Hit and Run Read Free Page B

She made strawberry and blueberry and apple pies in batches and froze them. Boy, did I ever miss all that food. It sure wasn’t the only thing I missed about her, but there were times when I would have given anything, anything at all, to be sitting down to her roast chicken and stuffing with homemade gravy, mashed potatoes, and peas.
    Billy never cooked. His kitchen skills were limited to microwaving TV dinners and heating baked beans. Sometimes he even took them out of the can first. Sometimes he brought a girl home and sometimes the girl would cook something—maybe a batch of spaghetti and meat sauce or some fried chicken. But that was usually at the beginning, when the girl was trying to impress Billy. And usually the girl wasn’t thrilled to find out that Billy was guardian to a fifteen-year-old nephew.
    These days the fridge usually held more beer than food. But if Billy missed Mom’s cooking, he never said so.
    I opened the fridge. There was nothing inside. Well, nothing except a margarine tub that might or might not have any margarine in it, a carton of milk—I hefted it,it felt close to empty—a couple of wilted carrots in the bottom shelf, a half-full jar of strawberry jam (which only made me think of the freezer jam Mom used to make), a shaker container of parmesan cheese, a couple of grayish pickles in a jar that I knew for a fact no one had touched in months—maybe even years. Not exactly the makings of supper.
    I closed the fridge and opened a cupboard. Sugar Pops. I shook the box. Half full. A jar of now-completely-scraped-out peanut butter. A box of crackers. And a bunch of cans—Beefaroni, baked beans, spaghetti, peaches (Billy loved canned peaches in heavy syrup a million times more than fresh peaches). Vinegar. Dried spaghetti. A jar of no-name spaghetti sauce.
    I took out the spaghetti and the spaghetti sauce and put some water on to boil. Twenty minutes later, just as I was ladling sauce over a plate of spaghetti and getting ready to shake some Parmesan over it, Billy appeared, sniffing the air.
    â€œHey, that smells good,” he said, hooking the plate out of my hand.
    I served out another plate of food for myself, followed Billy to the front porch, and sat down on a folding chair beside him.
    â€œYou don’t want to buy groceries, that’s fine,” I said. “Just give me some money and I’ll pick up some stuff. I could make a meat sauce. Maybe some sausages. Or chicken. You like chicken, right? I can fry some for us, maybe make some mashed potatoes.”
    Billy grinned at me as he scarfed down his food.
    â€œYou’re going to make some girl a nice wife one day,” he said.
    â€œEarth to Billy, get with the times. Men cook too. The chefs at all the best restaurants are men.”
    â€œI hate cooking,” Billy said. He looked mournfully at his empty plate. “Anymore in the pot?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œYeah, well, I’m going out anyway. I’ll get something to eat later.”
    He set his plate on the porch and got up to go inside.
    â€œHey, put your plate in the sink,” I called. Too late. The screen door banged shut behind him. A few moments later he returned, flipping the cap off another beer bottle.
    â€œYou seen the toolbox lately?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s probably in the basement,” he said. You asked Billy where anything was and he always said the same thing—probably in the basement. “Why?”
    â€œMrs. Jhun tripped on one of her front steps today. I’m going to fix it for her.”
    Billy made a sour face. “What do you care about that old woman for? Jeez, I bet she doesn’t speak decent English yet. None of those people do.” It drove Billy crazy when people came here from other countries and had the nerve to speak their own language. Everyone should learn English, he said. They shouldn’t even be allowed in here until they could speak the language. To hear