SquidgeWorld Archive

Leaving 06

NanaKat

"Sit down for a minute and eat, would you?"

I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but I know he hears it, 'cause he kinda ducks his head and scurries back to the table. He swallows maybe two more bites and then he's up again, arms waving, hands moving as he's describing his latest theory on one of our current cases.

I sigh and give up. I've gotten him to eat about a third of his dinner, a fairly good amount for Sandburg when he's on a roll like this. Keeping him focused on just one thing, when it's a case or schoolwork or me, is never a challenge. But the more mundane things, like sleeping and eating -- those are a little harder.

In the time we've lived together, I've gotten him to sleep better, and more regularly, by the simple expedient of telling him it disturbs me if he's up past midnight. Even the tapping on his keyboard keeps me awake, and he's finally gotten into the habit of making sure everything gets done before the clock strikes twelve. Oh, sure, there are special occasions -- a term paper or something he's trying to publish comes due and he needs to push, or he's got an exam to draft or tests to grade, but overall, Sandburg tries to take care of me pretty well. And so, because he doesn't want to bother me, he sleeps.

Eating is still a challenge. He's not stick thin by any means, but he could stand to bulk up a bit more. He's slender but well-built and he could carry another fifteen, maybe twenty pounds without trouble. And I've been trying to put it on him, but believe me, it's no easy task. Those disgusting shakes are frequently all he'll have in the morning. Most of the time, if he's not with me, he skips lunch, and dinner is almost as hit or miss. So when I've got him -- I tend to try to push the food.

I pick up our plates and take them to the sink for cleanup. Behind me, he's still talking a mile a minute and while I know I should be listening, I'm content to just let the words wash over me. He'll get my attention when there's something I really need to hear. I pick up a breadstick and push it into his waving hand, and nod approvingly when he takes a bite between breaths. After the second bite, I turn back to the dishes.

By the time the kitchen is cleaned, the leftover food stored in the fridge, the dishes washed and put away, counters and table wiped and floor swept, he's settled on the couch with a stack of blue books in front of him. He's left the case file on my end of the sofa and there are several new sheets in it, sheets of notebook paper filled with his small but precise writing.

I smile. He told me all this, but he knows how I am, so he wrote it down for me, too. I look up and see him writing something with a red pen. He nibbles on his lower lip for a second, then plunges on, his comments occupying the entire left margin. Sandburg does nothing halfway.

I start reviewing the case, merging my partner's notes into the file, adding my own thoughts and speculations and making a list of things I want to do tomorrow. I look up and am startled to see it's almost nine o'clock. I look at Sandburg. He hasn't moved since dinner, nearly three hours ago. Putting the file on the coffee table, I get up and head for the kitchen. I'm thinking as I go -- what can I get him to eat? I settle on making tea and then I pull an apple from the bowl on the counter and slice it. I add some cheese and crackers and haul our impromptu snack back out to the living room. I know, I know -- I'm the one who said food belongs in the kitchen, but a few years with trying to feed Sandburg has made me a little less -- rigid -- on some things. With him, I need to put the food where he is. I already know that getting him to come to the food doesn't work.

I plop the snack plate on the couch between us and he murmurs, "Thanks, Jim," even as he picks up a piece of apple and munches. "No, no, no," he mumbles under his breath, and the red pen starts again. I smile when he snags a second slice of apple, tops it with cheese and pops it in his mouth. A second trip to the kitchen and I'm back with his tea. He looks up for a minute and studies me as if he's trying to figure out what I'm doing, but then he accepts the cup, drinks, and says, "Thanks again." Another tiny sip, then, " 's good," and he's back to the red pen.

I grunt in acknowledgement and go back to my file and my notes for another hour or so. Just before ten, I note that the plate is empty and I take it into the kitchen and do cleanup again and make him another cup of tea. At ten, I turn on the early news and watch in disgust as one story after another details the ugliness of my city. There's a thirty minute local show on the Jags on after the news and I watch that, then turn the TV off and nudge Sandburg with my foot.

"Hey."

"Hmmm?" he says, looking up. His eyes blink in confusion for a minute as he gets his bearings and then he smiles. God, I love his smile. It could light up a room.

"You hungry?" I ask.

He has that confused look on his face again, and then he says, "Didn't we just eat?"

I shake my head. "I didn't ask if we just ate, Sandburg. I asked if you were hungry."

He frowns for a moment and I think he must be listening to his stomach. "Maybe?" he says in an uncertain tone.

"I'll make you a piece of peanut butter toast while you finish up."

He nods and returns to scratching in the blue book he's holding.

"It's twenty of twelve," I add and his writing speed almost doubles. Wonder if the student will be able to read his comments.

I make toast and pour a small glass of milk and set them on the table. "Time, Chief," I call, and I can hear him scrabbling with papers and then a plop as the pile lands on the coffee table. He wanders over to the table and sits, drinks half the milk in one swallow and then devours the toast.

"Thanks, Jim," he says but there's something else in his voice, so I just nod and wait. "Did I ever tell you about NanaKat?" He's got his glass in his hand and is turning it, watching as the milk moves round and round. "She used to feed me, too," he says in a very quiet voice.

I look down, blushing. Damn! I didn't think the kid would notice.

He's watching me now, and laughing. "What? You thought I wouldn't notice? You're always trying to feed me. My desk drawer at my office stays full of snacks -- all things I like -- but I never replace any of it. Your desk drawer is the same way. There's always something in there that I'll like if I get hungry. There are snacks in the truck, in my car, hell -- there's even usually something in my backpack if I dig for it. I even found a meal pass for the cafeteria in my wallet a few months ago." He looks at me again and I try to look innocent but I think he's on to me. "Oddly enough, the fact that it's already paid for tends to make me not want to waste it and I've been eating lunch more than I usually do."

I can't help it. It makes me smile. I can't stand the thought of him being hungry. But this was all supposed to be a covert op, so I am not going to talk about it, acknowledge it, or admit I have anything to do with it. To deflect his attention, I ask, "Who's NanaKat?"

"I'm gonna make a cup of tea," he says as he rises and carries his plate to the sink. I watch him turn water on to heat and then rinse his plate while he waits. When the water is hot, he offers me a cup, which I decline, then makes his own and returns to the table.

"Do we need to sit on the couch, Chief?" I ask. It's become our place for these little trips down memory lane.

He chews his lip. "No. Well. Maybe ..."

I nod and wait for him to rise, then follow him back and take my place at one end. He's a little slow to join me. He carries the blue books into his room, then repacks his backpack. I see him pull out the small can of nuts, the bag of trail mix, and the package of crackers and lay them on the bed. He loads everything back in and adds the snacks last. His shoes are already off, but he skins out of his jeans and slips on sweats.

He's getting comfortable.

I wonder if I should go change as well. I glance up the stairs to my bedroom, but he's coming back out now and I don't want to make him wait. He heads for the bathroom and I change my mind and scoot upstairs. Out of my pants and into sweats as well and I'm back on the couch before he comes out. He detours by the kitchen to get his tea and finally, joins me on the couch.

"She was a good memory," he says as he sits beside me and sips his tea. "I think she loved me."

We're sitting side by side, but he's not really touching me. We're both leaning back against the back of the couch, and I have one arm on the armrest, the other in my lap. Blair has his tea cradled in both hands, but his feet are still on the floor. I'm thinking this NanaKat must be a good memory like he says since there is none of the fearscent he wore the other night -- just a sense of sadness that sort of envelops him.

I drape my arm along the back of the couch, just in case he needs it and he kinda looks at me from underneath his eyelashes then returns to studying his mug.

"Who was she?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. I think she may have been Don's mother, but I really don't remember. The first time I stayed with her was when we lived with Don."

"So you were -- four?" 1973. The year of Don as I think of it now.

"Maybe. I think I turned four at NanaKat's. I remember a cake and ..." He furrows his brow. "Presents for me, maybe?"

I can't stand it. I have to touch him. My arm drops down and wraps around him and he immediately leans into me. What kid doesn't remember his birthday? I answer my own question. A kid who didn't get to celebrate very many.

"What made you think of her?" I ask as he pulls his legs up and curls against me.

"You feeding me."

Huh? I wait, trying for patience.

"One of the big things I remember from when I was little, was always being hungry. It was like I never got enough food."

I tense and my hand on the armrest fists unconsciously, but he's patting my chest and speaking again.

"And before you get all bent out of shape, no one was trying to starve me, big guy, okay? I just ..."

He pauses and I can see him struggling to find the words again and I am overcome with rage at his mother. She is the only one who can take his words from him -- stealing them with his memories of when he was little. When he should have been safe. When he should have been warm and dry and loved and most of all -- well fed.

" ... would get distracted," he finally finishes. "I mean, Naomi would fix a meal and I'd eat a couple of bites but then I'd get involved in something and that would be the end of eating."

"Didn't you have to clean your plate, Chief?" I can't help but ask.

"Nah," he says. "That would have been too -- structured for Naomi."

"No starving children in Africa?" I tease gently.

"Well, actually, yeah, I did hear about that."

He flushes and looks acutely uncomfortable and then I realize he's feeling guilty. Feeling guilty for all the food he didn't eat while kids in Africa were starving. I scrub at my face, sorry I said anything. He's a damned emotional minefield and I keep stepping in the wrong place.

"Eating all your spinach wouldn't have saved a child in Africa, Chief," I say quietly.

"No, I know that, man. And when I got older, I learned to just take really small portions -- less waste that way. And we kept a money box on the table -- for the UN's World Food Programme."

"Bet you used to trick or treat for UNICEF."

He nods earnestly. "Oh, yeah, man, wherever we were. It was sooo cool. There was even this one time, I think I was like fourteen or something and this girl I liked, her church youth group used to collect food when they went Christmas caroling. I went with them one year. That was a cool concept -- sing a song, collect a can." He looks up at me. "Helped replenish the local food bank's pantry."

"So," I say, "you would get distracted?" Imagine that -- Sandburg drifting off topic. I can't help but grin.

"Oh, uh, yeah. I just never really ate a whole lot at one time."

"But you do a pretty good job of eating all the time, when there's food around," I note with satisfaction.

"Yeah -- that's what NanaKat said, too." He smiles as he says the name. "Naomi -- well, she just never wanted to force me to do anything, and that included eating. And the other people I stayed with, most of them just didn't have time or didn't care how much I ate. If I didn't eat at mealtimes, well, that was it."

I bite my tongue to keep from offering to make him something. Apparently when it comes to Sandburg, there's more than a little Jewish mother in me.

"But I can remember NanaKat. I was really little when I went there. She was soft and she smelled good. She had long hair and she used to let me play with it." He gives me that sideways look again and adds in an undertone, "Don called me a baby fag one time when I was combing Naomi's hair. Then they had another fight."

I close my eyes and work on breathing. I am definitely going to find out this Don's last name -- even if I have to run Naomi to ground and drag it out of her.

"But NanaKat was so cool. I was never hungry when I was there. I think she must have made like seven or eight meals a day, and if I didn't finish something at the table, she'd
kinda follow me around and feed it to me."

He blushes and looks away. "I was too old for that, I know. I should have been feeding myself. And if I didn't eat, I deserved to go hungry."

Well, I recognize Don's party line in that all right. I'm willing to bet, Blair got used to eating at NanaKat's and when he went back to his mother and Don, if he dared ask for something when he got hungry, that was the line he got.

"Sometimes, I'd be hungry, but I just got tired of eating, you know?"

I shake my head. I don't know. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he purses his lips as he thinks, then says, "take spaghetti. Spaghetti is really messy. And Don would get mad at me if I made a mess. So, I'd be hungry, but it was such hard work to eat and not make a mess, I'd end up giving up after a few bites. I'd just be too tired, you know?"

I rub my eyes again. Yeah, I know now. Don is dead. Don must die. I will find Don and he will regret that he ever knew my Blair.

Sandburg seems to have missed my internal vow though, 'cause he's smiling. "But I got to eat all the spaghetti I wanted at NanaKat's. When I'd get tired of eating, she'd feed me, even though I was too old to be fed. And she made lots of finger foods, so I didn't have to worry about being messy. She used to make these, like, popsicles out of applesauce. Man, I thought those were the best treats in the world."

"Sounds like she was a really good person, Chief," I say, swallowing hard.

"Oh, yeah. When I was at her house, I could keep Bear out, and he could sleep with me. And she used to rock me to sleep at night, even though I was too big for rocking."

He was four. My mother still rocked me up until the day she left. And I used to rock Stevie after she was gone. I think it comforted us both.

I pull him close and rub his arm and he sighs in contentment.

"When I was at NanaKat's, if I had a bad dream, I could always go and get in her bed. She kept a light on in the hall so I wouldn't be scared, and she kept the bathroom light on all night -- just in case. But if I wet the bed, that was okay, too. She didn't get mad."

He looks up at me, suddenly concerned. "Uh, Jim," he says with a slight stutter, "I-I didn't wet the bed a lot or anything."

"You were a kid, Chief, little more than a baby. And you were away from your mom. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

He nods, relieved. "Yeah. That's what NanaKat said. She'd just change my pajamas and change my sheets and then tuck me back in. Or if I was upset, I could sleep with her."

He leans into me again, and I feel his head droop. I rescue the almost empty mug of tea from his suddenly lax fingers and set it on the end table. He's nodding off now. Having said what he wanted to say, the adrenaline has run its course and left him exhausted. He mumbles something against my chest and I miss it.

"What was that, Chief?" I ask as I pull the afghan down and wrap it around him.

"I felt safe with her."

"Good." I don't know what else to say.

"I stayed with her seven times. The last time was when I was nine. The time after that, when Naomi was leaving, I asked to go back to NanaKat, but Naomi told me she had died. She died and I didn't even know ..."

He starts to cry. It's weird -- I have this sudden longing for a rocking chair. Though how I would fit me and sixty-eight inches of anthropologist in a rocking chair, I have no idea. I settle for holding him tight and making these little rocking in place motions and rubbing his back and whispering nonsense in his ear.

"She died and I didn't get to say good-bye or tell her I loved her ..."

"She knew, Chief, she knew." Blair Sandburg was too free with his emotions for this woman to not have known how important she was in his life.

"I never felt completely safe again," he says with a little cough-hiccup.

I grab a tissue from the box on the end table and pass it to him. "Blow," I order, and he does. Several times. I feed him tissues until he's through and then he snuggles up against me and I hold him close.

"I'm sorry, Blair," I say softly, "I'm sorry you lost her, but I'm so glad she was there when she was."

"I feel safe again now," he mumbles against my side, and I can tell he is drifting off to sleep. Another night on the couch for me and I find I don't even mind.

"I'm glad," I say, and I rub his head.

"And, Jim?" He looks up at me through one sleepy, half-open eye. "I'm not hungry anymore."