Page 32 of Two-Step
I blink. “So you’re not exaggerating.”
He gives a slow shake of his head.
I should feel dread. I should feel irritated. But I don’t. Instead, I sort of feel sorry for her.
“And she has to be ready for a dance segment fora movie?”
He switches to a slow nod.
“Damn.”
“Yep. And just wait until you meet that manager of hers.”
* * *
I givemy last two finals on Wednesday and bring them with me to Camellia Court. I tell Mom about Uncle David’s arm—and the surgery he’s scheduled to have Friday morning—even though I doubt she’ll remember. She’s upset and worries over him for a few minutes, but then she asks me about Rebecca and is surprised and saddened to hear—again—that we broke up.
After we eat lunch and take our usual walk, I grade one set of exams while Mom watchesWest Side Story.It doesn’t make sense for me to go all the way back to the tiny house in St. Martinville when I’ll have to return to the studio for ballroom lessons at four and Iris’s session at six, so when Mom lies down for her afternoon nap, I head straight to the studio.
I findNoncat his kitchen table, looking about as cheerful as a grizzly bear. He grunts when he sees me.
I nod toward his arm. “How’s it feeling?”
“About like a broken bone.”
I scan the kitchen. Coffee’s on the warmer and the smell of it is like a sacred promise. Nonc’s nursing a cup and scowling at the entrails of the newspaper. Other than the coffee cup, there’s no sign of a dirty dish in the sink.
My uncle is tidy, but he’s not that tidy.
It’s just after two o’clock. “Had lunch?”
He grunts again, and I know this one meansno. Noncis left-handed, and the break is on his left side.
Damn.I should have thought of that last night. The old guy might need a little help.
“Mind if I make a sandwich?” I ask, moving toward the fridge.
He looks up from the paper and glares at me over his reading glasses. “You didn’t eat with your mom?”
I shrug. “It was cabbage rolls.”
This is true, and I ate them, butNonchates cabbage, so it’s a convenient excuse.
He wrinkles his nose. “Help yourself.”
I grab the loaf of Evangeline Maid bread and take mayo, mustard, and lettuce out of the fridge.
“Got some bacon in there if you want to fry it up,” he mutters.
I snag the unopened packet from the meat drawer. “Want a BLT?” I glance at him over my shoulder.
He purses his lips together but keeps his eyes on the newsprint. “Wouldn’t say no.”
I hide my smile as I take down a skillet from his pot rack and light the burner. “Anything good in there?” I ask, referring toNonc’spaper.
My uncle grunts. “They’re predicting another busy hurricane season.”
No surprise there. The warmer the planet gets, the warmer the oceans get, the more storms we get.
