actually use verbs correctly.”
“I have went there,” I say. “And I seen it.”
She covers her ears in mock horror. “Stop! You’re murdering me.”
I laugh. “Maybe I’m just naturally brilliant.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“You’re just full of the compliments today. Is that any way to treat the birthday boy?”
She grins. “I guess not.”
I rip into a piece of bread from the basket. “One of my mom’s husbands was a literature teacher. Annie’s dad. He read to us all the time, so I grew up reading and listening to stories.”
“What happened to him?”
“Annie’s dad?” I take a long breath. This is one of the stories I don’t want to tell. It kind of serves as the beginning of our troubles. “I didn’t always live in Rooster either,” I say. “Before that, we lived here in Columbus, where Annie’s dad was teaching at Ohio State.”
“He was a professor?”
“A graduate student, working on his doctorate, and he taught classes there. That’s how my mom met him. When Jeff and I were small, I guess she wanted to better herself, and since we were poor, she got to take classes for free.”
I rip another hunk of bread from the basket. “We lived in this one-bedroom apartment. I was three and Jeff was two. We all slept on a mattress on the floor. My mother had wanted to be something more than a breakfast waitress in a Tee Jaye’s. Plus she sometimes worked nights at 7-Eleven.”
“So who took care of you when your mother worked?”
“I don't remember a lot of the details about when I was a kid. My earliest memories are of being woken in the middle of the night and shifted from one location to another. Sometimes Jeff and I slept in the back of the car while she worked. In fact, I think we lived in Mom’s car for a while, so I guess my lifestyle is not new to me. It’s just not my first choice of addresses.”
“How did your mom have time to take a class?”
“I don’t know, but she took this class taught by a cute, young guy named Bob, and back then, my mom was still hot, even though she’d had two babies.”
“So they started dating?”
I nodded. “I remember the first time we went to his house for dinner. He was funny and nice. It was winter, and it snowed, so we spent the night at his house. He had a place near campus. I don’t think he owned it. Rented it maybe. We moved in with him shortly after that. It was on California Street. I remember that because I loved that we lived on California Street. I thought that made us closer to Hollywood. Bob used to say, ‘If we can’t live in California, we can live on California.’ There were a lot of students who lived in the area in big, old two-story houses with lots of room. Our house had three bedrooms, so Jeff and I each had our own room until Annie came along.”
“So living with him was an improvement.”
“Big time,” I say. “And Mom must be as fertile as a rainforest because she immediately got pregnant with Annie, so she and Bob got married.” I drink some tea. “My mom quit working once Annie was born, and for a while she was a housewife. Bob didn’t make a lot, but enough to rent a house, and Jeff’s dad sent support checks, so we didn’t starve.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Six or seven, I think. Annie was like three.”
“Did you like him?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Bob was a great guy.” Bob and Paul were both good stepdads. My mom may be nuts, but she chooses her men well. Most of them anyway, so I think my own father might be an okay guy. “Bob was smart, and we had books all over the place. We lived like a Norman Rockwell painting. Mom was home, the house was clean, and she cooked for us. Bob helped us with homework and we read stories. I even wrote a few.”
“Do you still have them?”
I chew on another hunk of bread. “I don’t have anything from that time.”
“Because you live in your car?”
I look down at the table. “No, because of what happened to
“I have went there,” I say. “And I seen it.”
She covers her ears in mock horror. “Stop! You’re murdering me.”
I laugh. “Maybe I’m just naturally brilliant.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“You’re just full of the compliments today. Is that any way to treat the birthday boy?”
She grins. “I guess not.”
I rip into a piece of bread from the basket. “One of my mom’s husbands was a literature teacher. Annie’s dad. He read to us all the time, so I grew up reading and listening to stories.”
“What happened to him?”
“Annie’s dad?” I take a long breath. This is one of the stories I don’t want to tell. It kind of serves as the beginning of our troubles. “I didn’t always live in Rooster either,” I say. “Before that, we lived here in Columbus, where Annie’s dad was teaching at Ohio State.”
“He was a professor?”
“A graduate student, working on his doctorate, and he taught classes there. That’s how my mom met him. When Jeff and I were small, I guess she wanted to better herself, and since we were poor, she got to take classes for free.”
I rip another hunk of bread from the basket. “We lived in this one-bedroom apartment. I was three and Jeff was two. We all slept on a mattress on the floor. My mother had wanted to be something more than a breakfast waitress in a Tee Jaye’s. Plus she sometimes worked nights at 7-Eleven.”
“So who took care of you when your mother worked?”
“I don't remember a lot of the details about when I was a kid. My earliest memories are of being woken in the middle of the night and shifted from one location to another. Sometimes Jeff and I slept in the back of the car while she worked. In fact, I think we lived in Mom’s car for a while, so I guess my lifestyle is not new to me. It’s just not my first choice of addresses.”
“How did your mom have time to take a class?”
“I don’t know, but she took this class taught by a cute, young guy named Bob, and back then, my mom was still hot, even though she’d had two babies.”
“So they started dating?”
I nodded. “I remember the first time we went to his house for dinner. He was funny and nice. It was winter, and it snowed, so we spent the night at his house. He had a place near campus. I don’t think he owned it. Rented it maybe. We moved in with him shortly after that. It was on California Street. I remember that because I loved that we lived on California Street. I thought that made us closer to Hollywood. Bob used to say, ‘If we can’t live in California, we can live on California.’ There were a lot of students who lived in the area in big, old two-story houses with lots of room. Our house had three bedrooms, so Jeff and I each had our own room until Annie came along.”
“So living with him was an improvement.”
“Big time,” I say. “And Mom must be as fertile as a rainforest because she immediately got pregnant with Annie, so she and Bob got married.” I drink some tea. “My mom quit working once Annie was born, and for a while she was a housewife. Bob didn’t make a lot, but enough to rent a house, and Jeff’s dad sent support checks, so we didn’t starve.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Six or seven, I think. Annie was like three.”
“Did you like him?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Bob was a great guy.” Bob and Paul were both good stepdads. My mom may be nuts, but she chooses her men well. Most of them anyway, so I think my own father might be an okay guy. “Bob was smart, and we had books all over the place. We lived like a Norman Rockwell painting. Mom was home, the house was clean, and she cooked for us. Bob helped us with homework and we read stories. I even wrote a few.”
“Do you still have them?”
I chew on another hunk of bread. “I don’t have anything from that time.”
“Because you live in your car?”
I look down at the table. “No, because of what happened to
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