Page 55 of The Treasure House

“All two of us.”

“No, I mean, when your dad was there.”

“My dad wasn’t there. He’s in Seattle now, but before that he lived in Shadyside in an apartment with four other guys. They were nice enough, but they sure drank a lot of beer.”

I winced.

“Mom wouldn’t let me stay there overnight, which Dad said was understandable and I shouldn’t be mad at her for. But I did get mad at her. They had so many gaming platforms and they had all the good cereals.”

“What are the good cereals?”

“You know, the kind moms hate. Lucky Charms, Cap’n Crunch, Apple Jacks, Cocoa Puffs, Honey Smacks, those ones.”

“That’s sugar, not breakfast.”

“That’s why they’re good.”

“They’ll make your teeth fall out.” I heard him rummage around in his toolbox. “You’re better off eating eggs.”

“Mom makes me Quaker Oats a lot. They’re only good with honey, though.”

I listened to Flo complain about my food choices as I chopped broccoli for the macaroni and cheese. She hated when I put broccoli in it, but after hearing her complain about my oats to Jake, I was putting in extra.

I remembered all those school breakfast programs I’d crept into as a kid. Plastic trays with cartons of milk, chewy bagels. The best days were when there was a little plastic cup half full of cut-up strawberries. I remembered the shivery, exposed feeling of arriving at the school on no sleep, sitting hunched over my plastic tray, wishing I was at home with my mom but glad to fill my empty belly. After school I had watched reruns of Bewitched and Happy Days, shows where kids sat down at tables while their mom poured them orange juice and handed them plates of scrambled eggs and crispy bacon at breakfast time. My mom didn’t do that. If she was home and we had any juice, she’d drink it straight out of the carton, standing at the open refrigerator in her T-shirt and underwear.

I did make Quaker Oats a lot for Flo, mostly in the winter on those dark sleety mornings when it was hard to leave bed. I made them the old-fashioned way, in a saucepan, and they were creamy and hot when I poured them into her bowl. The sight of her spooning them up made me so happy I had to turn away so she didn’t see me tearing up. She didn’t know how much those oats said.

“I like oats,” Jake admitted, making me feel like he could read my mind.

“It’s grandma food.”

“Yeah, so? I like my grandma.”

“I don’t really know my grandma—she’s in Cincinnati but I’ve never been there. I met her once when I was three, when she came to visit my dad, but I don’t really remember it.” As far as Flo knew, she only had one grandma. “Mom says I’ll get to see her at Dad’s wedding this November.”

I checked the instructions as I struggled to get my countertop oven preheating. I glanced at the big black range and tried to imagine cooking the mac and cheese in it. You could lose a whole roast turkey in that monster.

Once the macaroni and cheese was in, I dipped out to the porch with the bug spray.

“Looks like it’s the moment of truth. Which record do you want to try?” Jake asked as I sprayed Flo liberally. He was on his knees in front of the vintage player, so they were about the same height.

“This one,” she said, picking the first one off the closest pile.

“Dean Martin Sings?” He turned it over in his hands and slid the record out of its sleeve. “You a Dean Martin fan?”

“I doubt it,” she said, completely oblivious to me. “But I won’t know till I try, right?”

I watched Jake gently lower the record onto the ancient turntable. His baseball T-shirt stretched tight over his shoulders and back and I felt a not-unpleasant swirl in my belly. Flo wriggled forward until she was bending over his shoulder.

“Don’t scratch it,” Flo warned. “You’ll damage the value.”

“And the music,” he said dryly.

The needle dropped and there was a familiar scritch-scratching sound I remembered from when Tim and I lived together.

Brassy music sounded faintly from the little holes in the case.

Flo twiddled a little black knob and the trumpets soared, a little fuzzy-sounding.