“You want to stop somebody, that’s what you use,” he cheerfully went on, for bowling and ammunition were two of his favorite subjects. “Real destructive, in other words. Like the way we bowl.”
“I see,” she said.
She picked up a ladle and felt more at home as she began to fill the Tupperware container while Marino shook a cigarette Out of his pack.
“I can never do those damn lids,” he said, as he watched her. “You ask me, they don’t fit right.”
“You have to burp it,” said Mrs. Simpson with a sudden rush of confidence. “Just like that.” She showed him. “Men are too impatient. That’s the problem. Not to mention, it’s worth your while to be worthless in the kitchen.”
Marino noticed for the first time that Jimmy’s mother had smooth skin and bright hazel eyes. Her hair was a deep chestnut and shaggy around her shoulders, the way he liked it.
“You got a first name?” he asked.
“Abby.”
“I’m Pete. You want to walk with me to the guard booth?”
“That would be nice,” she said.
“Your coat warm enough?”
“As warm as it’s ever been.”
“You can wear my gloves.”
He pulled leather gloves lined with rabbit fur out of his pocket. Abby Simpson could have fit both her hands in one of them. Suddenly, she started laughing.
“You must’ve been a Boy Scout,” she said, feeling giddy.
“Nope,” he said, “a juvenile delinquent.”
“Silvertips!” She laughed hardei her eyes tearing up.
They walked out the door into the snow Steam from the container of hot stew and smoke from Marino’s cigarette dispersed into the dark, sharp air.
“Your kid’s pretty cool,” Marino confessed to her.
“You think I should have left him there?” she asked, as they made their way past grand, silent houses with windows lit up. “I don’t want him to be a pest.”
“Too late for that,” Marino told her.
Jimmy had never been inside a kitchen like Scarpetta’s, although he had seen pictures of similar ones in the magazines his mother bought at the grocery store. When Scarpetta opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of oven-strength Reynolds Wrap, he was suddenly afraid. He didn’t know what to say to her. She was very smart and important. He could tell.
“Here’s what we have to do,” she began, as she tied an apron around his waist. “Nov don’t be a tough guy and get nervous, all right? Some of the best cooks are men, and they wear aprons, and there’s not a thing wrong with that.”
Jimmy stared down at the stiff black apron wrapped around him. It hung below his knees and had a colorful crest on it.
“My special apron,” she added. “I don’t let just anybody wear it.”
“How is it special?” He was glad Marino couldn’t see him right now
“It has my crest on it.” She opened the oven door, and a wave of heat and the aroma of baking bread made Jimmy feel warm and happy.
“What’s a crest?” he asked.
“Hmmm.” She tried to think of a good analogy as she used potholders to lift the pan out of the oven and set it on the stove. “Sort of like the symbols you see for Nike, Speedo, the Atlanta Braves, the Redskins. Something that stands for a person, a team, a brand-whatever.”
“What do you want me to do with the tinfoil?” asked Jimmy.
“We’re going to wrap the bread in foil to keep it warm until Marino and your mom get back.”
“They sure are taking a long time,” he said.
Scarpetta tapped the sides of the bread pan with the handle of a knife. “That’s to loosen it. Now I turn it over like this, and there we are.
The bread was golden brown and perfectly shaped. Jimmy tore off a long sheet of foil, his nails ragged and dirty and chewed to the quick. When he saw her looking, he quickly shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and felt his cheeks heat up.
“I’m assuming you’ve been to the doctor and the dentist,” she said, as she set the bread on the foil.
“Yes, ma’am. They give shots.”