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Evan Handy turned up in our junior year, just a couple of weeks into the first semester. There were whispers, even before he arrived, that he’d been kicked out of a fancy private school in the city; his parents had moved here to escape the scandal. His first day, he pulled up on a motorcycle, its revving engine drawing every eye. He stepped off it in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket, no helmet, long hair tied back. Every girl swooned. Not me, though. I don’t swoon. But I watched him. Of course I did. His swagger, how he loped in through the big front doors like he was taking over.
Badger noticed him too. It was hatred at first sight.
There’s something wrong with him. You don’t see that?
You’re jealous.
And you’re blind.
You just need to get to know him better.
Uh, no thanks. I’ve seen enough.
It’s one of my conversations with Badger that rings back, though I can’t place it now. An echo over time, reminding me that he saw something I didn’t. We might have been sitting under the oak tree in his backyard. Or he might have been under one of the cars he was helping his father repair before the business came to him. We might have been in my kitchen, alone while my father worked the late shift. I don’t have many memories of my early life that don’t include Badger. Which is not his name. I don’t even remember why people started calling him Badger. But everybody in our stupidly small town still calls him that.
Now, back at my house, just a few miles from Badger’s and down a long winding drive through thickly wooded acreage, I enter the kitchen through the back door to find Miranda packing up her things for the night
“Sorry I’m late,” I tell her, letting the screen clang behind me.
“No problem,” she says easily. “Today was a day, though. He’s down now. I gave him something so he should sleep through the night tonight.”
She’s a tall woman with powerful shoulders, and a skein of wild dark curls. Strong. She’d have to be to deal with my dad all day. In his prime, he towered at over six foot four, weighing in at more than 250. He’s shrunk some over the years, lost weight, buckling under the strain of his work. But he’s still heavy, unwieldy. He puts up a fight when he needs help. A sad allegory to the way he has always lived his life.
I sink into my usual seat at the kitchen table. The room is unchanging. The same red potholders hanging on wall hooks by the stove, ceramic salt and pepper shakers standing sentry in the middle of the table, ancient toaster reflecting light, the leaky coffee maker waiting for morning. There’s a comfort in that, a place that stays the same when the world is in constant flux. The appliances all need updating now, but they were brand-new when my mom designed this kitchen.The kitchen is the heart of every house, she always said. Just notice where everyone always gathers.
I pick at a chip in the wood table, remembering how it got there during a big fight between me and my father. I slammed down the dinner knife I had been holding and it notched the table. What had we been fighting about? The only thing we ever fought about.
“I made you a plate,” says Miranda, putting her tote on the floor. “Heat it up?”
I lift a hand in protest. Taking care ofmeis not her job anymore, but she’s already popping it in the microwave. Beepbeepbeep. Humm. Old habits die hard. I give her a grateful nod. If not for Miranda and her magic kitchen skills, it would be pizza or fast food for me most nights, if anything.
When the microwave pings, I make Miranda sit and get up to fetch my own plate.
“Glass of wine?” I ask, giving her a mischievous smile.
She smirks back. “Twist my arm. Just more work waiting for me at home.”
I pour her a glass from the bottle of white we have open in the fridge, do the same for myself, join her at the table.
She tells me about the day. How dad was calm in the morning, ate a good lunch. “But he got restless toward the end of the day. Saw something on the television. I was doing the wash and didn’t get to him in time before Judge Judy ended and the news began.”
The news amps my father up. Too many years as a cop, his slew of rigid opinions about politics, people, the world—none of them in line with the way some of us hope things are going.
Miranda takes a deep swallow of her wine.
I devour the chicken and yellow rice, black beans, plantains. Oh, wow, it’s heavenly. Miranda is the best cook I know. I eat like I haven’t eaten all day, which except for a protein bar at lunch I guess I haven’t.
“You need your own restaurant,” I tell her.
She blows out a breath. “What Ineedis a vacation,” she says.
“Or that,” I say with an assenting nod. I dread her vacation or sick days. No one is as good with my dad as Miranda. To show my appreciation, I shower her with gifts—signed copies of books she loves, restaurant gift certificates, nail appointments. There’s no end to my gratitude. She’s more than his nurse; she’s our close family friend, and the person that helped Dad take care of me after my mom left us.
“Did you see what got him going?” I ask.
“Nah.” She takes a deep swallow of her wine. “I turned it off and rolled him outside for some fresh air. He chilled after that.”
