Chapter 30: Hotdish

My mother walked into the hockey house carrying a tater tot hotdish.

She looked at the kitchen once and understood everything.

"Who does the dishes here?" she said.

"Everybody," said Nate, who had never done a dish in his life.

"Good answer." She handed him the pan. "Oven at three-fifty. Take the foil off at the end."

Nate held it with both hands.

"I love her," he told me. "Can she stay?"

"She's staying for the weekend," I said.

"I mean forever."

Mom ignored him and turned to Brody.

He had changed into a clean shirt in under a minute.

He stood at the counter with both hands behind his back.

She looked at his face and the scar through his eyebrow.

Then she looked at his shoulder, where the tape still showed at the collar.

"Mrs. Doyle," he said. "I'm Brody."

"I know who you are. I've watched you kiss my daughter eight times."

"It was one kiss."

"On a video I watched eight times." She held out her hand.

He shook it.

"Your grip is better than the other one's," she said.

"Thank you."

"I'm not done." She took off her coat. "You're the one who gave her the room."

"Yes, ma'am."

"For a hundred and fifty dollars."

"Whatever she could afford."

"And you didn't ask any questions."

"I asked a lot of questions," Brody said. "I asked them in the right order."

Mom turned to me with her eyebrows up.

"He's dry," she said. "I like dry."

We ate at six at the long table in the living room.

The two other housemates had been dragged down from upstairs.

Nate's burnt garlic bread sat in the middle.

Mom asked each person at the table where they were from and what their mother cooked.

It took forty minutes, and nobody minded.

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