When the truck goes quiet, Birdie sits up straight and taps his pinkie on his leg.
The front door opens and Duke’s collar jingles.
I sit up. Birdie and me watch the door.
Each footstep seems to echo and I catch myself holding my breath again, just like earlier at Uncle Carl’s.
Patrick appears, glances into the room, wipes his hands with a gray bandanna, and says, “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.” Then he nods and disappears and Birdie and me look at each other.
“Are we really going to eat dinner with him?” asks Birdie.
“I think we have to.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s because you’re eating too many Honey Bunny Buns.”
He gathers up his supplies. “When we first moved here, Uncle Carl asked us so many questions. He even wanted to know about that lizard we caught that Mama made us release in the backyard. He remembered. What does Patrick remember?”
“Patrick’s not a big talker. Like Uncle Carl says, he’s a giant clam in pants.”
“I don’t want to have dinner with a clam. Especially one who doesn’t like us.”
Birdie pulls out his mad cap, which is this old sparkly purple knit hat that comes to a point, like an elf hat. Mama made it when she was in one of her knitting crazes, which used to happen once a year or so.
I call it his mad cap because Birdie only wears it when he’s mad.
When it’s time for dinner, Birdie and me go downstairs. Even before we walk into the kitchen, something perfect and wonderful hits my nose, but I can’t place what it is.
At the kitchen island, Patrick slices a big round loaf of homemade bread. I realize this is what was covered in foil under the towel in the cupboard. The bread knife is small in Patrick’s hand. Two iron skillets filled with steak, onions, and broccoli rest on the counter.
Duke lies on the floor a few feet from where Patrick stands.
Patrick looks at Birdie and his mad cap as he plates our food and says, “Take a seat.”
Patrick sets our plates down, along with the bread, some forks, knives, and a roll of paper towels. I automatically close my eyes and inhale and the aroma goes straight down into my chest.
For a moment, I think that I shouldn’t eat it because Mama wasn’t a fan of red meat.
But before I realize what I’m doing, I have a bite in my mouth.
It tastes perfect.
Almost too perfect.
And I suddenly realize that we’ve been eating Fry Shack, instant noodles, and snacks from the Stop-and-Go for the last ten months.
Patrick sits down, drops some food on the floor for Duke, and then starts to eat.
Birdie stares at his plate, his arms in his lap.
“Need me to cut it?” Patrick asks, looking at Birdie’s steak. When Birdie doesn’t say anything, Patrick looks at me, like maybe Birdie doesn’t understand English and needs me to translate.
“We didn’t eat a lot of steaks,” I say.
“He doesn’t eat steak?” Patrick asks. His eyebrows might be raised in surprise, but it’s hard to know for sure under his hat.
“No. That’s not what I mean,” I say.
“Carl said you didn’t need much help in the way of food.” Patrick looks back at Birdie’s hat. “Are you cold?”
“He just likes to wear it,” I say. “Helps him adjust to new stuff.”
I give Birdie a piece of buttered bread, which he nibbles on.
Patrick finishes quickly, then he gets up, washes the pans, and goes out the front door. Duke follows.
For years, all Birdie has asked for is a dog. Too bad this dog doesn’t care about anyone except Patrick.
I go out to the front window and peek through the blinds. There’s a light on in the round silo shed and the glow makes it look like a UFO.
I call to Birdie to come look at the UFO lighting, but he doesn’t answer. I find him at the trash can, scraping his dinner off his plate.
“Birdie—”
“I have a stomachache. Good night.”
And that’s how I’m left alone in the kitchen with an old green ticking clock and a hole in my chest going down to the center of the earth.
• • •
Patrick is outside for over an hour. When he does come in, he stays downstairs.
I don’t want to leave the bedroom, but I can’t sleep without a glass of water near me.
When I go downstairs to find one, Patrick is standing at the kitchen island again and this time he’s kneading dough.
I go to the sink and try not to stare at Patrick’s dusty hands as they move the dough around.
I’m about to leave when he says, “The clothes Birdie’s been wearing, are those yours?”
“All the clothes he wears are his,” I say.
I watch Patrick put one mound of dough to the side. He grabs another, throws a bunch of flour on the counter, and lays the dough down and begins kneading.
The clam makes bread.
He continues, “Tomorrow I will show you around the house a bit more. How to take care of the kitchen. And some things about the yard, like where to put ash if you’re going to make another fire. Also, the washing machine and where to hang-dry clothes.”
“Okay.”
I wonder if I can go now.
He washes his hands at the sink. “Birdie needs some proper clothes,” he says. “This seems to be part of the problem he has at school.”
“He doesn’t have a problem.”
“Missing twenty-seven days is a problem.”
“But it doesn’t have anything to do with his clothes.”
Patrick stops drying his hands. “That’s not what his teacher said.”
“Ms. Cross-Hams?” I don’t mean for this to slip out, but I’m shocked Birdie’s school troubles are being blamed on his clothes. Then again, Birdie’s teacher—whose arms are like giant ham hocks—hasn’t been a fan of Birdie since we showed up last year, a couple weeks into December.
According to Birdie, the first thing Ms. Cross-Hams said to him was that he couldn’t have his purse in class.
Birdie’s always been the teacher’s favorite, so he didn’t know what to say. And he
