“Hey, Ma,” he greeted.
“Hank, I heard you stopped by to see the new girl who moved into the Meyer’s place?”
Not a hello, go fuck yourself, or anything. Nope. Straight to gossip. Good old Summerville.
“Yep, I did,” Hank muttered, and rubbed his forehead.
“Come by. I have treats for the guys and Josephine,” his mother offered, but she was lying out of her ass. In the time it took him to get to his parents’, which was all of four minutes from where he was, his mom will have unwrapped something and thrown it into her own baking dish. She just wanted the scoop on the new girl.
“Yep,” Hank muttered again and opened the console compartment. He lifted the ibuprofen bottle and shook it. It was empty. Fuck. Hopefully his visit with his mom didn’t take too long to prolong the already brewing headache.
Hank pulled into the driveway and took in his childhood home. In all the years, nothing had changed. The white washed brick facade, the black shutters that his dad painted every three years. Gardens that ran the length of the front path and wrapped around the house, with mature plants that had taken his mom a long time to design and plant but now year after year they sprouted and grew filling the front and back yards with color.
His mom tried to get him to paint his own house the same color, display the same plants in the front. He drew the line, but he did let her pick out his living room furniture. He was out of his SUV, and walking up the path when his mom appeared at the front door. A smile so big planted on her face, one that was now etched with wrinkles from a life lived.
She swung the screen door open. “Tell me, is she pretty? Old, young? I heard she was young—”
“Hi to you too, Mom,” Hank said, as he slipped past his babbling mom. He went right toward the kitchen and… yep, a loaf pan sat on the island with Dehlia’s signature apple crumb sitting in it. He heard his mother shuffling behind him, muttering something but he spoke over her. “Just bake that, Ma?” he asked while taking a seat at the island and pointing to the impeccably clean loaf pan.
“Of course,” his mom said with a wave of her hand. “Enough about what I baked, tell me about the new girl?” She went to the fridge and pulled out a glass pitcher of tea.
Catherine and Henry Weathers were good people. They loved their small town and their son with all they had. Catherine spent most of her days in her gardens or could be found walking up and down Main Street, socializing. In other words, gossiping. Every once in a while she would slip into Moe’s to see her husband, who held the same spot at the bar. His dad wasn’t a big drinker; he used Moe’s as his gossiping station and poker room. Hank was pretty sure his dad was convinced if he didn’t make a daily appearance at Moe’s, the place would fall down.
“Dad call you?” Hank asked, watching his mom pour the liquid sugar into a glass.
His mom stopped mid-pour and looked up from what she was doing. “What makes you say that?”
“Jesus,” Hank grumbled. “For fuck sakes, Ma, I’m not dumb or blind.”
“Language, Hank Henry Weathers.” Catherine berated him. “And I never said you were dumb or blind.” She pushed the glass toward Hank. “Drink, you look like you might be dehydrated.”
“Jesus,” Hank muttered into the glass before taking a hefty gulp. His focus shifted outside to the gardens, and to the plants she’d insisted he know by name: dahlias, salvia, monkshood and Jacob’s ladder. And still he knew them. He shook his head. Turning his thoughts back to the conversation at hand he asked, “Isn’t there an age when you all stop gossiping? It took all of ten fucking minutes for Moe to tell the bar, which is how Dad knew, and then he called you. Ma, this shit has to stop.” Hank lifted the glass and took another swig. He knew he pissed her off when she put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“It’s not gossip…” She started then stopped. She wasn’t going to insult him so she clarified, “It’s not all gossip. We love you, we care, so you can deal. Now, are you eating enough because Maisy at the market said she hasn’t seen you nearly enough. Do you need me to start preparing meals and freezing them for you?”
Hank sighed and looked down, eyes focused on the old butcher block. He didn’t lift them when he said, “That’s cause Maisy only works during the day, like I do.” He lifted his head and looked at his mom. “I go shopping at night, and no I do not need you to prepare me food. I’m thirty fucking six years old.” Hank occasionally visited Charleston, for his own pleasure, but maybe next visit, he would look into places to live.
“I know how old you are, and honestly that language. You did not learn that from me.” Moving the conversation on she asked, “So is there anyone special? If so, you know you can always bring her here for dinner or tea and cake.”
Maybe he should shock the shit out of her and tell her about the two women he hooked up with two weeks ago, that he’d bring them by. But that would only take up more of his time. So, he decided to go with, “Wouldn’t you already know if I was? I’m surprised no one calls to tell you when I piss.”
She did have
