All Adults Here(43)

A timer dinged, and Birdie perked up. She’d been mixing a salad dressing—tahini and yogurt, Astrid’s new favorite. “Roasty toasty!” Birdie said, as she swung open the oven door and slid out a baking sheet of caramelized butternut squash and red onions. Astrid watched as Birdie shook off her oven mitt and began making plates for the three of them.

There had been other moments when Astrid had considered telling her children about Birdie. Porter, at least. Last Christmas, and on her last two birthdays. But then Birdie went to her sister’s for the holiday, and her children never showed up at the same time for her birthday, if they showed up at all, and so really Astrid would have been telling Birdie about Birdie and of course she already knew. It had never felt necessary, and Birdie had told Astrid over and over again that it was entirely up to her what she told her family and friends. They were happy together, that was what mattered. Astrid sometimes thought that if she had liked Birdie half as much, she would have told people twice as fast.

“It’s so nice to cook for more than one person,” Birdie said.

“It’s so nice to be fed,” Astrid said.

“It’s so nice that you guys forget that pizza was invented.” Cecelia put down the book. “I’m just kidding.” Her parents were usually vegetarians, and Cecelia was used to mushroom and tempeh feasts.

Birdie handed the full plates to Astrid, who walked them the few feet to the table. Astrid sat in the chair opposite Cecelia’s bench seat, leaving the chair next to her open.

“So, what’s school like, Cecelia? Find anyone else you like yet?” This was an ongoing conversation. Birdie hadn’t been around a teenager since she was one and was genuinely curious. Astrid wanted to explain that teenagers didn’t talk, not really, but it was sweet to watch her try.

“It’s okay. My English teacher is okay.” Birdie and Astrid shared a look.

“Anyone under the age of twenty-five?” Birdie asked.

“She might be under twenty-five, she might be fifty, how am I supposed to know? She’s a teacher. And August.”

“Other than August?” Astrid asked. Girls needed girlfriends for a million reasons: because they carried tampons, because they liked to talk on the phone, because they always wanted to talk about how you were feeling. Nicky had always liked to talk about his feelings, too, but he’d been a unicorn.

“Nope.”

“I was thinking,” Astrid said, changing the subject, “about going to see the bus driver.”

“The new one? She’s super weird. Like, very nervous.” Cecelia picked up a fork and dragged some roasted squash through Birdie’s thick, delicious dressing, which Astrid had glopped on top.

“No, the old one. He’s in jail, awaiting trial. My friend who works at the county clerk’s office told me.” Astrid looked for the pepper grinder, her fingers waggling over the table like a star-nosed mole sniffing out a meal.

Birdie and Cecelia made eye contact with each other and then both turned to Astrid.

“Why on earth,” Birdie said.

“That is crazy,” Cecelia said.

“I’m just curious! I think he may have had a motive. Not that he was looking for Barbara specifically, necessarily, but that he was looking for someone. I think he wanted to feel that power. It’s always white men, you know, nine times out of ten. It’s white men who turn to violence against their families, against strangers, against the world.” Astrid forked some dinner into her mouth.

“Sure, yes,” Birdie said. “But what does that have to do with anything? You’re not Miss Marple! Are you out for vigilante justice? He’s already in jail, Astrid. He did it. Everyone saw it. It’s not a mystery.

“What would you even say?” Birdie offered Cecelia some salad, and then Cecelia poured them all full glasses of water.

“I would ask him why! I would ask him how he was feeling. Clearly there are mental health issues there.” Astrid popped back up. “Napkins!”

“Gammy, I really think that’s a weird and bad idea. If it’s that important to you, I will make more friends,” Cecelia said, taking a cloth napkin from her grandmother.

“I agree with Cecelia,” Birdie said. “He went crazy. Or he was just on drugs! He’s not going to do it again. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a hit job on Barbara. I know it’s not fair, but that doesn’t mean there’s some secret reason behind it.” She put her hand on Astrid’s shoulder. “Really.”

“It was just an idea! I think I just want something to fix. I had the worst lunch with Elliot,” Astrid said. She winced at Cecelia. “I shouldn’t say that in front of you.”

“It’s okay,” Cecelia said. “He’s not my dad. You can say bad things about uncles. I’m going to babysit for the twins, Wendy asked me.”

“What does your father say about me, Cecelia?” Astrid asked.

Cecelia looked at her expectantly, her fork hovering in the air two inches in front of her face. Birdie raised an eyebrow. “Astrid!”

“What do you mean?” Cecelia asked. The roasted onions were sweet, and she lowered them into her mouth like a sword swallower. “What does he say about you when?”

“I mean, if your mother were to ask your father if he’d spoken to me, what would he say? What expression would be on his face? I’m curious.”