Izzy and I were hand in hand. One of us was sweating; I could feel the wetness pooling in our palms. Jimmy and Sheba stood behind us.
No one spoke for a fraction of a second. Then Dr. Cone said, “Mary Jane, we’ve missed you!” He stepped forward and gave me a hug that felt both wonderful and terrifying. I couldn’t look at my father. What could he think of this grown man, this grown Jewish man, touching me?
“Oh, Mary Jane!” Mrs. Cone got up from the couch and kissed me.
“We came back so Mary Jane wouldn’t get in trouble.” Izzy turned to me and put her head in my belly. I picked her up and held her close against me, her head now deep in my neck.
“Gerald Dillard.” My father stood. He walked around the coffee table and shook hands with Jimmy first, and then Sheba. My mother did the same and then sat back down on her chair. I knew my father wouldn’t sit again until Sheba did, and maybe Sheba knew this too, as she went to the couch and sat. Jimmy had claimed the other chair, so the only logical place for my father to plant his body was between Sheba and Mrs. Cone.
“Mary Jane,” Izzy whispered loudly. “I’m hungry.”
“Is it okay if I take Izzy to the kitchen for a quick snack?” I asked. I didn’t know who I was asking—my parents? Dr. and Mrs. Cone?—and I didn’t know where to look, so I stared at a misdirected whorl of shag carpet in front of Jimmy’s chair.
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Mrs. Cone said. “She hasn’t had lunch; she doesn’t seem to like anything I make for her now!”
Dr. Cone said, “Mrs. Dillard, what an amazing chef you’ve made of your daughter. Each night another superb dinner!”
My mother smiled, so I took that as a yes and escaped to the kitchen with Izzy still monkeyed on me. We scooted into the banquette and Izzy tumbled out of my arms. There was a chill of cool air on my sweat-damp neck.
“Mary Jane,” Izzy whispered. “Are they going to put you in home jail again?” Jimmy had been calling it that in the car. He wanted to know what they fed me in home jail and if I was allowed to go to the bathroom unescorted when in home jail. We had to explain to Izzy what escorted and unescorted meant, and she pointed out that she rarely went to the bathroom unescorted, as she missed everyone when she was in there alone.
“I hope not.” I leaned in and kissed the top of Izzy’s head. Her loamy, sweet smell and the feel of her curls on my face calmed me. “Let’s eat.”
I scooted out from the banquette and went to the fridge. When I opened it, I found, to my relief, that it was still clean, though less stocked than I’d kept it.
“Birds in a nest!”
“Okay.” I pulled out the eggs. “Who made dinner when I was gone?”
“No one.”
“No one?” I got out the mixing bowl and started cracking eggs.
“Hmm, Jimmy made breakfast-dinner one night.”
“Fried bread and bacon?”
“Uh-huh. And we got Little Tavern.”
“Yeah?” I was cracking far more eggs than was necessary for just me and Izzy. Would others come in and eat? Or was I about to be carted off to home jail?
“And I can’t remember the other nights.” Izzy looked up, thinking. “CHINESE! We had Chinese.”
“Good remembering!” I whisked the eggs, then got out the milk. “What else did you do when I wasn’t here?”
While I mixed up the pancake batter and heated the pan, Izzy climbed onto the orange stool and talked through her days and nights without me. Nothing particularly exciting had happened, but still I felt that I had missed things in simply not having been part of the daily routine.
Izzy was salting the birds in a nest when my mother and Mrs. Cone came in.
“Oh, are you making eggs in a nest?” Mrs. Cone clapped her hands together.
“BIRDS in a nest!” Izzy said.
My mother leaned over the pan. “You put too much butter in.”
“This is how Izzy likes it.” I flipped a nest over.
“We love Mary Jane’s meals so much,” Mrs. Cone said.
My mother’s mouth pulled up into a forced smile. “She still has a lot to learn.” I saw her look around at the kitchen, the dishes in the sink, the books on the table, the jade Buddha on the windowsill, the unswept floor.
My father stepped into the kitchen with Dr. Cone. “Okay, Mary Jane. Let’s go now.” His voice was firm and fast.
“Let me just put out the food.” I went to the cupboard and took down four plates. My mother’s head bopped back just an inch as she watched. For her, letting a fourteen-year-old take over a kitchen was like handing over the controls of a flying jet to a random passenger.