The Scammer(68)

I look back for Nick, but he’s still outside, whispering with a snickering Richie. I follow Anita to the back of the house, to an old spacious kitchen with yellow flowery wallpaper. There, a few women are focused on their Thanksgiving Day tasks: peeling potatoes, shredding cheese, and kneading dough. The entire place smells of a delicious turkey roasting in the oven.

Anita scoops scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes onto a plate, topping it off with fresh biscuits from a cast-iron skillet. I struggle to hold the plate still in my trembling hands, hearing Devonte’s voice . . .

“Rat, cat, and dog!”

Nick rushes into the kitchen, greeted by a chorus of “Hey Nicky!,” and doesn’t waste any time grabbing a plate and digging right in while standing and chatting with everyone.

“Eat, girl,” Anita says, nudging the plate in my hand.

Not wanting to be rude, I take small nibbles. The eggs are soft and buttery, the biscuit fluffy. My mouth, not used to such rich food, aches as I chew slow.

Once Nick is done, he drops his plate in the sink, grabs an apron off the hook by the fridge, and joins the peeling crew, slipping right into the groove. I try to put away my dish but Anita catches me.

“You barely ate and you didn’t touch your bacon.”

“I . . . don’t eat pork.”

Nick looks up, watching me. I fidget under his gaze.

Someone behind me whispers to Nick, “She Muslim or something?”

I clear my throat, plastering on a giant smile. “Um, can I help? I’m pretty good at snapping green beans.”

Anita frowns. “Green beans? What that for?”

“The . . . green bean casserole.”

Beside us, the women snicker.

“Girl, that white people food! We don’t eat that!”

“I tried to tell her,” Nick says, and a woman swats his arm.

I laugh nervously. “It’s pretty good! Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Richie bursts into the kitchen.

“Aye, come take a ride with me, kid. Heading to Trayvon’s to grab the hooch.”

Nick rips off his apron. “Be right back!”

I watch Nick and Richie play fight as they head out the door. He seems lighter here. Less serious.

Anita takes a pan of seasoned chicken legs out of the fridge. “Come on, girl. Let’s get this going.”

“Fried chicken?”

“You think that one turkey gonna feed all these people? You gotta have some chicken up in there too. No wonder you look like you’re starving. Green beans, no chicken. Lawd.”

Anita lays out some seasoned flour while whipping up an egg wash. She’s tiny but I can tell there’s a hidden strength deep in her bones.

“So, I take it this is Nick’s second home.”

She smiles. “Yep! We spent more time here than at his house.”

“We?”

She chuckles. “Ahh, I see Nicky didn’t tell you much of nothing, which is just like him. He shares things his way when he’s ready.” Anita takes out another skillet. “I was Nicky’s nanny that just became so much more.”

I smile, thinking back.

“What Black woman raised you?”

“His parents . . . well, they thought they were done having children so when Nicky came along, they didn’t have much left in them to start all over again. His momma had no clue she was pregnant until she was close to seven months. Thought she was going through early menopause. So they hired me. At first it was only supposed to be a Monday through Friday thing but at some point they just left and wouldn’t come back for weeks. Trips here and there. So I stopped going over to that big ole cold house and kept him here, with us. I even had to enroll him in school.”

“The local school? Not private?”

“Mmm-hmmm. He wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She fires up the stove, grabbing a dented blue can out of the cupboards.

“Um . . . is that Crisco?”

She laughs. “Lawd, I know what you about to say and I don’t give a damn. My grandma taught my mom who taught me everything she knows about cooking and this here is the truth! Can’t make good chicken without it. I understand you young folks want to change things and that’s why y’all’s fried chicken is as soft as cotton balls!”

She passes me the can. “Here, drop a few spoonfuls in.”

I grip the can, my skin flaring, stomach queasy.

“But . . . isn’t this stuff kinda bad for you?” I whisper.

Anita nods, as if understanding something unsaid.

“Well,” she says, softly. “I always like to say, food made with love can never be bad for you.”

I smile, scooping another teaspoon into the pan, and it sizzles.

“So tell me, ’cause he won’t . . . what’s it like for him up there at Frazier?”

I chuckle. “You mean, what’s it like for him being the only white boy at a Black college?”

She grins. “Ooo, I like you. You’re sharp!”

I give a little bow. “He’s very popular. And driven. And well respected. You did a good job with him.”

She nods, her voice changing. “And . . . he’s treating you good. You know, as his girlfriend?”

“Um, yeah. He’s great!”