It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the interior light, but when they do, I find that the walls are lined with moving boxes, and the wood floors are so shiny that I take my boots off without having to be asked. I feel a little bit out of place in a nicer house like this, like by just standing inside of it I’m depreciating the value somehow.
Outside, the rain is already rushing down the street and pooling at the base of the hill. It wasn’t even supposed to rain today, I don’t think. But that’s the way the weather is down here. It’s almost like the pace of life is soslow that even Mother Nature is trying to rush us along and remind us we got places to be other than under the sun.
An older but sturdy white man with gray hair cropped into a military cut emerges from the hallway and kisses Agnes on the cheek.
She swats him away and says, “And this is my husband, Bart.”
Bart waggles his eyebrows up and down. He wears jean shorts with a white undershirt tucked in and brown suspenders. The man is dressed for the sake of necessity and nothing else. I can already tell he’s nothing like Freddie’s grandpa, a short black man who always dressed for every occasion in a bow tie and matching handkerchief. But I like Bart instantly.
“Ramona,” I say, introducing myself. “The newspaper delivery girl.”
“And longtime family friend,” adds Agnes.
Bart nods once, acknowledging that he’s added this bit of information to the card catalog in his head. “Freddie,” he says, “wanna throw some eggs on? I don’t want nothing fancy. Sunny-side up and a slice of toast.”
Freddie kicks his flip-flops off. “You’re missing out, Bart. There’s a whole world of breakfast food out there.”
Agnes sighs, her soft body melting against her new husband. I guess because I’ve never seen my dad be affectionate like this toward anyone, I can’t help but stare.
“I think I’ll see if Freddie needs help,” I say, and turn to follow him.
“Watch out!” says Bart. “The guy is particular about his kitchen.”
I turn the corner to find Freddie tying an apron around his neck. “What can I do?” I ask.
For the first time, he looks nervous. “Um, actually I’ve got kind of a routine.”
“Oh.”
I perch on a stool and watch as Freddie spins on his heels, cracks and beats eggs, and crisps toast to perfection. It’s like watching a wizard with an expertise in potions create his perfect blend of magic.
Sitting here, though, is a little awkward. I’m not quite sure how to talk to him or what to say now that we’re not chasing each other across the beach or Hattie and I aren’t forcing him to play pickle restaurant with us. I smile at the memory. We always wanted to play restaurant, but Agnes wouldn’t let us cook anything, so instead she gave us a jar of pickles to use as our food. One time Freddie ate so many pickles that he puked them all over the driveway when we were riding our bikes later that afternoon. It was years before I could even get a whiff of pickles without feeling nauseous.
“All right,” says Freddie. “Three servings of eggs Benedict and a Bart not-so-special special.”
Agnes claps her hands with excitement as she sniffs her way to the kitchen. She fiddles with her tiny radio, which rests on the windowsill, before landing on the oldies station.
I wait for them all to sit, unsure which spot belongs to whom. But it’s a round table and it seems that there’s nohierarchy here. I slide into the empty chair across from Freddie as Bart digs in and Agnes says a quiet prayer to herself.
I like the way they include me without making a show of it. It has me feeling right at home and reminds me of the days when Agnes would take me and Hattie over to their rental house while my dad was at work instead of us wasting away with my grandmother in her sunroom while she forced us to untangle her collection of yarn. Agnes would make us all egg salad sandwiches with a splash of hot sauce and cut them into triangles. Afterward, the three of us would clean up while she watched her shows.
At Grace’s rental house, her mom always made her little brother move so I could have the better seat or would remind Grace to offer me a water or a soda when I came in the door. I was very much a Guest with a capitalG. A Guest who might have turned their daughter into a Lesbian with a capitalL.
Agnes questions Freddie about high school registration while Bart is distracted with the wobbling kitchen table. He finishes his eggs and toast first, like he’s being timed, and I get the feeling that he was in the military. “I need my Phillips-head,” he murmurs.
No one presses me to talk, which is good, because this is the best breakfast I’ve ever had. My idea of a balanced first meal is two Pop-Tarts and a swig of Diet Dr Pepper. I was uncertain about the light-yellow sauce that Freddie poured over the top, but the combination of the eggs, the sauce, the Canadian bacon, and the English muffin is likeThanksgiving dinner—meant to be mixed together for one specific flavor. “What is this called again?” I ask through a mouthful of food.
“Eggs Benedict,” Freddie answers with a grin.
When we’re through, Agnes piles up all our plates and eyes mine. “One step away from licking it clean, were ya?”
My neck feels like it’s on fire, and I know it’s bright red. It’s always been where my blush gathers. “Yes, ma’am.” I turn to Freddie. “That was so good. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
He shrugs, and like every other normal person, his blush gathers in his cheeks.
“Certainly not from me,” says Agnes. “But we’ve perfected the art of mornings, haven’t we, Freddie? All those early practices and meets.”
I wait for one of them to elaborate, but Freddie bites down on his bottom lip and takes the pile of plates from Agnes.
