Will took a big bite of peas. The bacon grease and salt caressed his taste buds.
Tony asked, “She recognize you?” Will glanced at Cayla.
“It’s all right.” She popped open the beer and put the can in front of Will. “He tells me everything whether I wanna hear it or not.”
“The cop,” Tony pushed. He was just as changeable as his stepsister. Suddenly, he was sounding less like a nuisance and more like a criminal.
Will let some time pass before answering. “What about the cop?”
“She recognize you?”
“No.” Will shoveled another mound of peas into his mouth. And because there was some space left in his cheeks, he crammed in half a biscuit to help soak up the grease.
Tony pulled back a chair from the table. He sat down a few feet away, arms crossed, legs spread. His injuries were more pronounced in the harsh kitchen light. The gash on his face would leave a bad scar.
Tony said, “That was smart thinking, Bud. Make sure she don’t recognize you. Make sure we don’t gotta problem.”
Will struggled to swallow. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a problem.”
Cayla laughed. Just as quickly, her expression turned dark. “What are you doing down here?”
Will turned around. There was a little boy standing in the doorway. His hair was a mess. His pajamas were too big for his spindly body. He clutched a picture book to his chest. The material seemed a little young for him, but Will was hardly an expert.
“Shit,” Cayla cursed. “What did I tell you about staying upstairs?”
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him answer.
“I told you you’d get hungry.” She got up from the table to fix another plate. She introduced the kid to Will: “This’n’s Benji, my sister’s kid. Benji, this is Mr. Black.”
“Her real sister,” Tony amended. He pushed his chair back until it touched the counter. Benji wouldn’t go near him. He took the long way around, sitting opposite Will with the book in his lap.
“Here.” Cayla plopped down a plate that was considerably less generous than the portions she gave Will. She asked Tony, “I guess I gotta feed you, too?”
“Gimme one a them breasts.” He grabbed at her, giggling like it was a game.
Cayla slapped away his hands. “Jesus, Tony.” She turned back to the stove, muttering to herself.
Will looked at Benji, who was staring down at his lap. Will tried not to be too obvious as he studied the boy. He had a familiar look about him, like he expected at any moment that something bad was going to happen. His shoulders were rolled inward. He kept his head bowed. His ears practically rotated as he listened for a change in tone, an indication of danger. Will recognized the survival tactic. When adults got mad, kids usually ended up being collateral damage.
Will asked Benji, “Are you from Macon?”
Rather than answering, the kid looked at his aunt.
Cayla supplied, “Baton Rouge. At least that’s where they were this last time. His mama’s on the pipe. Can’t break the habit. The po-po found ’em livin’ in her car.” She rested her hand on Benji’s bony shoulder. Will would’ve missed the flinch if he hadn’t been watching.
Cayla said, “I couldn’t let ’em put Benji in a home again. Last time, he near about got killed. And I mean real killed, not just pushed around.”
Will guessed Benji knew all of this, but he didn’t like that the kid was hearing it again. He asked Benji, “How old are you?”
This time, he answered himself, showing Will nine fingers.
“What’s that book you’re reading?”
Benji held up the book. Will couldn’t read the cursive letters, but the C at the beginning and the smiling monkey told him he was looking at Curious George. The book had obviously been read a lot. The pages were dog-eared. The cover was worn. Will wondered if something was wrong with the boy. “Which school do you go to?”
Benji returned the book to his lap. He stared down at his hands.
Cayla blew out a put-upon sigh. “What’s gotten into you, child? Tell him where you go to school.”
Benji’s voice was squeaky. “I’m in Miss Ward’s fourth-grade class at Barden Elementary School on Anderson Drive.”
Will gave a low whistle, as if he was impressed. “That sounds like a nice school. Do you like it there?”
The boy’s slender shoulders went up in a shrug.
“What’s your favorite subject?”
He glanced at Cayla, but before she could answer for him, Benji said, “Math.”
“I like math, too,” Will said, which was actually true. Numbers had offered a respite, some sort of weird proof that despite Will’s inability to read like the other kids, there was at least one thing he could do right.
“Fractions,” Benji whispered. “My mom does them with me.” He looked up at Will, his eyes moist with tears. The fluorescent bulbs made the corners glow. He looked so desperate that Will couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Eat up, hon.” Cayla pushed Benji’s plate closer. She’d given him a spoonful of peas, a biscuit, and a chicken leg. The meal didn’t seem like enough, but Benji didn’t complain. He didn’t start eating, either. He seemed to be waiting for permission.
Will picked up the large piece of fried chicken Cayla had smothered in gravy. She was right about her scalding skills. The crispy skin practically melted in his mouth. Too bad he wasn’t hungry anymore.
Will had seen a lot of shell-shocked kids passing through the Atlanta Children’s Home, but Benji was the loneliest child he’d ever shared a table with. He resonated at a different frequency. His movements were stilted. His expression was a mask of neutrality, but his eyes—there wasn’t a nine-year-old on the planet who had yet mastered concealing the kind of pain Will read in Benji’s eyes.
He missed his mother. She had obviously neglected him, likely abused him, but he still needed his mom. She’d helped him with his fractions. Maybe she’d worked on the rest of his homework, too. She’d undoubtedly moved him around a lot, staying one step ahead of child welfare services because even crack whores didn’t want to admit that they were bad mothers.
Benji’s lack of accent was the big giveaway. He’d probably never stayed one place long enough to pick one up. He sounded better educated than the three adults in the house. He had better table manners, too. He used his fork and knife to peel away the skin on the chicken leg.
Tony snorted. “Where’d you learn them airs, boy?”
“Leave him be,” Cayla shot back. She moderated her tone as she asked Will, “You like working at the hospital?”
Will nodded and talked with his mouth full. “How long have you been there?”
“About five years,” she answered, which was a lie. Cayla’s tax records had her working part-time for several different doctors before landing the pharmacy job six months ago. Even then, she still rotated in and out of the offices on her off days, probably to help pay her DUI fine. And pay for a house with a mortgage that was so far underwater she could see China from her front porch.
She said, “The hospital’s all right. I like the pharmacy hours. With Benji here, I’ve gotta be home when school’s out.”