Page 24 of Steadfast
“Prison kitchen.” Her eyes got so huge that I had to chuckle.
Sophie swallowed. “Ask a stupid question…”
“Yeah.” I grabbed the sponge off the back of the sink and began washing the sink itself, just to keep busy. It was either that or stare at her.
“Jude, there’s something I need you to do for me.”
My heart tripped over itself, and I couldn’t look her in the eye.Don’t come back here. Those were the words I thought she’d say next.
“Lay off of Denny, okay?”
“What?” I looked up in surprise. Then I realized that Denny must be Mr. Buttondown.
“Denny. My coworker.”
“Your coworker,” I repeated, trying to do the math.
Her lips pursed with frustration. “You heard me. Be nice.”
Nice. “When have I ever been nice?”Except to you. That went without saying. I was always nice to Sophie, because she’d treated me like I mattered. There were precious few people who did, and that wasbeforeI went to prison.
She gave me a tiny Sophie eye roll, the one I’d always received when she was trying to show me that my bullshit didn’t fly. I missed being schooled by Sophie. She was a straight shooter, and twice as smart as I’d ever be. Ignore her at your peril. “Jude, go get some chili.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave her pretty head a shake. Then she walked away whispering something under her breath that I didn’t quite catch. But it sounded like “Wizard of Oz.”
Chapter Eight
Sophie
Internal DJ tuned to: “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones
Thanksgivingat the Haines household was not a cheery affair.
Before noon I put a small turkey in the oven. My mother was nowhere in sight, of course, so I settled in to cook an entire Thanksgiving meal by myself.
As I set the cutting board on the counter, I realized that I had no idea why I even bothered. It was a pointless charade. My mother didn’t care about Thanksgiving dinner. My father didn’t care about anyone.
Before Gavin died, we’d had a real family holiday. In the morning, I’d watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to see which Broadway actresses would sing solos. But my father and brother would eventually win the remote control away from me so that they could watch football. It wasn’t exciting, but it was normal.
These days I lived in a tomb.
As I pulled the vegetables out of their drawer in the refrigerator, I heard the strains of an announcer’s voice coming from my father’s den. He still watched football. But his son—a promising athlete—wasn’t sitting beside him anymore. And he was never getting over it.
Dad still blamed me. My penance was pretending to enjoy cooking a turkey dinner. And my father would pretend to enjoy eating it.
I chopped celery for the stuffing. Then I opened a bag of potatoes and began to peel them. The task sent my traitorous mind straight to Jude and the scene in the kitchen last night. Goddamn him. I couldn’t believe that I’d been foolish enough to ask him where he’d learned to cook.In prison, he’d answered. Then the corners of his mouth had quirked up, as if I were an amusing child who couldn’t help asking stupid questions.
Standing there in the kitchen, I groaned aloud. Nobody was listening to me, though. Nobody ever did.
* * *
By five o’clockI’d done it all.
Sure, I took a few shortcuts. Cranberry sauce from a can. A pie from the bakery. But a real Thanksgiving dinner was on the table. I fetched my mother from her spot staring into space in the living room. I fetched my father from the football game. Taking my seat, I stifled a sigh.
My father stood at the head of the table, carving pieces of turkey onto our plates.
