Rosalie found one of Baba’s old shop rags in the back of a kitchen drawer.
She had been looking for batteries.
Instead she pulled out a square of faded cloth stained permanently black along one edge.
She rubbed it between her fingers.
Motor oil.
Metal.
Old soap.
The smell was mostly gone, but her brain supplied the rest.
And then she saw Nolan at fifteen with blood on his mouth.
By fifteen, I could tell Nolan was lying before he finished the first sentence.
He came through Mimi’s back door one February afternoon with blood drying at the corner of his mouth.
I was at the kitchen table with a geometry book open in front of me.
I looked up.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Lie.
His lower lip was split on the left side.
A bruise had started darkening beneath his jaw.
His right knuckles were scraped.
I pushed my chair back.
“Your face is bleeding.”
Nolan touched his mouth.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I fell.”
“On what?”
He walked toward the sink.
“The ground.”
“Did the ground punch you first?”
Nolan turned on the faucet.
Mimi stood at the stove chopping onions.
The knife stopped.
Only for a second.
Her eyes moved over Nolan’s face.
His hands.
His shoulders.
Then she went back to chopping.
“Wash,” she said.
“I am.”
“Better.”
“I’m doing it.”
“You miss thumb.”
Nolan washed his thumb.
I watched him.
“Who hit you?”
“Nobody.”
“Nolan.”
“Rosalie.”
“That doesn’t work.”
“What?”
“Saying my name instead of answering.”
“It bought me three seconds.”
Mimi turned.
“Nolan, you eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Mimi looked at him.
He dried his hands.
“What are we having?”
I almost smiled.
Later, when Nolan disappeared into the living room, I followed Mimi into the pantry.
“He’s lying.”
“I know.”
“So ask him.”
“No.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he is not ready.”
“He got hit.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re supposed to pretend he didn’t?”
Mimi shut the pantry door.
“We pretend nothing.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“We feed him. We let him stay. We do not make him afraid to come back.”
I crossed my arms.
“What if he never tells anybody?”
Mimi wiped her hands on a towel.
“Then when he needs somebody, he knows where door is.”
I hated that answer.
I wanted an action.
A phone number.
Some adult arriving to make everything stop.
Mimi understood something I didn’t.
Push Nolan hard enough and he disappeared.
That night he slept on the couch.
I stayed awake in the armchair across from him until nearly one.
The television played low.
Some terrible action movie.
Nolan watched without watching.
The split in his lip had opened again.
I threw the tissue box at him.
It hit his chest.
He looked down.
“Violent.”
“You’re bleeding.”
He pressed a tissue to his mouth.
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Who did it?”
His eyes stayed on the television.
I waited.
The guy onscreen crashed a motorcycle through a plate-glass window.
Nolan finally spoke.
“He was drunk.”
I didn’t need to ask who.
“Your dad?”
He nodded once.
“What happened?”
Nothing.
Then:
“He was yelling.”
“At you?”
“My mom.”
I tucked my feet under me.
“My brother came downstairs.”
His younger brother.
I pictured him on the stairs.
Half asleep.
“He went toward him,” Nolan said.
“Your dad?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
Nolan finally looked at me.
“What do you think?”
My stomach tightened.
“You got between them.”
He looked back at the television.
“There you go.”
“That’s why he hit you?”
“He swung.”
“He hit you.”
“I’m aware.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
His mouth twitched.
Then he winced.
“Ow.”
“Good.”
“Very supportive.”
I stared at him until the smile disappeared.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His gaze stayed ahead.
“What were you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t tell me.”
His jaw moved.
“I don’t want you looking at me different.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m pissed.”
“That’s different?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t feel sorry for you. I want to break something over his head.”
Nolan looked at me.
I meant it.
Apparently that made him laugh.
He stopped when his lip hurt.
“You’re terrifying.”
“You’re welcome.”
He put the tissue back to his mouth.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
The movie kept going.
The idiot onscreen stole a helicopter.
I hated the movie.
I stayed anyway.
After that, Nolan stayed at Mimi’s more.
Sometimes Mimi knew beforehand.
Sometimes I woke up and found him asleep on the couch.
Blanket over him.
Shoes lined neatly beside the door.
Mimi never made a big deal out of it.
Neither did Baba.
The workshop simply stayed unlocked.
Nolan could go there whenever he wanted.
He spent hours beside Baba.
Watches first.
Then radios.
Lawn equipment.
Cars whenever somebody trusted Baba enough to leave one in the driveway.
Nolan’s own grandfather had taught him plenty about cars before he died.
Nolan almost never talked about him afterward.
I knew enough by then not to push.
One Saturday I found Nolan halfway underneath an old lawn mower beside Baba’s workbench.
Only his boots stuck out.
“Are you dead?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
“Love you too.”
I stopped.
Nolan rolled out from under the mower.
Grease marked one cheek.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I looked away.
He had said it casually.
Probably no different than shut up.
Nolan sat up.
“You’re weird.”
“You’re covered in lawn mower.”
“That isn’t a substance.”
“Mimi wants you inside.”
“Why?”
“Pie.”
Nolan scrambled upright so fast he knocked his shoulder against the workbench.
I laughed.
“Idiot.”
“Why didn’t you start with pie?”
“Wash your hands.”
He wiped them on his jeans.
I recoiled.
“That made it worse.”
“Mimi won’t know.”
From the kitchen window came Mimi’s voice.
“Nolan! I see you!”
He froze.
I bent over laughing.
“You set me up.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You knew.”
Mimi yelled again.
“With soap!”
Nolan looked toward the house.
Then me.
“She has supernatural abilities.”
“Or a window.”
“Same thing.”
He went to the utility sink.
I watched him scrub grease from his fingers.
The house behind me smelled like baked apples.
Baba’s radio crackled through an old song.
Nolan looked completely different there than he did at home.
His shoulders weren’t bunched.
His jaw wasn’t clenched.
He didn’t listen every time a car came down the road.
At fifteen, I only understood the obvious part.
Nolan was happier at Mimi and Baba’s.
I didn’t understand how much of him had begun depending on that house staying exactly as it was.
Rosalie blinked.
The shop rag was still in her hand.
She folded it once.
Then again.
Instead of putting it back in the drawer, she carried it to the counter and left it there.
She wasn’t sure why.