Boots

Chapter 18: Three Ham Biscuits

Tomorrow came too soon.

It came too soon because the beds were really comfortable. After supper, after the long table and the strange faces and all those days on the bus, being able to lie all the way down for the first time in a week felt like a miracle.

We were so tired, we didn’t even notice all the bugs.

I didn’t, anyway. Maybe my brother did. I never really asked him.

Even after I pulled myself out of the covers, I was in no hurry to make my morning appearance at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone was nice enough the night before, but we were still getting to know each other, so we all had to pretend to be something. That meant I had to keep pretending too. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be, so everything felt like nothing was real.

Eventually, I dribbled all the way down the stairs and over to the kitchen table. I pooled up tightly in a chair.

“Don’t get comfortable at the table. I’m taking you boys with me right now. We’ll grab something on the way over to the peanut farm.”

My dad always said those two words together. Peanut farm. He said it like it had status. I never figured that out. I was glad he said you boys, though. Whenever he said you boys, it meant no Nettie Sue, no Glenn and Jennifer. It was just going to be me and my brother and him. Those were the best times. Those were the times he was our dad.

“There’s a place up here that has really good biscuits. They might could be the best biscuits in the world.”

One thing I will say about my dad. He was always happy. My Grandma Ruth was always happy too, but at the same time, you always knew she could be two seconds away from killing somebody. My dad, though, was excited about everything. Even stupid things. Like biscuits. They were never just biscuits. They were always the Greatest Biscuits, or the most Amazing Biscuits he’d ever tasted. I think he believed it too. At least, he always made you feel like he did. I believed it. I guess that’s all that matters now.

When we pulled into the parking lot I was a little surprised to find out we were having breakfast at a gas station. At least, that’s what it looked like from the outside. They had pumps and stuff.

Once we got inside, I figured out that the gas station part was on the left. On the right was a whole diner counter with some tables squeezed in there. Up against the wall was a grill that stretched so far it had room for three different cooks. They all had those long chef spatulas that they use to make the fancy omelettes.

The counter was so busy that some men were just standing between the taken stools, drinking coffee. Everybody was dressed like Mr. Jimmy. They looked like him too. Even the cooks had aprons on top of their overalls. There was a lot of chatter. Everyone was talking about everything.

“Mr. Jerry! What will you and your boys be having? Sausage or ham?”

My dad came to life when the oldest cook called out his name. My dad liked to be recognized. Even in Bladenboro.

“Three ham biscuits. We’ll take them to go. Thanks, Mr. Bridger. That should do us just fine.”

I couldn’t tell if my dad was talking like that to be funny or if that’s just how he talked now, but we got our bag of biscuits, shook some hands, and went back to the Cadillac.

“Hey, Dad… did you know all of those people in there?”

“It doesn’t matter who you know. It matters who knows you.”

That’s what my dad told me as we pulled out of the gas station and drove through the rest of the town. While we were passing by, I thought I saw a sign that said Britt Road. I remember feeling strange about it because even if Mr. Jimmy was that important around here, he sure wasn’t dead, and I thought you had to die before people started putting your name on things.

“How’s your biscuit?”

I’m not sure which one of us Dad was talking to when he called out, but I was still unwrapping mine from its silver paper, so I let my brother answer. He could be in charge of the small talk. He was the one in the front seat anyway. I quit looking out the window and started looking at my biscuit.

By the way, I knew what a biscuit was. I just wasn’t completely familiar. A biscuit wasn’t something I expected to have unless we picked up a bucket of chicken on the way home after school. I never had a biscuit for breakfast, which was weird because now I was starting to think that’s what they were made for. Up till now, the only thing I’d ever had on a biscuit was butter and maybe a little honey out of those tiny packets Colonel Sanders used to give us.

I took my first bite. It was a lot hotter than I expected, so I bounced the bite around in my mouth a little so I wouldn’t burn anything. When I looked at the cut-out my teeth had made in the crumbly sandwich, I could see the thick slice of ham sticking out. The way they cooked it made it bright red and candied-looking, like the barbecued pork you got next to the fried prawns when you ordered a number three at the Tea House. I took another bite.

And, you know what? That ham biscuit was actually incredible. The sweet and salty ham inside that buttery fluffy cloud demanded your attention once you started nibbling into it. These might actually be the best biscuits in the world. So, early one morning, after only two bites, I found something out.

The one thing my dad didn’t lie about was biscuits.

I looked back out the car window. We were driving through the middle of a field. We weren’t even on a real road anymore. Just dirt.

It seemed funny how fast things could change around here without you even noticing.