Free Good Bones by Kim Fielding

than Dylan had expected. Apparently his neighbor confined his beer can structures to the outdoors. There was a huge plasma TV, but there was also a bookshelf stuffed with well-read paperbacks: spy novels and mysteries mostly, but also quite a few by authors like Jack London, Kurt Vonnegut, Mark Twain, and William Faulkner. Chris caught him staring at the books and grinned. “Bet you thought I was illiterate too.”
    Dylan couldn’t help but smile back. “Maybe more of a comic book type.”
    “ Watchmen ,” Chris said, pointing. “And Sandman .”
    Dylan trailed behind Chris into a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been changed in decades. Between the table and chairs, the fridge, and an old-fashioned rolltop desk, there was barely room to move. But it was clean and smelled of paprika and bay leaves.
    “Have a seat,” Chris said, gesturing in the general direction of the chairs. “I know you ain’t a vegetarian, but you’re not gonna insist on organic, free-range, fair trade slow food, are you?”
    “Meat. I could really go for some meat.”
    Chris laughed. He yanked things out of cupboards and the fridge, banged a few pans, and within a short time handed over a plate heaped with food.
    “Pasta?” Dylan asked.
    “Noodles. Noodles and sausage and… and eat up while it’s hot.”
    Dylan scooped a forkful into his mouth. “Oh my God.” It wasn’t just that he was hungry—this stuff was really, really good.
    Chris looked pleased and sat down to eat some as well. “I been cookin’ for myself since I was a little kid. I’m good at it.”
    “Your mom wasn’t much of a chef?”
    “My mom wasn’t around all that much. Booze, drugs, men. I learned to look after myself.” Chris’s voice was very matter-of-fact, and he was looking down at his plate. Then he got up abruptly and went to the fridge, finding a pair of Budweisers. He tossed one to Dylan, who caught it neatly and popped it open. Chris sat back down.
    “That’s why you spent time here with your grandfather?”
    “Yeah. Sometimes she’d dump me off. Child Protective Services brought me twice. I hitched a few times. Gramps didn’t really know what to do with me, but at least he didn’t—” He stopped, made a sour face, and ate some more noodles.
    “That’s when you saw the old man in my house.”
    Chris seemed relieved at the change of topic. He leaned back a little in his seat and took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Gramps’s brother.”
    “What was with the staring through the window? That’s kind of creepy.”
    “Your fairy real estate agent didn’t tell you the whole story?”
    “No.”
    “Uncle Frank went off to Korea, and while he was there Gramps knocked up Frank’s girlfriend. By the time he got back they were married. I guess Frank couldn’t forgive him for that. They never spoke to each other again, but they still lived next to each other.” He gave a proud smile. “We’re kinda known for being stubborn, us Nocks.”
    “Congratulations.”
    Chris gave a courtly, seated sort of bow, then stood and refilled Dylan’s plate. Dylan dug right in.
    “I don’t know what was goin’ through the old man’s head when he was spyin’ like that. Maybe he just wanted to get a glimpse of Marylee—that was Gram—but he kept on looking even after she was dead. I was four. Maybe he was just glad to see Gramps as miserable as he was. You know, first Marylee buried, then his asshole son takes off, and his daughter-in-law’s a druggie and a whore.” He shrugged. “And Gramps gets stuck with me. He wasn’t a happy man.”
    Dylan imagined a young version of Chris, left with a bitter old man in a shitty little house in the middle of nowhere. “Sorry,” he said.
    Chris’s eyes flashed angrily. “Wasn’t looking for sympathy, dude.”
    There was a pretty awkward silence after that. Dylan polished off his second plate of food, and Chris finished his first. Chris seemed to have gotten over his momentary irritation because he laughed