motoeric
Babbling Farker
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2006
- Location
- huntingt...
For those that don't know, I'm a writer. Seventeen books up on Amazon and it still feels presumptuous to say that. Imposter syndrome is real.
Anyway, a friend wrote and published a story that had some BBQ in it. I took umbrage, so included some in my next story. He decided to top me and wrote one with more BBQ. Wanting to end this once and for all, I wrote the following story. It's the most BBQ'd story that was ever BBQ'd (while still maintaining a plot).
A few things to note: 1) I took some liberties with time frames. Creative license. 2) Poobah suggested it be posted here. 3) This is a short story about discovering what home is and moving on from the curveballs life throws at you.
It was just some damned rain. These people were acting as if they had never seen water falling from the sky before. Okay, it was a little harder than normal and more sudden, but seriously, they were scurrying around like rabbits when the dog is loose.
I didn’t know my neighbors and they didn’t know me. That was the way I wanted it. I was polite and so were they, in a stiff, distant manner. Still, the differences were striking sometimes, like how they ignored snow conditions, and where I came from people freaked out over half an inch of flurries.
Back home you’d get a flashlight and an old paperback and sit on the porch for a few hours while waiting for the lights to come back on. Up here, people lost their damned minds. I was happy to accept the negatives that went with the positives. Northerners let you be. They didn’t pester you and try to get into your business.
Connecticut was far from where I grew up, but it served its purpose. I had a roof over my head, and I was far away from the scene of my life’s greatest failure. I sat on my enclosed porch, tried to enjoy my medicinal herb and kept an eye on the blue smoke coming from the smoker.
Wasting my cell battery talking to my ****ing neighbors wasn’t making my day any better. I waited until the third ring before answering.
“So, hey, um, you probably noticed that there’s no power.”
Rolling my eyes, I took a beat before replying. “No power? Really? At your house?”
“At… Yeah. You have power?”
“I’ve got no idea, Barbara. I’m out on the porch with a few Steam Whistles watching the smoker.”
I didn’t have power. No one did, but I enjoyed yanking her chain. They were those neighbors. The ones that never reach out until they need something from you, and it seems as if they always needed something. They’d called the fire department at least three times when the smoker was going just to annoy me but had no qualms about hinting how much they liked ribs.
I’m sure it was just to piss me off since I hooked up the neighbors I liked, but not them. I’d gone over the first time and explained, but there wasn’t a need. The smoke was light and twenty yards from the house. They could have seen it from their deck.
“Right, the smoker. That’s sort of why I’m calling. Well, I’ve got a roast that I threw in the oven a few minutes ago and, well… No power. Do you think it might fit in the smoker?”
I paused again. It would fit. Hell, we could empty the freezer of half the people in town and I could fit it all in the smoker. It was a stick-burner from Alabama that could smoke two dozen pork shoulders, twenty full briskets, and thirty-six racks of ribs at the same time. I use it for competitions and charity gigs from Maine to Virginia. Capacity wasn’t the issue.
These were the same people that saw me shoveling my driveway three months ago while they were using their gas snowblower. I kept shoveling and when they were done with their driveway, they went right back inside. It would have taken them five minutes to help clear a path to my truck. What’s worse is that they saw me finish my driveway and then do Mr. Milton’s and they stayed comfy in the house with their hot chocolate and warm cookies and, and… well, whatever people like that enjoy after a blizzard.
“I’m not really sure, Barbara. More meat means more fuel. Do you have any split and dried wood I can use? Maybe some lump charcoal?”
“Um, no. We have propane grills.”
Of course you do. I sighed. “Yeah, bring it over.”
“Thanks, Kenny. You’re the best.”
Her call made me think. I looked down the block and saw Mr. Milton’s. I grabbed another rack of baby backs from the fridge, trimmed off some of the fat, peeled off the silver skin, slapped on some rub, and darted out to the rig. It went on next to the brisket and two pork shoulders. The smoker seemed almost barren with all that empty space.
What the ****, it’s just some rain. I stopped at Mr. Milton’s first.
“Kenny, you’re drenched! What are you doing out?”
Aside from being the worst kvetcher I’d ever seen, he was a nice old guy. He had a garden in his backyard, and I was often the recipient of its largesse or one of his famous pies.
“I’m good. Just a little rain. Listen, I’ve got a rack of ribs on the smoker for you. Won’t be ready until about 9:00, but I’ll bring them over. You let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
“Appreciated, young man. I’ll take you up on that. Thank you. Have you heard anything from Ellie?”
I tried to plaster a smile on my face after the mention of my ex-wife. “No. We don’t stay in touch.”
“Such a shame. She was a nice girl. Your grandparents always spoke so highly of her. Smart as a whip. Whatever happened with…”
I interrupted his yenta tendencies. “Sorry, gotta get going. I’ll foil the ribs and bring them over. Can you do me a favor and let the neighbors know that I’ve got plenty of space if they want to bring anything over that they have in the fridge? Anything that might spoil or they were planning on cooking?”
“Well, absolutely. Mighty generous. I sure will.”
Talking to the neighbors would give him an excuse to gossip and dig for information. Word would get out quicker than me knocking on doors, which I did anyway. I kept an eye out for fallen trees on my way back. Wood for smoking was always appreciated.
Barbara called me from her porch as I walked past their house. “Kenny! Kenny!”
She lifted a baking dish wrapped in foil. From her porch. While dry. Like I was supposed to come running over to her so I could have the privilege of cooking her dinner. Which, like a schmuck, I did.
The roast went on. I threw in some potatoes and carrots and went back to my porch and my pilsners. Alexa and her music had died when the internet did, so I sat in silence. My rig was from Shirley Fabrications and was a beast. It laughed at the rain. I’d opened the vents a bit and I would throw another log on in a while, but for now, I enjoyed the patter of the rain on the roof and the aroma of BBQ.
Just some freaking rain. I’d dealt with much worse.
*****
It had been drizzling that final day in court three years and four states ago. Nothing like the driving rain we had now, it was just a dismal, grey day that was fitting for the end of my marriage. There was no single dramatic catalyst for the end, we just slowly grew apart. I actually still liked her after we decided to split and thought we’d end up as one of those formerly married couples that remained friends.
Then Ellie decided that she was entitled to everything but would graciously accept almost everything. She’d gotten the catering end of our business and I got the farmer’s markets. Half of my equipment went her way and she was allowed to keep using the name Woodson BBQ.
Never mind the fact that I’d started the business before we’d ever set eyes on each other. Never mind the fact that I’d paid for her MBA and didn’t get a piece of her future earnings. Never mind the fact she thought BBQ was laughably easy and anyone could do it.
Ellie handled the money, I handled the food and marketing. I’m not belittling her. She knew what she was doing and held up her end. She’d even pitch in if I needed her to run to the restaurant supply warehouse or act as a gopher; but her forte was running the money aspects of the business, and I appreciated what she brought to the table.
Unfortunately, that was a one-way street. I was the country bumpkin that threw meat on the smoker while she was the poor beleaguered paragon of learning and erudition who had the nobility of spirit to save me and our business from ruin. It’s amazing how an impending divorce can recast reality. That lasted less than eighteen months before she was coming to me for help.
It was too late by then. She’d ruined our reputation, and her horrible food and customer service had tainted anything associated with Woodson’s. Large orders at the farm stands dried up. I cut back from six locations to four and then four to two. I was selling ribs two at a time instead of by the rack or half rack.
Eventually I packed up and moved to my grandparents’ old place up north in Groton, Connecticut. I’d been renting it and my parents’ old place out but switched to renting out my home and became a transplanted southerner. With the rental properties and some investments, I was able to be comfortable if I lived modestly.
I’d spent summers in Groton with my grandparents growing up and many neighbors still remembered me. I tried to do right by my community and, in general, people did right by me.
There was a light rapping on my enclosed deck that pulled me from my reverie. Thankfully, it was someone I was always happy to see.
“Kenny? I brought over some sausage and Mrs. Tillis saw me and asked if you could put on some wurst and kielbasa. And I thought you might be thirsty. Felix won’t miss them.”
Mrs. Ortega lifted a six-pack of Yellow Rose IPA. Felix definitely would miss them, but I wasn’t going to say no. I spent my thirteenth and fourteenth summers spending more time with her daughter than I did with my grandparents. We never went too far, but certainly farther than her parents would have approved of. Felix and Rosa were good people and had been by a number of times to check on me since I’d moved to Groton.
“Come on in and get out of the rain.”
I took the small cooler from her, ran out to the smoker, and hurriedly tossed everything on, checked the temps, closed everything up, and ran back. Rosa was studiously ignoring the joint I had waiting on the table and had opened one of the IPAs.
Taking off my ball cap, I plopped down in my seat, toweled myself off, and finished what I had been drinking.
“So, any news on how long this is going to last?”
She looked my way. “The rain or the power outage?”
“Both. Either.”
“We’re not supposed to get power back until tomorrow night around six or seven.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
I started thinking of everything I had in my freezers. “You know what we should do? We should have a block party. Just cook up everything people have in their freezers, line the sidewalks with tables and games for the kids, and turn it into a party.”
“You have a magic rock, Kenny?”
“What?”
“Rock soup?”
“I’m not following.”
“Rock Soup, that old kid’s story. The con man tells people he has a magic rock that makes the best soup and he’ll share if you contribute one thing. Somebody contributes carrots, someone else brings meat, and so on. He eats for free.”
“Never heard it.”
She snorted. “Philistine.”
After Rosa left I began prepping some beans. She’d spread the word and people began dropping by. Everyone brought something for me to throw on the smoker and most brought me something for the effort. I got enough beer to stock a refrigerator, three pints of ice cream, some chips and two cigars. Two college kids came by with a case of frozen burgers and a couple of grams of weed.
I had four briskets that I’d split the point from the flat. I loaded up bus pans with saltwater and put most of the meat I had in the freezer in them for a quick defrost. Digging out two cans of apple pie filling, I chopped the contents up and threw them in the beans, and added a bunch of Blues Hog sauce. I’d been using Keri’s recipe for years and it had become an internet staple for a good reason.
The disposable hotel pans with the beans went on the racks directly below a brisket and I placed four or five pounds of Conecuh sausage on as well. The heat was steady at 260°, so I went back and continued prep work, coring out jalapeños and listening to the rain hit the roof.
Someone with a sense of humor was playing “Have You Ever Seen The Rain” by Creedence on an acoustic guitar and the music danced across the neighborhood. It made for a relaxing night. Tending a fire and prepping was old hat to me. Someone had to be pit-bitch at any BBQ contest and stay up through the night. Since I didn’t like people touching my rig without me, I was the self-appointed overnight guy.
My mind drifted and I thought of the people I’d loved and who had loved me back. I considered my success and failures and how I’d become a hermit living with Yankees. I didn’t like to fail. I made varsity in three sports in high school and still graduated near the top of my class. My business was a success almost from the start; I had too many trophies to count from BBQ competitions, and I had friends that were as close as brothers. None of that ameliorated the failure of my marriage. Sitting there working while listening to the guitar and rain I still had no idea how I’d misjudged Ellie so badly.
It rankled.
When the ribs had retracted from the bone and they had the proper bend, I sauced them and wrapped them up for Mr. Milton. Some of the brats and kielbasa hit 160°, so they went into a half-tray with beer to go back in the smoker and I jogged over to the old man’s house.
“That smells fantastic, Kenny! You have time for a beer? Maybe some Uno?”
“Thanks, but no. Gotta get back to the food. You heard about the block party?”
“Sure did. I’ll be there with bells on. What time?”
“It’s a weekend, so the kids are home. Maybe around two or three?”
“Sounds great.”
My jeans were chafing and I needed to change my drenched shirt, but I’d realized that I’d forgotten to put the tray with the brats back in the smoker. Trying to avoid the puddles, I was twenty feet from the smoker when I saw a medium-sized dog jump from the stool I had out there onto the runner outside the smoker’s doors. It grabbed a string of wursts, jumped down and ran off.
I was too stunned to even yell at the daring mutt.
Not willing to risk the rest of the wursts, I grabbed them, ran back to the porch and tossed them in the garbage. Who knows if that dog had licked them or something? I was thinking about turning the hamburgers into a smoked meatloaf and began chopping some onions and garlic. Serenaded by the patter of the rain and occasional low rumble of thunder, I thought of where I had wound up.
This town and neighborhood had been an important part of my childhood. Every year, without fail, I’d complain about visiting my grandparents and leaving my friends for most of the summer. Every year, without fail, I’d complain about leaving my grandparents and the friends I’d made as I returned for the school year. That got much worse when I’d discovered girls. Everything is so heightened at fourteen and that included the angst and sorrow at leaving Andrea Ortega to head back home.
I’d taken to wearing a beat-up John Deere ballcap to drive home my image of the backwards, southern ****kicker. People up here didn’t like talking to anyone that was different, and I was leaning pretty heavy into that southern good-ole-boy role. Tilting the hat down on my forehead, I pushed away my mise en place, stretched out my legs and hoped I’d wake up in an hour or two.
When I opened my eyes, my watch told me I’d been asleep for almost ninety minutes. I stretched, grabbed some agave and my spray bottle with apple juice, worcestershire and apple cider vinegar. The rain was still coming down, so I jogged over to the smoker instead of walking. The temps had begun to dip and opening her up would cause further havoc, but it had to be done.
I added the agave to the beans, gave it a good stir and sprayed the pork butts. The briskets had some good coloring, and I’d need to add some more beer to the remaining brats and sausages soon. Closing her up, I added some hickory and cherry to the firebox.
When I finished, I turned to see that dog again. He or she was staring at me from about ten feet away. It turned and ran a few yards, stopped and looked back at me.
“I’m not feeding you again, mutt. That was enough to last you three days.”
It came back and stopped again.
“What? You’re not getting any more.”
It again turned, ran a bit away and then looked back.
I looked up at the rain still falling like judgement upon Gomorrah and shook my head. “You wanna come up on the porch? Get dry?”
The dog barked, ran a couple of yards and looked back at me.
“Do you want me to follow you? You’re out of your mind.”
I went back to the porch and continued coring and deseeding jalapeños. There was a sharp bark and I saw the dog just outside the screen door. I opened it.
“Alright, get in here.”
It ran a bit away, turned and looked at me.
Rolling my eyes, I stepped out to the backyard. “This better be good, dog.”
He or she would run ten yards, turn to see me following and continue. We got to the tree line and kept going. Eventually I heard it’s barking accompanied by whimpering. When I got to the dog. I realized it was a her and she was standing in front of her drenched puppies.
“This why you stole those brats? How long have you and your pups been out here?”
She whined at me.
“Yeah, I get it. I’d steal food for my kids too. So, what now?”
She barked.
“Easy for you to say. How am I going to carry four puppies?”
She just stared at me. What the hell, I was drenched anyway. I took off my shirt, put the puppies on it one by one and lifted the whole thing up. The mother was surprisingly at ease the whole time. We got them to the house intact, and I put them in a big cardboard box that the hotel pans came in. Grabbing an old towel, I dried each one off and put them back. They got a bowl of water and some finely chopped chicken. I had no idea if that was good for puppies, but it sure as hell beat starving.
After washing my hands and gloving up, I started a bacon weave for the meatloaf. It was four in the morning, three hours before the rest of the ribs had to go on if I was going to pull them in time for the block party. More chicken would go on three hours later. I stripped the chicken that had already been smoked, added some rub and apple juice, put it in ziplocks and threw it in the cooler. I’d sauce it for pulled chicken and for chicken pot pie later.
The dog quickly realized I was a soft touch as I tossed her a piece whenever she gave me that look. You know the one I’m talking about. The puppies were piled on top of each other and sleeping, some making cute little noises as they dreamed of bones to bury or squirrels or whatever dogs dreamed of.
There was a knock on my door at around six that startled the crap out of me.
“Sorry. I thought you might need a hand.”
“Kevin? What the heck are you doing up?”
He was a gangly fourteen-year-old in a windbreaker with a hood. Kevin was one of those kids who was always smiling.
“I have my paper route, so I sort of wake up around 5:30 whether I want to or not. No papers today, but I heard about the block party. Can I help out?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Your folks know you’re here?” His dad was an accountant and his mom was an ER nurse. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was doing overtime today.
“Dad does.”
“Yeah? Okay, sure. Why don’t you run over to the smoker and check the temps?”
He came jogging back. “Two-fifty-two. That’s good, right?”
“Perfect.”
“Can we make something spicy? Dad and Alina like hot stuff.”
“Sure. You think that they’d like Nashville hot chicken?”
“Um, I guess.”
“Yeah, they probably will. We’re going to make a version of that, but in a pot pie.”
Alina was his sixteen-year-old sister who was enamored with me. It didn’t seem to bother her that she was twenty years my junior. I was always polite to her and was secretly amused, remembering my crushes from when I was her age. It was cute and she’d move on to someone else in a few weeks.
Kevin had been helping me for about forty minutes, which was about thirty-five minutes longer than I’d expected with such a competition for his attention.
“I got the dough spread out for the pies and the bacon is ready for the stuffed sausage. Would it be okay if I hung out with your puppies?”
I smiled. He was entering the age where he was too cool to ‘play’ with puppies, but ‘hang out’ was perfectly acceptable.
“Yeah, as long as they’re awake. Just wash your hands before and after. And they’re not my puppies. What do your folks think about dogs?”
His eyes grew large. “Can I bring one over to show them?”
There had to be rules about how old a puppy has to be before they can be adopted out, and I had no idea how old the ones in the box were, but I had a feeling that one of them would be earmarked by the end of the day.
“Why don’t you see which one you like best and your folks can see them when everyone comes over for food?”
“Okay!”
He played with the pups while I rolled out the raw sausage, inserted the cheese, peppers, minced potatoes and hard boiled eggs, rolled it up, sprinkled on a sweet rub, wrapped the bacon around it and threw it on the smoker. In a couple of hours I’d add a glaze of half BBQ sauce and half maple syrup.
The pies were lined up and I layered in the potatoes, carrots, spicy pulled chicken and the rest of the ingredients before covering them with more dough. I’d have to fire up the grill to bake them, but that wouldn’t present a problem. Putting them in a hotel pan with water coming halfway up the pie pan would keep the bottoms from burning.
There was a mix of St. Louis and babybacks, so I’d have to stagger the time they came off the smoker. After I trimmed them and Kevin rubbed them, they went on the smoker. We temped the pork shoulders and briskets and everything was on schedule. I’d pull them around noon, wrap them in butcher paper and throw them in a cooler for a few hours.
“Kevin, grab the hot gloves and pull out the fattie.”
“Which one is that?”
“The rolled sausage thing with the eggs and potatoes.”
We had three of them. He put them on a cutting board and used that to carry them in the house. One of them was for us and a second was for whoever stopped by in the morning.
I turned to my sous. “You know Mr. Phillips?”
“Sure.”
“Wrap that third one in foil and bring it down to him, okay? If he says anything, tell him I said we were going to have to toss it if he can’t take it and we have too much.”
“But… There’s lots of people coming for the block party. Probably, like, hundreds.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe not that many. You know Mrs. Phillips passed away?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And they have three kids, right? They’re all going to be getting up soon and he’s still dealing with everything. The problem is, he’s sort of a proud guy. He’s not going to take anything directly from me, but if you bring it over, well, that’s different. He won’t want to be rude to you and you can blame anything on me. Tell him I’m a prick and you don’t want to upset me by bringing it back.”
Kevin seemed thoughtful. “Got it.”
I began getting the chicken ready. If it was a competition, chicken prep would take hours. I wasn’t getting scored on appearance, so I was just doing a quick trim, rubbing and throwing it on. Whole chickens were spatchcocked and I considered injecting them, but couldn’t be bothered.
The puppies tipped over the box and began running everywhere on my porch. I got them more water and some of the chicken from the pot pies before it was seasoned. That shut them up. When she wasn’t corralling the pups, the mother stayed as close to me as possible.
Kevin was back by the time I was returning from putting the chicken on. I was drenched; he just took off his windbreaker, which had a hood, and let it dry in the corner.
“Everything go okay?”
“Yeah, he wanted to give me money, but I didn’t take it.”
“Good man. I’m going to close my eyes for an hour or so. Keep an eye on the dogs and check the smoker temp in about half an hour, okay? And eat anything you want that’s already cooked.”
Puppies and food. What more could a teenage boy want? I thought back to Andrea and when I was Kevin’s age and remembered what else he would want. Well, I could provide two of the three. The girl was up to him.
Eventually waking up, yawning and stretching, I ran out to the shed and grabbed two more 120-quart coolers. The beans went into one, along with the various sausages. The other was going to be used for the big meats after they were vented. The bacon-wrapped meatloaf went on and I kept it on the hotspot.
I explained to Kevin how we were going to bake on the 26” Weber kettle.
“Like, regular baking?”
“We gotta be a little more careful, but pretty much.”
“That’s pretty cool. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My wife. She handled desserts when we entered competitions that required them.”
“Where’s she?”
I had no idea. If she was here now she’d be laughing her ass off as I cooked for a bunch of strangers. I could almost hear her. For free, Kenny? Really? These people are nobody to us.
“Not really sure. We’re divorced.”
“So, she’s your ex-wife?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Ex.”
“Is the charcoal in the shed?”
“Yeah. Let’s leave it there for a while.”
Once the divorce was finalized, I became a manwhore for a while. If someone was willing to date me, we were out there as soon as she was available. My requirements were that she had a pulse and was willing. I quickly realized that I was trying to bury memories of Ellie in a cheap bacchanalia, but didn’t really care.
That lasted about eighteen months before I was disgusted with myself. I felt like I had wasted every minute since the divorce leading a sybaritic lifestyle, so I switched things up 180 degrees. Now I stayed at home, minded my own business and read. I had my big-ass shed filled with cooking equipment, my smoker, my grills, my house and my solitude. It worked.
The dog kept nudging her pups back towards the cardboard box. They were a mix of polar opposites. They were either rolling, nipping, yelping and eating or they were exhausted and sleeping.
The pork shoulders and briskets came off the smoker. Kevin had lengths of pink butcher paper arrayed on the table. I showed him how to wrap the first three and he did the rest. When they got down to about 150° internal temp, they went into the cooler with a bunch of old towels I had for that purpose.
Hour by hour the rain lessened. The college kids came back to lend a hand.
“Hey, didn’t know you had the little guy here. Enjoy the… uh, stuff, later.”
Smiling, I nodded. “Jim, your dad has that moving company, right? You good with hauling stuff out to the front of the house and setting up? I’ve got six folding tables in the shed.”
“You got it.”
Kevin grabbed some lump charcoal from the shed and he prepped the grill while I got the charcoal chimney started.
People began stopping by, checking on timing and seeing what they could do to help. We had six houses on my side of the street designated as block party destinations. People dragged out chairs, some folks had tents and I coordinated with people about dessert. We had a few communal tables where people brought out cookies and fruit.
By mid-afternoon we were packed. People were having a great time, and Kevin was showing off all the food he’d helped with. When I found some time between slicing brisket, pulling pork, saucing chicken and slipping food to the dogs, I sat on a folding chair on my front lawn and watched everyone.
Mrs. Ortega came over with another beer.
“This turned out pretty well.”
I took a swallow. “Yeah. Not bad.”
“You okay?”
“Sure. I like it here. People stay out of my business. They don’t bother me. I don’t know them and they don't know me, but everyone is polite. This place is a hell of a lot better than home.”
She was silent for a minute, so I continued.
“The kids love the puppies. Any idea who the dog belongs to?”
“Kenny, you are so full of ****. I’m almost glad my daughter never married you. I wouldn’t want my grandchildren to be idiots.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
“Nope. Don’t think that I will. What do you think is going on here? This is your little hermitage and the rare visitors you see nod from the distance as you go about your meditations? Everyone knows you and you know everyone. They all just think you’re shy. Kevin and his family, those college kids you got working for you, Mr. Milton, even Barbara, that pain in the ass. How many times have you brought food over to the Phillips or shoveled Mrs. Cleary’s driveway?”
“That’s—”
“I wasn’t done. Did you know that Andy checks on your house when you’re at those BBQ competitions all weekend? When Cathy walks her baby, she checks your mailbox and leaves anything on your stoop. Those flowers that appear by your door in pots? They’re from your neighbor’s backyards. I’m sorry to break it to you, Kenny, but you are home. This is it.”
I sat there, shocked. She was right. Slowly but surely, as every day had passed, this had become more my home instead of a place I’d retreated to in order to lick my wounds. She clicked my bottle with hers.
“Welcome, neighbor.”
We sat there for a while in companionable silence. She leaned over and pushed my shoulder when an attractive brunette walked up to the box with the puppies. It kept tipping over and they used it to sleep in when their mother wasn’t regulating their horsing around.
The brunette pushed some hair out of her eyes. “These are Penny’s puppies?”
A smile on my face, I got up and walked over.
“You know the dog?”
She squatted down and began scratching the dog behind her ears. “I sure do. This cutie is Penny. She went missing when the McNiffs moved. They were heading to a retirement community and were trying to find her a home. She darted out one day and was gone.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three months? A little more?”
“Wow. Poor dog. I think she’s been living in the woods since then.” She stood up and I reached out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ken. Can I get you something to drink?”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t remember me?”
I flushed and felt like an idiot. “Uh, sorry. No.”
“Hannah? Andrea’s cousin? Shy kid who hung around the two of you when you visited your grandparents? Any of this ringing a bell? You were just talking to my aunt.”
“Hannah! You… Damn, you… I mean…”
“Yeah, I grew up.”
Yeah, you sure did.”
“So, you back for good?”
“I… I think I might be.”
“I live about five minutes from here. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’d be great. Hannah. Little Hannah. ****.”
“Things change, Ken.”
“They sure do.”
When she left Mrs. Ortega was still by my seat. “You know, when you left at the end of every summer, my daughter was a wreck. You know who was worse? My niece. Hannah had the biggest crush on you.”
“I had no idea.”
“She’s over there at the table with the brisket.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe she’d like to see the smoker.”
I turned to her with a grin. “Maybe.”
Getting up again, I ran my fingers through my hair and walked over to the table.
The ground was still damp and there were puddles in a few places, but the sun was out and lighting up the sky. I thought back to last night and the previous few years. Things were going to be okay. It was just some rain.
Anyway, a friend wrote and published a story that had some BBQ in it. I took umbrage, so included some in my next story. He decided to top me and wrote one with more BBQ. Wanting to end this once and for all, I wrote the following story. It's the most BBQ'd story that was ever BBQ'd (while still maintaining a plot).
A few things to note: 1) I took some liberties with time frames. Creative license. 2) Poobah suggested it be posted here. 3) This is a short story about discovering what home is and moving on from the curveballs life throws at you.
Just Some Rain
It was just some damned rain. These people were acting as if they had never seen water falling from the sky before. Okay, it was a little harder than normal and more sudden, but seriously, they were scurrying around like rabbits when the dog is loose.
I didn’t know my neighbors and they didn’t know me. That was the way I wanted it. I was polite and so were they, in a stiff, distant manner. Still, the differences were striking sometimes, like how they ignored snow conditions, and where I came from people freaked out over half an inch of flurries.
Back home you’d get a flashlight and an old paperback and sit on the porch for a few hours while waiting for the lights to come back on. Up here, people lost their damned minds. I was happy to accept the negatives that went with the positives. Northerners let you be. They didn’t pester you and try to get into your business.
Connecticut was far from where I grew up, but it served its purpose. I had a roof over my head, and I was far away from the scene of my life’s greatest failure. I sat on my enclosed porch, tried to enjoy my medicinal herb and kept an eye on the blue smoke coming from the smoker.
Wasting my cell battery talking to my ****ing neighbors wasn’t making my day any better. I waited until the third ring before answering.
“So, hey, um, you probably noticed that there’s no power.”
Rolling my eyes, I took a beat before replying. “No power? Really? At your house?”
“At… Yeah. You have power?”
“I’ve got no idea, Barbara. I’m out on the porch with a few Steam Whistles watching the smoker.”
I didn’t have power. No one did, but I enjoyed yanking her chain. They were those neighbors. The ones that never reach out until they need something from you, and it seems as if they always needed something. They’d called the fire department at least three times when the smoker was going just to annoy me but had no qualms about hinting how much they liked ribs.
I’m sure it was just to piss me off since I hooked up the neighbors I liked, but not them. I’d gone over the first time and explained, but there wasn’t a need. The smoke was light and twenty yards from the house. They could have seen it from their deck.
“Right, the smoker. That’s sort of why I’m calling. Well, I’ve got a roast that I threw in the oven a few minutes ago and, well… No power. Do you think it might fit in the smoker?”
I paused again. It would fit. Hell, we could empty the freezer of half the people in town and I could fit it all in the smoker. It was a stick-burner from Alabama that could smoke two dozen pork shoulders, twenty full briskets, and thirty-six racks of ribs at the same time. I use it for competitions and charity gigs from Maine to Virginia. Capacity wasn’t the issue.
These were the same people that saw me shoveling my driveway three months ago while they were using their gas snowblower. I kept shoveling and when they were done with their driveway, they went right back inside. It would have taken them five minutes to help clear a path to my truck. What’s worse is that they saw me finish my driveway and then do Mr. Milton’s and they stayed comfy in the house with their hot chocolate and warm cookies and, and… well, whatever people like that enjoy after a blizzard.
“I’m not really sure, Barbara. More meat means more fuel. Do you have any split and dried wood I can use? Maybe some lump charcoal?”
“Um, no. We have propane grills.”
Of course you do. I sighed. “Yeah, bring it over.”
“Thanks, Kenny. You’re the best.”
Her call made me think. I looked down the block and saw Mr. Milton’s. I grabbed another rack of baby backs from the fridge, trimmed off some of the fat, peeled off the silver skin, slapped on some rub, and darted out to the rig. It went on next to the brisket and two pork shoulders. The smoker seemed almost barren with all that empty space.
What the ****, it’s just some rain. I stopped at Mr. Milton’s first.
“Kenny, you’re drenched! What are you doing out?”
Aside from being the worst kvetcher I’d ever seen, he was a nice old guy. He had a garden in his backyard, and I was often the recipient of its largesse or one of his famous pies.
“I’m good. Just a little rain. Listen, I’ve got a rack of ribs on the smoker for you. Won’t be ready until about 9:00, but I’ll bring them over. You let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
“Appreciated, young man. I’ll take you up on that. Thank you. Have you heard anything from Ellie?”
I tried to plaster a smile on my face after the mention of my ex-wife. “No. We don’t stay in touch.”
“Such a shame. She was a nice girl. Your grandparents always spoke so highly of her. Smart as a whip. Whatever happened with…”
I interrupted his yenta tendencies. “Sorry, gotta get going. I’ll foil the ribs and bring them over. Can you do me a favor and let the neighbors know that I’ve got plenty of space if they want to bring anything over that they have in the fridge? Anything that might spoil or they were planning on cooking?”
“Well, absolutely. Mighty generous. I sure will.”
Talking to the neighbors would give him an excuse to gossip and dig for information. Word would get out quicker than me knocking on doors, which I did anyway. I kept an eye out for fallen trees on my way back. Wood for smoking was always appreciated.
Barbara called me from her porch as I walked past their house. “Kenny! Kenny!”
She lifted a baking dish wrapped in foil. From her porch. While dry. Like I was supposed to come running over to her so I could have the privilege of cooking her dinner. Which, like a schmuck, I did.
The roast went on. I threw in some potatoes and carrots and went back to my porch and my pilsners. Alexa and her music had died when the internet did, so I sat in silence. My rig was from Shirley Fabrications and was a beast. It laughed at the rain. I’d opened the vents a bit and I would throw another log on in a while, but for now, I enjoyed the patter of the rain on the roof and the aroma of BBQ.
Just some freaking rain. I’d dealt with much worse.
*****
It had been drizzling that final day in court three years and four states ago. Nothing like the driving rain we had now, it was just a dismal, grey day that was fitting for the end of my marriage. There was no single dramatic catalyst for the end, we just slowly grew apart. I actually still liked her after we decided to split and thought we’d end up as one of those formerly married couples that remained friends.
Then Ellie decided that she was entitled to everything but would graciously accept almost everything. She’d gotten the catering end of our business and I got the farmer’s markets. Half of my equipment went her way and she was allowed to keep using the name Woodson BBQ.
Never mind the fact that I’d started the business before we’d ever set eyes on each other. Never mind the fact that I’d paid for her MBA and didn’t get a piece of her future earnings. Never mind the fact she thought BBQ was laughably easy and anyone could do it.
Ellie handled the money, I handled the food and marketing. I’m not belittling her. She knew what she was doing and held up her end. She’d even pitch in if I needed her to run to the restaurant supply warehouse or act as a gopher; but her forte was running the money aspects of the business, and I appreciated what she brought to the table.
Unfortunately, that was a one-way street. I was the country bumpkin that threw meat on the smoker while she was the poor beleaguered paragon of learning and erudition who had the nobility of spirit to save me and our business from ruin. It’s amazing how an impending divorce can recast reality. That lasted less than eighteen months before she was coming to me for help.
It was too late by then. She’d ruined our reputation, and her horrible food and customer service had tainted anything associated with Woodson’s. Large orders at the farm stands dried up. I cut back from six locations to four and then four to two. I was selling ribs two at a time instead of by the rack or half rack.
Eventually I packed up and moved to my grandparents’ old place up north in Groton, Connecticut. I’d been renting it and my parents’ old place out but switched to renting out my home and became a transplanted southerner. With the rental properties and some investments, I was able to be comfortable if I lived modestly.
I’d spent summers in Groton with my grandparents growing up and many neighbors still remembered me. I tried to do right by my community and, in general, people did right by me.
There was a light rapping on my enclosed deck that pulled me from my reverie. Thankfully, it was someone I was always happy to see.
“Kenny? I brought over some sausage and Mrs. Tillis saw me and asked if you could put on some wurst and kielbasa. And I thought you might be thirsty. Felix won’t miss them.”
Mrs. Ortega lifted a six-pack of Yellow Rose IPA. Felix definitely would miss them, but I wasn’t going to say no. I spent my thirteenth and fourteenth summers spending more time with her daughter than I did with my grandparents. We never went too far, but certainly farther than her parents would have approved of. Felix and Rosa were good people and had been by a number of times to check on me since I’d moved to Groton.
“Come on in and get out of the rain.”
I took the small cooler from her, ran out to the smoker, and hurriedly tossed everything on, checked the temps, closed everything up, and ran back. Rosa was studiously ignoring the joint I had waiting on the table and had opened one of the IPAs.
Taking off my ball cap, I plopped down in my seat, toweled myself off, and finished what I had been drinking.
“So, any news on how long this is going to last?”
She looked my way. “The rain or the power outage?”
“Both. Either.”
“We’re not supposed to get power back until tomorrow night around six or seven.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
I started thinking of everything I had in my freezers. “You know what we should do? We should have a block party. Just cook up everything people have in their freezers, line the sidewalks with tables and games for the kids, and turn it into a party.”
“You have a magic rock, Kenny?”
“What?”
“Rock soup?”
“I’m not following.”
“Rock Soup, that old kid’s story. The con man tells people he has a magic rock that makes the best soup and he’ll share if you contribute one thing. Somebody contributes carrots, someone else brings meat, and so on. He eats for free.”
“Never heard it.”
She snorted. “Philistine.”
After Rosa left I began prepping some beans. She’d spread the word and people began dropping by. Everyone brought something for me to throw on the smoker and most brought me something for the effort. I got enough beer to stock a refrigerator, three pints of ice cream, some chips and two cigars. Two college kids came by with a case of frozen burgers and a couple of grams of weed.
I had four briskets that I’d split the point from the flat. I loaded up bus pans with saltwater and put most of the meat I had in the freezer in them for a quick defrost. Digging out two cans of apple pie filling, I chopped the contents up and threw them in the beans, and added a bunch of Blues Hog sauce. I’d been using Keri’s recipe for years and it had become an internet staple for a good reason.
The disposable hotel pans with the beans went on the racks directly below a brisket and I placed four or five pounds of Conecuh sausage on as well. The heat was steady at 260°, so I went back and continued prep work, coring out jalapeños and listening to the rain hit the roof.
Someone with a sense of humor was playing “Have You Ever Seen The Rain” by Creedence on an acoustic guitar and the music danced across the neighborhood. It made for a relaxing night. Tending a fire and prepping was old hat to me. Someone had to be pit-bitch at any BBQ contest and stay up through the night. Since I didn’t like people touching my rig without me, I was the self-appointed overnight guy.
My mind drifted and I thought of the people I’d loved and who had loved me back. I considered my success and failures and how I’d become a hermit living with Yankees. I didn’t like to fail. I made varsity in three sports in high school and still graduated near the top of my class. My business was a success almost from the start; I had too many trophies to count from BBQ competitions, and I had friends that were as close as brothers. None of that ameliorated the failure of my marriage. Sitting there working while listening to the guitar and rain I still had no idea how I’d misjudged Ellie so badly.
It rankled.
When the ribs had retracted from the bone and they had the proper bend, I sauced them and wrapped them up for Mr. Milton. Some of the brats and kielbasa hit 160°, so they went into a half-tray with beer to go back in the smoker and I jogged over to the old man’s house.
“That smells fantastic, Kenny! You have time for a beer? Maybe some Uno?”
“Thanks, but no. Gotta get back to the food. You heard about the block party?”
“Sure did. I’ll be there with bells on. What time?”
“It’s a weekend, so the kids are home. Maybe around two or three?”
“Sounds great.”
My jeans were chafing and I needed to change my drenched shirt, but I’d realized that I’d forgotten to put the tray with the brats back in the smoker. Trying to avoid the puddles, I was twenty feet from the smoker when I saw a medium-sized dog jump from the stool I had out there onto the runner outside the smoker’s doors. It grabbed a string of wursts, jumped down and ran off.
I was too stunned to even yell at the daring mutt.
Not willing to risk the rest of the wursts, I grabbed them, ran back to the porch and tossed them in the garbage. Who knows if that dog had licked them or something? I was thinking about turning the hamburgers into a smoked meatloaf and began chopping some onions and garlic. Serenaded by the patter of the rain and occasional low rumble of thunder, I thought of where I had wound up.
This town and neighborhood had been an important part of my childhood. Every year, without fail, I’d complain about visiting my grandparents and leaving my friends for most of the summer. Every year, without fail, I’d complain about leaving my grandparents and the friends I’d made as I returned for the school year. That got much worse when I’d discovered girls. Everything is so heightened at fourteen and that included the angst and sorrow at leaving Andrea Ortega to head back home.
I’d taken to wearing a beat-up John Deere ballcap to drive home my image of the backwards, southern ****kicker. People up here didn’t like talking to anyone that was different, and I was leaning pretty heavy into that southern good-ole-boy role. Tilting the hat down on my forehead, I pushed away my mise en place, stretched out my legs and hoped I’d wake up in an hour or two.
When I opened my eyes, my watch told me I’d been asleep for almost ninety minutes. I stretched, grabbed some agave and my spray bottle with apple juice, worcestershire and apple cider vinegar. The rain was still coming down, so I jogged over to the smoker instead of walking. The temps had begun to dip and opening her up would cause further havoc, but it had to be done.
I added the agave to the beans, gave it a good stir and sprayed the pork butts. The briskets had some good coloring, and I’d need to add some more beer to the remaining brats and sausages soon. Closing her up, I added some hickory and cherry to the firebox.
When I finished, I turned to see that dog again. He or she was staring at me from about ten feet away. It turned and ran a few yards, stopped and looked back at me.
“I’m not feeding you again, mutt. That was enough to last you three days.”
It came back and stopped again.
“What? You’re not getting any more.”
It again turned, ran a bit away and then looked back.
I looked up at the rain still falling like judgement upon Gomorrah and shook my head. “You wanna come up on the porch? Get dry?”
The dog barked, ran a couple of yards and looked back at me.
“Do you want me to follow you? You’re out of your mind.”
I went back to the porch and continued coring and deseeding jalapeños. There was a sharp bark and I saw the dog just outside the screen door. I opened it.
“Alright, get in here.”
It ran a bit away, turned and looked at me.
Rolling my eyes, I stepped out to the backyard. “This better be good, dog.”
He or she would run ten yards, turn to see me following and continue. We got to the tree line and kept going. Eventually I heard it’s barking accompanied by whimpering. When I got to the dog. I realized it was a her and she was standing in front of her drenched puppies.
“This why you stole those brats? How long have you and your pups been out here?”
She whined at me.
“Yeah, I get it. I’d steal food for my kids too. So, what now?”
She barked.
“Easy for you to say. How am I going to carry four puppies?”
She just stared at me. What the hell, I was drenched anyway. I took off my shirt, put the puppies on it one by one and lifted the whole thing up. The mother was surprisingly at ease the whole time. We got them to the house intact, and I put them in a big cardboard box that the hotel pans came in. Grabbing an old towel, I dried each one off and put them back. They got a bowl of water and some finely chopped chicken. I had no idea if that was good for puppies, but it sure as hell beat starving.
After washing my hands and gloving up, I started a bacon weave for the meatloaf. It was four in the morning, three hours before the rest of the ribs had to go on if I was going to pull them in time for the block party. More chicken would go on three hours later. I stripped the chicken that had already been smoked, added some rub and apple juice, put it in ziplocks and threw it in the cooler. I’d sauce it for pulled chicken and for chicken pot pie later.
The dog quickly realized I was a soft touch as I tossed her a piece whenever she gave me that look. You know the one I’m talking about. The puppies were piled on top of each other and sleeping, some making cute little noises as they dreamed of bones to bury or squirrels or whatever dogs dreamed of.
There was a knock on my door at around six that startled the crap out of me.
“Sorry. I thought you might need a hand.”
“Kevin? What the heck are you doing up?”
He was a gangly fourteen-year-old in a windbreaker with a hood. Kevin was one of those kids who was always smiling.
“I have my paper route, so I sort of wake up around 5:30 whether I want to or not. No papers today, but I heard about the block party. Can I help out?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Your folks know you’re here?” His dad was an accountant and his mom was an ER nurse. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was doing overtime today.
“Dad does.”
“Yeah? Okay, sure. Why don’t you run over to the smoker and check the temps?”
He came jogging back. “Two-fifty-two. That’s good, right?”
“Perfect.”
“Can we make something spicy? Dad and Alina like hot stuff.”
“Sure. You think that they’d like Nashville hot chicken?”
“Um, I guess.”
“Yeah, they probably will. We’re going to make a version of that, but in a pot pie.”
Alina was his sixteen-year-old sister who was enamored with me. It didn’t seem to bother her that she was twenty years my junior. I was always polite to her and was secretly amused, remembering my crushes from when I was her age. It was cute and she’d move on to someone else in a few weeks.
Kevin had been helping me for about forty minutes, which was about thirty-five minutes longer than I’d expected with such a competition for his attention.
“I got the dough spread out for the pies and the bacon is ready for the stuffed sausage. Would it be okay if I hung out with your puppies?”
I smiled. He was entering the age where he was too cool to ‘play’ with puppies, but ‘hang out’ was perfectly acceptable.
“Yeah, as long as they’re awake. Just wash your hands before and after. And they’re not my puppies. What do your folks think about dogs?”
His eyes grew large. “Can I bring one over to show them?”
There had to be rules about how old a puppy has to be before they can be adopted out, and I had no idea how old the ones in the box were, but I had a feeling that one of them would be earmarked by the end of the day.
“Why don’t you see which one you like best and your folks can see them when everyone comes over for food?”
“Okay!”
He played with the pups while I rolled out the raw sausage, inserted the cheese, peppers, minced potatoes and hard boiled eggs, rolled it up, sprinkled on a sweet rub, wrapped the bacon around it and threw it on the smoker. In a couple of hours I’d add a glaze of half BBQ sauce and half maple syrup.
The pies were lined up and I layered in the potatoes, carrots, spicy pulled chicken and the rest of the ingredients before covering them with more dough. I’d have to fire up the grill to bake them, but that wouldn’t present a problem. Putting them in a hotel pan with water coming halfway up the pie pan would keep the bottoms from burning.
There was a mix of St. Louis and babybacks, so I’d have to stagger the time they came off the smoker. After I trimmed them and Kevin rubbed them, they went on the smoker. We temped the pork shoulders and briskets and everything was on schedule. I’d pull them around noon, wrap them in butcher paper and throw them in a cooler for a few hours.
“Kevin, grab the hot gloves and pull out the fattie.”
“Which one is that?”
“The rolled sausage thing with the eggs and potatoes.”
We had three of them. He put them on a cutting board and used that to carry them in the house. One of them was for us and a second was for whoever stopped by in the morning.
I turned to my sous. “You know Mr. Phillips?”
“Sure.”
“Wrap that third one in foil and bring it down to him, okay? If he says anything, tell him I said we were going to have to toss it if he can’t take it and we have too much.”
“But… There’s lots of people coming for the block party. Probably, like, hundreds.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe not that many. You know Mrs. Phillips passed away?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And they have three kids, right? They’re all going to be getting up soon and he’s still dealing with everything. The problem is, he’s sort of a proud guy. He’s not going to take anything directly from me, but if you bring it over, well, that’s different. He won’t want to be rude to you and you can blame anything on me. Tell him I’m a prick and you don’t want to upset me by bringing it back.”
Kevin seemed thoughtful. “Got it.”
I began getting the chicken ready. If it was a competition, chicken prep would take hours. I wasn’t getting scored on appearance, so I was just doing a quick trim, rubbing and throwing it on. Whole chickens were spatchcocked and I considered injecting them, but couldn’t be bothered.
The puppies tipped over the box and began running everywhere on my porch. I got them more water and some of the chicken from the pot pies before it was seasoned. That shut them up. When she wasn’t corralling the pups, the mother stayed as close to me as possible.
Kevin was back by the time I was returning from putting the chicken on. I was drenched; he just took off his windbreaker, which had a hood, and let it dry in the corner.
“Everything go okay?”
“Yeah, he wanted to give me money, but I didn’t take it.”
“Good man. I’m going to close my eyes for an hour or so. Keep an eye on the dogs and check the smoker temp in about half an hour, okay? And eat anything you want that’s already cooked.”
Puppies and food. What more could a teenage boy want? I thought back to Andrea and when I was Kevin’s age and remembered what else he would want. Well, I could provide two of the three. The girl was up to him.
Eventually waking up, yawning and stretching, I ran out to the shed and grabbed two more 120-quart coolers. The beans went into one, along with the various sausages. The other was going to be used for the big meats after they were vented. The bacon-wrapped meatloaf went on and I kept it on the hotspot.
I explained to Kevin how we were going to bake on the 26” Weber kettle.
“Like, regular baking?”
“We gotta be a little more careful, but pretty much.”
“That’s pretty cool. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My wife. She handled desserts when we entered competitions that required them.”
“Where’s she?”
I had no idea. If she was here now she’d be laughing her ass off as I cooked for a bunch of strangers. I could almost hear her. For free, Kenny? Really? These people are nobody to us.
“Not really sure. We’re divorced.”
“So, she’s your ex-wife?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Ex.”
“Is the charcoal in the shed?”
“Yeah. Let’s leave it there for a while.”
Once the divorce was finalized, I became a manwhore for a while. If someone was willing to date me, we were out there as soon as she was available. My requirements were that she had a pulse and was willing. I quickly realized that I was trying to bury memories of Ellie in a cheap bacchanalia, but didn’t really care.
That lasted about eighteen months before I was disgusted with myself. I felt like I had wasted every minute since the divorce leading a sybaritic lifestyle, so I switched things up 180 degrees. Now I stayed at home, minded my own business and read. I had my big-ass shed filled with cooking equipment, my smoker, my grills, my house and my solitude. It worked.
The dog kept nudging her pups back towards the cardboard box. They were a mix of polar opposites. They were either rolling, nipping, yelping and eating or they were exhausted and sleeping.
The pork shoulders and briskets came off the smoker. Kevin had lengths of pink butcher paper arrayed on the table. I showed him how to wrap the first three and he did the rest. When they got down to about 150° internal temp, they went into the cooler with a bunch of old towels I had for that purpose.
Hour by hour the rain lessened. The college kids came back to lend a hand.
“Hey, didn’t know you had the little guy here. Enjoy the… uh, stuff, later.”
Smiling, I nodded. “Jim, your dad has that moving company, right? You good with hauling stuff out to the front of the house and setting up? I’ve got six folding tables in the shed.”
“You got it.”
Kevin grabbed some lump charcoal from the shed and he prepped the grill while I got the charcoal chimney started.
People began stopping by, checking on timing and seeing what they could do to help. We had six houses on my side of the street designated as block party destinations. People dragged out chairs, some folks had tents and I coordinated with people about dessert. We had a few communal tables where people brought out cookies and fruit.
By mid-afternoon we were packed. People were having a great time, and Kevin was showing off all the food he’d helped with. When I found some time between slicing brisket, pulling pork, saucing chicken and slipping food to the dogs, I sat on a folding chair on my front lawn and watched everyone.
Mrs. Ortega came over with another beer.
“This turned out pretty well.”
I took a swallow. “Yeah. Not bad.”
“You okay?”
“Sure. I like it here. People stay out of my business. They don’t bother me. I don’t know them and they don't know me, but everyone is polite. This place is a hell of a lot better than home.”
She was silent for a minute, so I continued.
“The kids love the puppies. Any idea who the dog belongs to?”
“Kenny, you are so full of ****. I’m almost glad my daughter never married you. I wouldn’t want my grandchildren to be idiots.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
“Nope. Don’t think that I will. What do you think is going on here? This is your little hermitage and the rare visitors you see nod from the distance as you go about your meditations? Everyone knows you and you know everyone. They all just think you’re shy. Kevin and his family, those college kids you got working for you, Mr. Milton, even Barbara, that pain in the ass. How many times have you brought food over to the Phillips or shoveled Mrs. Cleary’s driveway?”
“That’s—”
“I wasn’t done. Did you know that Andy checks on your house when you’re at those BBQ competitions all weekend? When Cathy walks her baby, she checks your mailbox and leaves anything on your stoop. Those flowers that appear by your door in pots? They’re from your neighbor’s backyards. I’m sorry to break it to you, Kenny, but you are home. This is it.”
I sat there, shocked. She was right. Slowly but surely, as every day had passed, this had become more my home instead of a place I’d retreated to in order to lick my wounds. She clicked my bottle with hers.
“Welcome, neighbor.”
We sat there for a while in companionable silence. She leaned over and pushed my shoulder when an attractive brunette walked up to the box with the puppies. It kept tipping over and they used it to sleep in when their mother wasn’t regulating their horsing around.
The brunette pushed some hair out of her eyes. “These are Penny’s puppies?”
A smile on my face, I got up and walked over.
“You know the dog?”
She squatted down and began scratching the dog behind her ears. “I sure do. This cutie is Penny. She went missing when the McNiffs moved. They were heading to a retirement community and were trying to find her a home. She darted out one day and was gone.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three months? A little more?”
“Wow. Poor dog. I think she’s been living in the woods since then.” She stood up and I reached out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ken. Can I get you something to drink?”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t remember me?”
I flushed and felt like an idiot. “Uh, sorry. No.”
“Hannah? Andrea’s cousin? Shy kid who hung around the two of you when you visited your grandparents? Any of this ringing a bell? You were just talking to my aunt.”
“Hannah! You… Damn, you… I mean…”
“Yeah, I grew up.”
Yeah, you sure did.”
“So, you back for good?”
“I… I think I might be.”
“I live about five minutes from here. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’d be great. Hannah. Little Hannah. ****.”
“Things change, Ken.”
“They sure do.”
When she left Mrs. Ortega was still by my seat. “You know, when you left at the end of every summer, my daughter was a wreck. You know who was worse? My niece. Hannah had the biggest crush on you.”
“I had no idea.”
“She’s over there at the table with the brisket.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe she’d like to see the smoker.”
I turned to her with a grin. “Maybe.”
Getting up again, I ran my fingers through my hair and walked over to the table.
The ground was still damp and there were puddles in a few places, but the sun was out and lighting up the sky. I thought back to last night and the previous few years. Things were going to be okay. It was just some rain.
