Heat

Chapter 16

As Jesse walked up the front steps of the house he was struck by a scent from his past, an aroma of small-town Georgia, of the inadequate kitchens of parsonages in the mountains, of his mother making do and doing wonderfully. Somebody was frying chicken.

As he opened the door Carey ran out of the kitchen toward him. “Mama says you get your bath right now,” the little girl said. “Supper’s in half an hour.”

Jesse trudged up the stairs, trying to deal with the emotions that the smell of fried chicken were causing to well up in him. He shaved, then soaked in the tub for fifteen minutes, then got dressed and went downstairs. The table was set, and Jenny’s back was to him; she was dishing something up from the stove.

“Hey there,” she said, turning toward him. “That’s perfect timing; have a seat.”

Jesse held a chair for Carey, who beamed up at him as she sat down, then he took a seat. Jenny set a platter of chicken before him, next to a bowl of green beans and another of corn, plus a plate of biscuits.

“You being a Southerner, I thought I’d whip up something Southern,” she said, placing an open bottle of beer and a glass on the table, then opening one for herself.

“I started smelling the chicken about halfway home,” Jesse said, spearing himself some white meat. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I had some.” He wasn’t lying; the last time was before Beth had gotten sick. Two years? Three? They hadn’t served fried chicken in prison.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said, watching him tear into the food.

“The beans and corn are what my mother used to make. The biscuits, too.”

“I’m a good guesser, then.”

“You certainly are.”

The three of them consumed their dinner, and when they had finished, Jenny produced a hot peach cobbler from the oven, and Jesse thought he had died and gone to heaven. It was different from wishing he had.

“About last night,” Jenny said when they were comfortable in the living room. Carey was doing the dishes.

“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Jesse said, and he hoped she didn’t believe him.

“Fred and I have been out a few times. There’s nothing there — not for me, anyway; he’s just okay, no more. We met some other people at the Legion Hall for a dance, and I had a lot to drink, mostly because I wasn’t where I wanted to be, which was with you.”

Jesse flushed, and it felt wonderful.

“I was hungover, I guess, and I overslept. I’m sorry I wasn’t up to get your breakfast.”

“It’s okay,” he said, patting her knee.

“I told Fred Patrick last night that I wasn’t available anymore,” she said. “Maybe you think that’s rushing things, but it was the way I felt. Still do.”

“I’m glad you told him that,” Jesse said, and I’m glad you feel that way.

She reached over and kissed him lightly. “Carey’ll be in bed in half an hour,” she said. “I’ll come to you.”

As he climbed the stairs to his room Jesse was overcome with the feeling that he was now Jesse Barron, not Warden; that he had become the man he pretended to be. Reality was no longer the Atlanta pen and Kip Fuller and Dan Barker. Reality was St. Clair Wood Products and Jenny Weatherby and her little girl and fried chicken on the table. By the time he had crawled into bed the past was receding from him at the speed of light, and when Jenny opened his door and climbed into bed with him and pressed her naked body against his, he sloughed off the broken man called Jesse Warden like a dirty shirt.