toward the bird. After some elaborately missed attempts, he dropped the cloth over the bird’s head, threw his arm around it, then looked at Emmie. Now what? he seemed to ask.
She pointed at the window in her own bedroom. He should let the bird out.
Tate nodded as though that was the wisest thing he’d ever heard. With one hand, he slid up a screenless window, lifted the bird, and tried to pull his shirt off its head. But to Tate’s shock, the terrified creature leaped back inside. As Tate attempted to wrestle it into going in the right direction, its long tail slapped him in the face. His very genuine coughing fit made Emmie fall over in laughter.
When the chaos finally settled, Tate was sitting on the floor, the bird was on the roof of the front porch, and Tate’s shirt was hanging by a button from the gutter.
Emmie howled in laughter.
Tate tried to get up, pretended to stumble, but when he reached the level of the window, there was the bird, its beak about three inches from his nose. The creature gave its loud, hideous scream right into Tate’s face.
Genuinely startled, Tate fell backward onto the floor, and the bird ran to the edge of the roof and fluttered down.
A bit dazed, Tate got off the floor, closed the window, and dramatically wiped the sweat off his brow. A survey of the room showed that it was a mess. Emmie motioned for him to clean it up.
Tate gave an exaggerated, silent groan. He lifted his hands in a way to indicate that he was a man. He did
not
clean rooms.
Emmie shook her finger at him. He had to!
With a sigh, Tate straightened the bed, used tissues to wipe bird droppings away, and put things back on the dresser. The pajamas he remembered so well were on the floor.
He stepped back as though they were poison.
Emmie motioned for him to pick them up.
Tate, his face serious, shook his head no. He pointed to them, then made a motion of cutting his own throat. If he touched those PJs, the woman who owned them would murder him.
Emmie tried to get her uncle to put the pajamas away, but no matter what she suggested, he wouldn’t do it.
As Tate went downstairs, he made motions that he was a hero—but then his stomach growled so loudly that Emmie heard it over the music. He rolled his eyes, showing that he was dizzy with hunger. In the kitchen, he looked at the pies on the side counter with true longing, then back at his niece, his eyes pleading.
She gave in and nodded. Yes, he had earned a slice of pie.
But Tate didn’t get a plate and a knife and cut himself a piece. He propped the phone up on the counter, then picked up a big cooking spoon. Grabbing the pie with the flower-like crust, he scooped out the entire center with the spoon. He ate with such gusto that he got dark-red juice all over the lower half of his face, pieces of berry lodging in his stubble.
As he chewed, he showed his ecstasy over the flavor with his eyes and smiles. He dropped down onto a stool and ate, enjoying every bite. Juice ran down his chin; berries fell onto his T-shirt. As he scratched his ear, he got pie filling in his hair. When there was only a shell left, he used both hands to break it apart and eat it, all while using his eyes to show how delicious it was.
Emmie was laughing very hard.
“What the hell are you doing?” came a woman’s angry voice. The damaged screen door slammed behind her.
Nina sat straight up in the tub, and Emmie yelled, “No!” Tate slipped his phone into the pocket of his T-shirt, camera pointed out, as he stood to face the woman in whose house he’d just trespassed. Miss Pajamas Lady. The woman who hated him. And right now she looked so angry he was almost afraid of her.
“Look what you did!” Casey said. “You ate an entire
pie
! The whole thing. Or did you just tear it up for the sport of it?”
Tate stepped away from her. “Ate it,” he said.
“Oh, really? From the look of you, you took a bath in it.”
Tate put his hand to his hair and pulled out a couple of
She pointed at the window in her own bedroom. He should let the bird out.
Tate nodded as though that was the wisest thing he’d ever heard. With one hand, he slid up a screenless window, lifted the bird, and tried to pull his shirt off its head. But to Tate’s shock, the terrified creature leaped back inside. As Tate attempted to wrestle it into going in the right direction, its long tail slapped him in the face. His very genuine coughing fit made Emmie fall over in laughter.
When the chaos finally settled, Tate was sitting on the floor, the bird was on the roof of the front porch, and Tate’s shirt was hanging by a button from the gutter.
Emmie howled in laughter.
Tate tried to get up, pretended to stumble, but when he reached the level of the window, there was the bird, its beak about three inches from his nose. The creature gave its loud, hideous scream right into Tate’s face.
Genuinely startled, Tate fell backward onto the floor, and the bird ran to the edge of the roof and fluttered down.
A bit dazed, Tate got off the floor, closed the window, and dramatically wiped the sweat off his brow. A survey of the room showed that it was a mess. Emmie motioned for him to clean it up.
Tate gave an exaggerated, silent groan. He lifted his hands in a way to indicate that he was a man. He did
not
clean rooms.
Emmie shook her finger at him. He had to!
With a sigh, Tate straightened the bed, used tissues to wipe bird droppings away, and put things back on the dresser. The pajamas he remembered so well were on the floor.
He stepped back as though they were poison.
Emmie motioned for him to pick them up.
Tate, his face serious, shook his head no. He pointed to them, then made a motion of cutting his own throat. If he touched those PJs, the woman who owned them would murder him.
Emmie tried to get her uncle to put the pajamas away, but no matter what she suggested, he wouldn’t do it.
As Tate went downstairs, he made motions that he was a hero—but then his stomach growled so loudly that Emmie heard it over the music. He rolled his eyes, showing that he was dizzy with hunger. In the kitchen, he looked at the pies on the side counter with true longing, then back at his niece, his eyes pleading.
She gave in and nodded. Yes, he had earned a slice of pie.
But Tate didn’t get a plate and a knife and cut himself a piece. He propped the phone up on the counter, then picked up a big cooking spoon. Grabbing the pie with the flower-like crust, he scooped out the entire center with the spoon. He ate with such gusto that he got dark-red juice all over the lower half of his face, pieces of berry lodging in his stubble.
As he chewed, he showed his ecstasy over the flavor with his eyes and smiles. He dropped down onto a stool and ate, enjoying every bite. Juice ran down his chin; berries fell onto his T-shirt. As he scratched his ear, he got pie filling in his hair. When there was only a shell left, he used both hands to break it apart and eat it, all while using his eyes to show how delicious it was.
Emmie was laughing very hard.
“What the hell are you doing?” came a woman’s angry voice. The damaged screen door slammed behind her.
Nina sat straight up in the tub, and Emmie yelled, “No!” Tate slipped his phone into the pocket of his T-shirt, camera pointed out, as he stood to face the woman in whose house he’d just trespassed. Miss Pajamas Lady. The woman who hated him. And right now she looked so angry he was almost afraid of her.
“Look what you did!” Casey said. “You ate an entire
pie
! The whole thing. Or did you just tear it up for the sport of it?”
Tate stepped away from her. “Ate it,” he said.
“Oh, really? From the look of you, you took a bath in it.”
Tate put his hand to his hair and pulled out a couple of
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