Page 38 of Coach
Shane Douglas didn’t hide because he had nothing to say.
He held back because there was too much.
Mrs. H’s house smelled like impending gastrointestinal regret.
Her kitchen was a battlefield of cast iron, questionable herbs, and the occasional puff of smoke that wasn’t sanctioned by the fire department. She’d already slapped my hand twice with a wooden spoon and muttered something about “soft-handed pretty boys” when I tried to help.
We’d been there less than ten minutes.
“I call this one Caledonian stew,” she announced, plopping a bubbling cauldron onto a cork mat. “It’s named after the Scots who survived by eating boiled shoe leather and their feelings.”
Mike leaned in and whispered, “Translation:whatever was in the fridge plus two full sticks of butter.”
Elliot made a sound like he just remembered to draft his will.
I took the spot next to him while Mike grabbed the other end of the table, because no one wanted to sit in front of Mrs. H while she doled out portions like a wartime lunch lady with no regard for personal safety.
Homer, Mike’s spastic pup, heaved a sigh and slid down next to Elliot’s boot. I looked down to find him staring at Elliot’s leg, a faint whine escaping his lips. After a moment, his head drifted to land on Elliot’s foot. His eyes closed and breathing steadied.
“Don’t you dare give him any of this,” Elliot muttered, smiling down at the sleeping terrier.
“I love that you think Homer would eat it,” I whispered back. “Dogs are smarter than people. They can sense poison.”
Mrs. H clanged a ladle against the pot. “If I hear one more whisper about my food, you can go outside and gnaw on the lawn like proper beasts!”
We snapped to attention like schoolboys.
Once we had plates piled with whatever Frankenstein stew she’d invented, she filled our mugs with something that might have been ale but smelled of cough syrup.
Mike, while poking at his mystery brew with a fork as though it might leap out of the bowl and attack, broke the silence. “I swear, if one more freshman wanders into my classroom wearing Crocs and the will to die, I’m filing for retirement.”
“You’re twenty-nine,” I said, digging into something that might have been lamb, or possibly squirrel. “What would you even do in retirement? Yell at clouds?”
Mike gestured with his fork. “I’d yell at Crocs. We should start a campaign, save the youth.”
“We already started an LGBT support group,” I countered.
“Maybe you need a Croc Recovery Group for the fashion blind?” Elliot added, though from the look of his work boots, he was the last man in the room to offer anyone fashion advice.
“I had a kid wear light-up Skechers to my third period,” I offered. “He did a little dance move every time he answered a question. I think it was involuntary. Like a tic. Or possession. The other kids lost their minds at the blinky bling . . . and they’re juniors, not third graders!”
“Better than the one I had in study hall,” Mike said, sipping his ale. “He told me the mitochondria was a government conspiracy and tried to fistfight a biology textbook.”
“Uh, Mike, you teach literature and English,” I said.
“Exactly!” He speared the air with his fork, as if any of that had just made sense.
Mrs. H clattered in from the kitchen, brandishing a gravy boat that had seen some shit—or contained some shit; the jury was still out. “Oh, let the poor boys dream. If a mitochondria paid rent, I’d let it live in my basement and do my laundry.”
“Please tell me you know what a mitochondria is,” I said.
“Cellular power source.” She winked. “I read, and I’m not dead. Yet.”
Mike snorted. “Her obituary is just going to say, ‘Survived by thirty casserole dishes and the scorched earth she left behind.’”
Mrs. H slapped his shoulder with a dishtowel on her way past. “You’re damn right. Now shut up and eat my stew before it eats you first.”
“You say that like it’s not a genuine concern,” Elliot muttered.
