I could hear the TV playing in the other room, covered occasionally by my grandmother’s shrill voice as she tried to interest anyone who might be listening in something from her newest book in the Mysteries of the Unknown series. I let the blackened tin loaf pans fall roughly into the sink. Mom emerged from the laundry room carrying an armload of sheets, making a point to avoid my scathing look as she walked toward the back of the house. I murmured a string of obscenities into the cloud of lemon-scented suds rising up from the refilled sink, even going so far as to write F-U-C-K into the steamed window pane, glancing rebelliously over my shoulder before smearing the word with the flat of my wet hand.
It took three S.O.S. pads to get through the tableware, leaving my hands bloodless and wrinkled, the nails softened and split where I’d tried to scrape stubborn bits of the cement-like ketchup and brown sugar topping from the enamel plates. I was staring into the muddy slough of the dishpan, contemplating the three largest pots that remained, when I saw something flash in the sloppy, unfogged oval my palm had made in the window. Pressing my face close to the glass I peered out through the hole to see Darrell’s retreating back. In the yellow glow cast by a floodlight on the back porch, I watched as he approached the abandoned chicken coop in the corner of the yard, tucked something into the moldering hay spilling out between the low rafters, and turn back, as if he had just arrived, toward the house.
The front door crashed in the frame. I heard him exchange terse, monosyllabic greetings with his mother, rustle out of his wind-breaker, walk heavily into the kitchen to open the fridge. Without turning around, I knew his eyes would be slightly swollen and unfocused, his dirty blonde hair sticking out in stringy clumps beneath the stupid John Deer baseball cap he wore, his stethoscope hanging like a snake around his sunburned neck.
“Where’ve you been?” I asked, squirting a generous dollop dishwashing liquid into the sink and beating it into a froth as the water slowly filled the basin.
“Work,” he said, in a tone of voice that made it clear he didn’t appreciate the question. Where else would he be on a Friday night, three hours after his shift ended, on payday? Pulling out the cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes, he filled a clean plate and poured the last of the milk into a coffee cup, before dropping the unscrapped Tupperware and serving spoon over my shoulder and into the pristine dishwater I’d just finished drawing.
If I hadn’t already decided, it was at that moment, watching Darrell’s meatloaf guts and gritty potatoes tinge the water, hearing him shovel the cold leftovers into his mouth behind me, waiting for me to react. Our deal was off—I wasn’t keeping his secret any longer.
