about the dangerous long-term effects, he’s persuaded her to give it up. But May Abbott had been smoking since she was twelve, and kicking a habit that deep was not an easy feat. So she’d taken up cooking to distract herself. She’d gathered all of her mother’s old cookbooks from the crawl space above the stairs and set her heart on making everything in them.
Walker had been forced to eat all manner of dry chicken and overcooked beef. Their kitchen saw a bevy of mushy pasta and horrendous cream-based sauces for months. But she got better over time—so good that he’d started looking forward to eating dinner at home. He’d braved it all, sometimes with a sore stomach, and he’d come out the other side with a nonsmoking grandmother and a delicious meal every day.
His absolute favorite was her French toast. She didn’t use any fancy brioche, just thick-sliced white bread. She waited until the bread was a little stale and hard enough that the milk and eggs and cinnamon stuck to it perfectly. And then she fried it up in the cast-iron skillet until each slice was dark and crispy along the crusts and golden brown in the middle. Finished simply with a dusting of powdered sugar and a side of maple syrup, it was the perfect breakfast. He didn’t need anything else either. No eggs or bacon or sausage; he was always perfectly satisfied with the toast.
Walker came downstairs that Tuesday morning, hoping to find something to throw together for them to eat, only to find Gram already in front of the stove. He was stumped silent for a few moments, standing in the doorway as he watched her struggle to whisk milk and eggs together.
“Uhh…” His jaw flapped. “Gram, what are you doing?”
She jumped and turned to face him with a surprised look on her face. “You’re up early.”
He looked at the time on the microwave. “It’s ten…”
Working from home had been a godsend. He didn’t have to be in the office by nine and stick around until six even if he had no work. Without anyone breathing down his neck, he woke up when he wanted, stopped working when he wanted, and got more done as a result. The arrangement was amazing. It was probably the only thing he’d miss when he returned to Charleston. Well… now, that wasn’t true, was it? Not by a fucking long shot.
Still, he hadn’t been sleeping in that late. Not late enough to warrant any side-eye anyway. Old people might love waking up with the sun, but that didn’t mean he was some kind of lazy bum for wanting to luxuriate while he had the chance.
Gram made a face at him before turning back to her task, accidentally spilling some egg and milk over the side of the bowl.
“I figured I’d make your favorite breakfast,” she said absently. “You’ve been cookin’ all the food around here, makin’ sure I get around OK. I thought you deserved a treat.”
He didn’t think he deserved any kind of special treatment for helping his grandmother, but he wasn’t about to turn that French toast down. He took a seat at the table, close enough to quickly hop up and help if she needed it.
“How are you feelin’ this mornin’, Gram?”
“These damned things itch like the devil.” She lifted both of her elbows. “I had to stick an old wire hanger down there this morning.”
The image was so hilarious he couldn’t help but laugh. Gram harrumphed but turned a fond look on him anyway.
“Your father called me last night.”
The news nearly bowled him over. He hadn’t spoken to his father in years. The last time he and Benny had exchanged words was a week or so before his high school graduation. Benny had called the house, his voice somber and broken, to tell Walker that he wasn’t going to be able to come. He hadn’t given a real reason why, just some mumbled words about driving and work. Neither he nor Gram challenged him on it, but they all knew it was his lack of sobriety that kept him away. Walking across that stage, with only Gram there to clap for him, Walker had felt nothing short of humiliation and rage. Hands shaking, he’d promised himself that he wasn’t going to allow Benny to let him down ever again. No more calls, no more sporadic, days-long visits that left his head spinning. As far as Walker was concerned, he didn’t have a father.
The silence between the two men had lasted so long that Gram had been the one to tell Walker that his father had finally gotten sober five years ago. There had been no relapses since, but there also hadn’t been any more contact.
He knew Gram and Benny spoke from time to time. He didn’t know how often or for how long, but sometimes Gram would mention some news about his father and Walker’s chest would tighten up.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, when he was in bed reminiscing— or being triggered by childhood memories—he’d briefly consider reaching out to Benny. It would be nothing to get his number from Gram. But that was always as far as he got with that particular thought. He didn’t know what he’d say to the man. What they’d have to talk about. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to speak to his father. So instead of examining any of those questions, he left them alone.
Anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach as he contemplated why Gram was telling him this bit of information. Her voice held a slightly grim note, like she knew whatever she was going to relay was going to rock his world in the worst way.
“Uh… did somethin’ happen?” The last thing he needed was for his father to need some kind of help. It was awful, but he honestly didn’t know if he had it in himself to lend it.
Gram waved him off. “Nothin’ like that, he’s fine. He didn’t say much, actually. Just that he was sorry I’d gotten hurt and to call if I needed money or anythin’.”
That sounded about right. Benny was always sending Gram money. In the beginning, even before he’d gotten sober, he’d sent cash for Walker too. Fat envelopes stuffed with crisp bills that Gram was always trying to push onto him. He never wanted it though. It didn’t feel right to take money from a man he wouldn’t even talk to. Whether his grandmother had stopped trying or Benny had stopped sending he didn’t know, but it was another thing he was glad he didn’t have to decipher.
“Well, what did he want?” He kept his tone light, still not knowing exactly why Gram felt the need to bring Benny up.
“Not much,” she said, her voice filled with obvious false levity. “I told him I’d been draggin’ you to bingo the same way I used to drag him with me when he was a little boy. He got a kick out of that.”
Walker’s jaw clenched. There she went, doing that thing she did when she had bad news to give him but wasn’t quite ready to watch him break into pieces. He wished she’d get it over with. If he was going to shatter, he didn’t want to break out into an anticipatory sweat first and ruin one of his favorite shirts.
Gram kept going. “And uhm… he said he’d probably be drivin’ the truck through here for work sometime in September. He mentioned droppin’ by to see me. He… he said he’s thinkin’ about movin’ back to Greenbelt.”
