Free Jersey Angel by Beth Ann Bauman Page A

the car, head down in the wind. Cork pulls out his finger and sticks it in his mouth, giving it a quick suck. I climb into the backseat and smooth down my skirt. Inggy opens the front door and hops in.
    Sometimes a little peace and quiet is nice, but I kind of wish somebody was around. Mom’s having her nails done before her date and it’s just too quiet. In the House, I eat out of the fridge—a hunk of cheddar cheese, a handful of baby carrots, some cold mashed potatoes. I call Vic on a whim but it goes right to voice mail, and then I sit at the table all by my lonesome and suck on a cherry ice pop.
    In the Corner House, I run water in the tub and wash my hair and soak in the tub. Then, wrapped in towels, I take a nap. When I wake, it’s fully dark and I go back over to the House and eat some Wheat Thins with cream cheese and slices of pepperoni before getting the idea of visiting my dad.
    •   •   •
    Lily and Abby press their noses against the glass and jump up and down, yelling, “Angel!” Lily’s four and Abby’s nearly three and they each have high pigtails shooting out the sides of their heads like little fire hydrants.
    “Hello, monkeys,” I say to them.
    My dad ushers me into the kitchen. “Sit and eat something, honey.”
    “We’re doing cleanup,” Ginger says. “Leftovers.” She’s pear-shaped with frizzy hair she pulls back in a scrunchie, but she has a pretty smile when she smiles, which isn’t often.
    “No worries, I’m not hungry,” I lie. “I’ve been foraging in the fridge.”
    Ginger opens lids and sniffs things.
    “I’m having spaghetti,” Abby tells me.
    “And I’m having a pork chop.” Lily leaps across the linoleum.
    “Here’s some eggplant rotini,” Ginger says doubtfully. The gravy is hardened around the edges and laced with water droplets.
    “Really, I ate,” I say.
    “Foraging isn’t a meal,” Dad says. “I’ll make you some spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, and red pepper.” One of my favorites.
    “Darn, we only have enough spaghetti for Abby.” Ginger presses her hand to my arm. “Sorry. Saturday is cleanup day and Sunday is food shopping.”
    That’s my cue; I should go. I really should. “I’ll take a cookie or a Coke. Or nothing. Really. I’m easy.”
    “We don’t keep soda in the house anymore. Empty calories, you know.” Ginger comes up with a half-eaten box of animal crackers and a half glass of pomegranate juice to which she adds a splash of tap water. She hands it to me with a quick smile. Then as she heats up the assorted meals in the microwave she does squats. “I’m multitasking,” she tells me.
    I’m saved by Lily, who doesn’t want to eat sitting down. She wanders around the living room, nibbling on the greasy pork and giving karate chops to the couch and recliner. When Ginger gets a phone call, Lily and I wander off to her bedroom and sit at a little plastic table.
    “I missed you, Angel,” Lily says tipping her face up at me. “Would you like a lobster or fried egg?”
    “A lobster would be yummy.” She chucks the pork chop into the toy box, wiggles into a tutu, and serves me a plastic lobster on a plate. “Enjoy,” she says. Then she trots over with the tea service. “How many lumps?” She grabs a handful of plastic sugar cubes.
    “Three,” I say. She daintily drops them in my cup one at time, looking pleased.
    Ginger pokes her head into the room and watches us. “Where is the pork chop, young lady?”
    Lily’s eyes grow wide. “Angel ate it.”
    Ginger gives me the death glare. I’m not kidding, the death glare.
    “Hey, I’m enjoying a lobster.” I wave it in the air. “You might want to check the toy box.”
    She screws up her face and her head must momentarily shrivel too, because her scrunchie suddenly wilts to the side. She marches over to the box and flings the toys around and finally holds up the gnawed-on chop. “What is this?” she screams at Lily. “Is this what you do with your