Free The Year We Left Home by Jean Thompson

salami-and-mustard sandwich, doubled up so he could get more of it into his mouth. He was a chunky kid, like his mom. Before Ray came out West, he never thought there was such a thing as a fat Indian.
    Once he’d finished the sandwich, Elton said, “I earned twenty bucks helping Craig clear out the back of the shop.”
    “Twenty, that’s good.” He and Elton got along OK, mostly because they stayed out of each other’s shit. He didn’t need a kid, and Elton didn’t need some fake dad telling him what to do all the time. “Couple more days like that, you’ll be pretty close to a camera.” Elton wanted a camera so he could take gritty black-and-white pictures of urban life.
    “It was just the one day.” Elton planted himself with his back against the door to the basement. “Where’s Mom?”
    “Sitting out back.” Ray could see her from the window. She had her feet up on the extra chair and her head back, like she’d been dropped from some great height. It was Friday night and she had a week’s worth of pissed off to get out of her system. “She’s kind of tired.”
    Deb was always tired. He and Elton always heard about it. Theycarried themselves with the jaunty indifference of men who are supported by women.
    He got the green beans working and set the table, using plates that matched, folding the cotton napkins around the silverware, placing the salt and pepper, butter, salad dressing, everything they needed. He wanted her to notice his making things nice for her.
    Elton had gone back to his bedroom. There were times he left and they didn’t see him for days. Seventeen years old and it was summer, what did you expect? He was a pretty good kid in spite of having what most people would consider a fucked-up start in life. Deb being so young and all when she had him. Sometimes if felt like she was both of their mothers.
    Ray sliced the tomatoes, put a little salt on them to juice them up, arranged the bakery rolls on a plate, and set the ham steaks in the skillet. He cracked another beer and tested the green beans with a fork. People always acted like cooking was this big hard thing.
    The kitchen table was a lot smaller with all three of them there. You had to keep your elbows pulled in. Elton got the mayonnaise out of the fridge, split two of the rolls, and piled them with ham and tomato to make a sandwich. There was nothing the kid wouldn’t eat if he could put bread around it. Deb was on a diet where you were supposed to eat everything slow, so as to give yourself time to fill up. She put her knife and fork down between each bite. He didn’t think her weight was such a big deal. He thought she got close to pretty when she smiled.
    “Those beans turn out OK?” he asked her. “I pass the bean test?”
    “They’re good. It’s all real good.” She’d perked up some since getting home, though not to the point you’d call jolly.
    “Glad you like it, honeybun.” Always in the back of his mind—except sometimes it migrated to the front—was the need to make an extra effort, keep her from thinking she was better off without him. Then where would he be? Right smart nowhere, as his grandma used to say.
    Small, ripping, popping noises reached them from somewhere outside. Firecrackers. Everybody warming up for the big, hairy BicentennialFourth. “Hey,” he said. “Who wants to go to the parade tomorrow?” He chuckled, a joke.
    “Big whoop,” said Elton. The ham was gone; he was making a sandwich out of mayonnaise and tomato.
    “What, you don’t like parades?” This was just to give him shit. Elton was into Red Power. Elton made one of his faces, the one expressing loathing.
    “We could build a float. Something historical, like Custer’s Last Stand.”
    Deb said, “I keep telling you, you’re not a naturally funny person.”
    “No, I’ve had to work really hard at it.” Sometimes he could start her laughing, pry her loose from her mood.
    Not tonight. She motioned that he should give her a