Chapter 13: Seven Years

The next night Briggs made tacos, and they were worse than the spaghetti.

He burned the tortillas one at a time with a pair of tongs.

"Don't watch me," he said.

"I'm not watching you."

"You're watching me with your whole face."

Birdie sat on the counter, which wasn't allowed, eating shredded cheese out of the bag, which also wasn't allowed.

"He always burns the first six," she told me. "The seventh one's good."

"How many are we having?"

"Seven."

We ate at the wobbly table with a folded napkin under the short leg.

Birdie asked if the detective had a gun, if the ring was magic, and if I'd ever been on a boat.

"Once," I said.

"Was it good?"

"It sank."

She laughed until milk came out of her nose.

After dinner I washed and he dried.

He stood so close at the sink that his arm brushed mine every time he reached for a plate.

Neither of us moved over.

Birdie went up at eight-thirty under protest, in pajamas with fire trucks on them.

She hung over the banister on the way.

"Romy. Are you coming tomorrow?"

"If your dad asks me."

"Dad. Ask her."

"Bed, Birdie."

"Ask her!"

"Romy," Briggs said, looking at the ceiling, "would you come to dinner tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Goodnight," Birdie said, satisfied, and her door shut.

We went out on the porch with two mugs of coffee and a blanket that smelled like his truck.

The rain had stopped for once. The street was black and shining.

The basketball hoop dripped in the dark.

He turned his mug in his hands.

"When I carried you out, you were awake. Just for a minute, on the sidewalk. The medics had the oxygen mask on you."

I didn't remember that either.

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