that looks too weathered to be of much use. I head back through the trees to the table, and I’m surprised to see the sun’s already sliding toward evening. Didn’t feel that long, but when I check my watch, a wave of exhaustion hits me. I haven’t slept much in the past forty-eight, and while I can keep going, it’s not real smart. I’ll start to miss things. My reaction time will turn to shit, which when you carry a sidearm is a real problem.
I phone myself off duty with the station and head to Pop’s warm, cozy cabin up the hill from Stillhouse Lake. I bounce my car up the steep gravel road to the flat parking area—just big enough for my dad’s truck and my car—and when I step out into the chilly evening air, I catch the smell of the place. I breathe it deep, closing my eyes. Fresh, clean trees, and no lake scent this far up. Dad’s cooking up fish, and I have to swallow a sudden burst of saliva as I realize how damn hungry I am. When did I eat? I can’t remember anymore.
I knock, wait for his yell, and enter the side door. Javier’s dog, Boot, bounds to his feet, panting, and comes to me for his welcome petting. He’s well behaved, even in the face of the smell of food. I hug his big, muscular neck, and he gives me fond licks. “Lock your damn doors,” I tell my dad as I stand up again. He doesn’t turn around from the stove, just waves a big iron fork over his head.
“Anybody comes for me in here, I’ll stick ’em on the grill,” he says. “Filleted.”
“Catfish?” I guess, and come to look over his shoulder. My father used to be taller, broader, before age shrank him down; it’s always a little disorienting, and a little sad, to reconcile this wiry man with the big, booming one who used to pick me up in one arm. Ezekiel “Easy” Claremont. One hell of a father, even in the worst days. And we had some bad ones after Momma died: not enough money, way too much grief. My pop gave up a lot to take care of me. Time for me to do the same for him, as much as he’ll allow.
“You back off now, I only made enough for me.” He shoots me a sharp look, though. “You skip lunch, girl?” I just shrug, which I know he’ll take for yes. He shakes his head and reaches for a big metal spatula that he uses to cut that generously sized sizzling fish portion in half. He turns both pieces in the pan.
I wash my hands and get down plates and set the table, an old ritual that still conjures up the ghost of my mother, long gone, though the memory of her smile still lingers. These were her plates—worn, chipped in some spots, but precious to her. I get him a tall glass of water and set out his pills, and grab myself a Coke.
“Least you can do is get me one of those beers, since I’m cooking for you,” he says.
“You know those meds say you can’t drink alcohol with them.”
“I know that beer ain’t got much alcohol in it anyway.”
It’s a familiar grumble, and I let it go. I know—and his doctor knows—that he sneaks beers time to time. Hasn’t hurt him much, though I worry. I find the potatoes and spinach he’s already made warming in the oven and put them on the table, and by that time, the fish is done. Pop carries over the heavy skillet and slides the portions out; I stop myself from taking over when I see his arm shaking. He doesn’t need that out of me, not right now.
“Your leg’s a little better,” I tell him. It’s true. His limp’s not as bad as it was a week back.
“Be better still once it warms up and stays warm,” he says. “That cold’s a bastard. Sit yourself down, get some food in you. You need it.”
Pop is right, of course. I’m ravenous at the smell of the fish—blackened Cajun-style—and I barely wait for the prayer before I dig in. Home spice melts on my tongue, and for the first time all day I feel right. Safe. We eat without talking much, and every bite of it feels like love from him to me.
I’m torn about telling him about the baby. On the one hand, I know