The Joyce Maynard Collection by Joyce Maynard

numbers plastered across his chest, where the one in our kitchen had tucked a dishrag into his waistband and wore a potholder.
    Eggs would really hit the spot with these biscuits, he said.
    We don’t go in much around here for perishable groceries, I told him. Our diet mostly featured canned goods and frozen foods.
    You’ve got enough room in back for chickens, he said. Three or four nice little Rhode Island Reds, you could fry yourself up a plate of eggs every morning. A fresh-laid egg is a whole other thing from what you get in those cardboard boxes from the store. Golden yolks. Stand right up off the plate like a pair of tits on a Las Vegas showgirl. Companionable little buggers too, chickens.
    He grew up on a farm, he said. He could set us up. Show me the ropes. I shot a look at the newspaper while he was talking, but I thought if I looked too interested in the story of Frank’s escape and the search now on to find him, it might hurt his feelings.
    Where’s my mom? I asked him. For just a second there, it occurred to me to be worried. Frank hadn’t seemed like the type to do anything bad to us, but now a picture flashed through my brain of her in the basement, chained to the oil burner, maybe, with a silk scarf over her mouth instead of wrapped softly around her wrists. In the trunk of our car. In the river.
    She needed her sleep, he said. We stayed up real late, talking. But it might be nice if you took her this. Does she like coffee in bed?
    How would I know? The question had never come up.
    Or maybe we’ll just let her catch a few extra winks, he said.
    He was taking the biscuits out of the oven now, laying them on a plate, with a cloth napkin on top to keep them warm. Here’s a tip for you, Henry, he said. Never slice a biscuit with a knife. You want to pull them apart, so you get all the textures. What you’re aiming for is peaks and valleys. Picture a freshly rototilled garden, where the soil is a little uneven. More places for the butter to soak in.
    We don’t usually keep butter around, I said. We use margarine.
    Now that’s what I call a crime, Frank said.
    He poured himself a cup of coffee. The newspaper was sitting right there, but neither of us reached for it.
    I don’t blame you for wondering, he told me. Any sensible person would. All I want to tell you is, there’s more to this story than you’ll see in that paper there.
    I had no answer to that one, so I poured myself a glass of orange juice.
    You got any plans for the big weekend? he asked. Cookouts, ball games, and whatnot? Looks like it’s going to be a scorcher. Good time to head to the beach.
    Nothing special, I said. My dad takes me out for dinner Saturdays, that’s about it.
    What’s his story anyway? Frank asked. How does a fellow let a woman like your mother get away?
    He got together with his secretary, I said. Even at thirteen, I was aware of the sound of the words as I spoke them, the awful ordinariness of them. It was like admitting you wet your pants, or shoplifted. Not even an interesting story. Just a pathetic one.
    No offense intended here, son. But if that’s the case, good riddance. A person like that doesn’t deserve a woman like her.
    I T HAD BEEN A LONG TIME since I’d seen my mother looking the way she did when she came into the room that morning. Her hair, that she usually pulled back in a rubber band, was hanging down on her shoulders, and it seemed fluffier than normal, as if she’d slept on a cloud. She had on a blouse I didn’t think she’d ever worn before—white, with little flowers all over it, the top button left open. Not so much revealed that she looked cheap—I was still thinking about that line he’d uttered, about the Las Vegas showgirl—but friendly, inviting. She had put on earrings, and lipstick, and when she got closer I could tell she was wearing perfume. Just the faintest whiff of something lemony.
    He asked her