Somewhere between the time Jack stopped sleeping under his bed every night and finally started speaking (the first year at his mother's was a blur of cautious fear), he'd somehow found himself helping Evelyn in the kitchen. "Jackie, do you want to help me make dinner?" she'd asked, in that soothing voice of hers, that, depending on the day, would either calm him or set him on right on edge.
Two houses before her, his foster mother had spoken with a voice like that - sweet and calm. Then he'd ask for something he wasn't entitled to, like a glass of soda, or a new toothbrush. Her tone would turn sharp and she'd let him know just what a useless, unwanted piece of shit he was, as he'd wind up locked in the closet for hours.
Evelyn hadn't done that yet, though.
So when he'd slunk into the kitchen looking for Bobby (he'd started staying close to the older boy since he'd stuck up for him after school a while back. Bobby was loud and violent and kind of terrifying, but, despite picking on him mercilessly when he first came to Evelyn's, Jack just had a feeling that if he needed help, Bobby would provide it), Evelyn asked him the question about dinner. Realizing Bobby was probably at hockey practice, he nodded slowly in agreement.
Dinner that night was simple, Evelyn was making spaghetti. His job was to butter and put garlic powder on the bread.
It wasn't long after that he'd find himself peering into the kitchen near dinner time. Every time Evelyn would spot him - not much got past her - and ask him if he'd like to help. He'd silently sit at the table and do whatever task she gave him, and soon he was making sides and helping with entrées, and eventually she even got him baking.
It made him feel useful, which put him at ease. So many people had called him useless in his eight years, that contributing something made him feel like he was less likely to become an unwanted burden. It also made him feel much closer to Evelyn, so much so that it didn't matter how old he got, whenever he was home, he'd help her in the kitchen. She talk to him constantly about everything and nothing, even before he'd talk back. His favorite times though, were when she'd put on the radio, and end up singing along to bands like Jefferson Airplane or Fleetwood Mac, using her favorite wooden stirring spoon as a mic, dancing around the kitchen and making him laugh uncontrollably. If he was sure his brothers weren't home, he'd sing with her. His mic was the spatula.
Looking back on it, she was the reason he loved music the way he did.
His brother's bickering in the other room brought him out of his thoughts, and he basted the turkey Jerry had picked up for Thanksgiving. Bobby had told him to get his little fairy ass into the kitchen, since, even though he had ragged on Jack for years about being "Mommy's little baker," and called him Sara Lee until well into his teen years, his oldest brother knew if they had any hope of having a dinner that was edible, Jack would need to be the one to cook it. He was doing a pretty damn good job, if he did say so himself, and he had a feeling his mom would be proud.
Still, it felt very wrong to be in the kitchen without her, and he had to swallow around a lump as he looked at the food. Then he cleared his throat and told his brother's to stop fucking around and come help him set the table.