“Hi, Evan Smoak!” Peter blurred by, juggling oranges, which seemed mostly to involve dropping them.
Mia whipped around. “I am taking this house back! That’s what I’m doing! So help me—”
A crunch punctuated a sudden pause in Peter’s movement. He looked down at his feet. Remorse flickered across his face. “The remote got broken,” he announced in his raspy voice, and then he bolted over the back of the couch and resumed his not-juggling.
Mia seemed to register the afterimpression of her son. “‘Got broken,’” she said. “That’s what we call a strategically passive sentence construction.”
She turned and hurried back into the kitchen, Evan following. With a pasta ladle, she scooped out a piece of linguine and tossed it against the cabinet. It stuck beside various strands that had previously dried and adhered to the wood. She caught Evan’s expression and held up a hand, swollen by an oven mitt to inhuman proportions. “That means it’s ready,” she said, raising her voice over the blaring TV. As she dumped the pot’s contents into a colander, rising steam flushed her cheeks.
The smoke alarm began bleating, and Mia snatched up a dish towel and fanned the air beneath it. “It’s fine. It’ll just…”
The rest of her statement was lost beneath an orchestral change in the intensity of Bugs Bunny’s adventure.
In the midst of the chaos, Evan took a still moment. He set down the vodka bottle on the counter. Grabbing a steak knife from the block, he headed into the living room, sidestepping a toppled barstool. He found the remote on the carpet by the couch, the buttons jammed beneath the plastic casing, as he’d suspected.
He sat and worked the tiny screws with the tip of the steak knife. Three oranges tapped the couch cushion, light footsteps approached, and then Peter sat opposite Evan, cross-legged.
“What are you doing?” the boy asked.
Evan extracted the first screw, went to work on the second. “Unscrewing.”
Peter said, “Why are you using a steak knife?”
“Because that’s what I’ve got.”
“But knives are for eating.”
“Among other things.” The screw popped up, and the top casing of the remote lifted, the rubber buttons jostling back into place beneath it. Evan fastened the faceplate back on, then touched the POWER button.
The TV mercifully silenced just as the smoke alarm stopped bleating. A moment of perfect, blissful quiet.
Mia said, “We are ready to plate.”
*
While Peter disappeared to brush his teeth, Mia and Evan sat at the table, empty dishes between them. In the background, singing softly from an iPod speaker dock, Linda Ronstadt was wondering when she’d be loved.
Mia took a sip of vodka. “This is good. It tastes … aged in wood.”
Evan said, “You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m making fun of you.”
She held up her glass, and they clinked.
From the depths of his bathroom, Peter yelled, “Done!” and Mia shouted, “That wasn’t two minutes!”
It was cold, and she had her sweater sleeves pulled over her hands. Her hair was a rich mess of waves and curls. The glow of the overhead light spilled through it, showing off all the colors, chestnut and gold and auburn.
Evan remembered that he was supposed to comment on the food. “That was delicious.”
“Thank you.” She leaned forward, cupped a hand by her mouth, gave a stage whisper. “I blend spinach in the marinara sauce. It’s how I get him to eat vegetables.”
Unexpectedly, Evan found himself thinking of Joey dining alone in the safe house, Twizzlers and ramen in the dead blue light of the laptop. A sensation worked in his chest, and he gave it some space, observed it, identified it.
Guilt.
That was interesting.
He looked across at the kitchen, where a new Post-it was stuck above the pass-through.
Remember that what you do not yet know is more important than what you already know.—Jordan Peterson Mia left quotations around for Peter, rules to live by. As she’d once remarked to Evan, it took a lot of work to raise a human.
“Peter’s lucky to have you,” Evan said.
“Thanks.” She smiled and peered into her vodka, her fingers peeking out of the sweater cuff to grip the glass. “I’m lucky to have him, too. It’s the predictable response, but it’s true.”
“Really done now!” Peter yelled. “Can I read?”
“Ten minutes!”
“Tell me when time’s up!”
“Okay! I’ll be in to tuck you in!”
Evan looked at the freshly folded laundry, still in the basket on the floor. The homework chart above the kitchen table, bedazzled with puffy stickers. “It’s so much work,” he said.
“Yes. And that’s on a good week. Then there’s the strep-throat week, the getting-bullied week, the cheating-on-the-simplifying-fractions-test week.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Fractions.”
She laughed. “Kids turn your life upside down. But maybe that’s where anything matters. In the big fat mess of it all. Of course, I’d like to do more. Travel. Relax.” She hoisted the glass. “Drink.” Her grin faded. “Sometimes parenting, it feels like … an anchor.” Her expression lightened. “But that’s the good part, too. You have this anchor. And it holds you in the world.”
Evan thought, Like having Jack.
“God,” she said. “Sometimes I miss Roger so much. It’s never the big stuff like you’d think. Candlelight dinners. The sex. Wedding veils and vacations. No. It’s coming home when you’re at the end of a brutal day and there’s someone there. Consistency. You know?”
Evan said, “No.”
She laughed. “Your bluntness, it’s refreshing. It’s always yes and no with you. Never ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I get it.’”
He thought, That’s because I don’t get it.
“This personal thing you’re dealing with,” she said. “What is it?”
He took another sip, let the vodka heat his throat. “It is,” he said, “the job to end all jobs.”
“Truly?”
“I think so.”
“If that’s the case,” she said. “Maybe a DA and a … whatever you are can be friends.”
“Friends.”
She rose from the table, and he followed her cue.
“Maybe we could do this,” she said. “Just this. Maybe again Friday? Peter enjoys it. I enjoy it.”
Evan thought of Jack, stepping silently into space, giving his life to protect Evan’s. Joey, working furiously to get him back on Van Sciver’s trail. Benito Orellana, besieged by debt, his wife dead, his son in danger. Please help me. You’re all I have left.
Evan didn’t deserve to have something this nice on a regular basis.
Mia was staring at him.
He said, “What?”
“This is where you say you enjoy it, too.”
Evan said, “I enjoy it, too.”
They were at the door. Mia was looking at his mouth, and he was looking at hers.
“Can I kiss you?” she asked.
He drew her in.
Her mouth was so, so soft.
They parted. She was breathless. He was, too. An odd sensation—odder even than guilt.
He said, “Thank you for dinner.”
She laughed as she closed the door after him.
He had no idea why.
35
Patron Saint of Dispossessed Orphans
It was a new look.
Chocolate-brown hair, cut in a power A-line bob with razor-blade bangs. Cat-eye glasses. A B-cup bra tamping down her voluptuousness beneath a professional white blouse. A fitted wool skirt curving her lower assets, delivering the package neatly into rich-girl riding boots.
Candy made sure the back view was on full display, leaning into the trunk of her car, struggling with the spare tire.
Her just-past-warranty Audi A6 quattro had blown a tire, you see, conveniently right beside the rear parking lot of the New Chapter Residential Recovery Center.