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Helen put her hands on her hips. “That was Ashley.”
“Ah,” Annie said.
“She’s ten going on sixteen.”
Annie chuckled nervously. Helen turned back to the stove. Kevin continued scratching out his letters with his pencil.
She was still wearing her light jean jacket, still clutching her bag at her side. Then, realizing that Helen had too much to deal with to make Annie feel at home, she took the matter into her own hands and hung her bag on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She kept her jacket on, despite the warmth of the kitchen. Her flowered dress was sleeveless and she didn’t want to show her bare arms right away. The invitation to dinner was an interview, after all.
Unsure what else to do, Annie touched the baby, resting her hand on his warm stomach. He looked at her when she made contact, gurgled, and smiled. His legs were bare, his thighs chubby rolls. He wore a onesie today, blue stripes with a little train appliqué. The plastic edges of his diaper peeked out at the bottom.
“I hope spaghetti is okay,” Helen said. “Ashley has dance on Saturdays until six, so we eat a little later than usual.”
“Smells great,” Annie said. “Thanks for having me.”
“You said that,” Helen pointed out with a smirk.
“Sorry,” Annie said. “I’m, uh, out of my element.”
“Kevin, honey, go set the table.”
“It’s Ashley’s turn.”
“She’ll do it twice later.”
“But I’m watching the baby,” Kevin countered.
“I can keep an eye on him,” Annie said, slipping her finger into the curl of his little fingers. He hung on tight.
Kevin glowered at her but slid off his chair.
She didn’t want to stare at the baby, so she looked out into the backyard instead. Behind the house was a small building that backed up to the fence running along the alley. A gate next to the building provided access to the alley from the yard. The building from the outside looked bigger than her motel room. It might have been a garage at one time, but if so, the fence now blocked where the garage door had been.
“I’ll show you after dinner,” Helen said.
Annie turned guiltily as if she’d been caught doing something besides looking out the window.
“That’d be fine,” Annie said. “Can I help?”
“You can make the garlic bread,” Helen said, gesturing with a wet wooden spoon at a loaf of French bread on the counter next to her. Annie hesitated. “There’s margarine in the fridge. I find it spreads easier.”
Bread and butter; that wasn’t too hard. She’d seen her mom make dinner a million times. Helen pulled a serrated knife out of a wooden block and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” Annie said.
“Where did you say you were from?”
“Lots of places now,” she replied. “But I went to high school in Toledo, and that’s where most of my family still lives.”
“A good Midwestern girl.” Helen’s voice sounded slightly mocking, but maybe Annie was feeling defensive, backed into a corner, and desperate to make a bad situation bearable.
“I guess so.” Annie pulled open the refrigerator door—covered in drawings and magnets and pictures of the kids—and scannedinside for the margarine. She found a family-sized brown tub, pulled it out, then glanced back at the baby.
Kevin returned and slipped back into his chair.
“Napkins and glasses too?” Helen asked.
Kevin got back up with a heavy sigh.
