As I park across the street in front of the large Victorian house with a wrap-around porch, I see Micky open the front door.
āCome on in,ā he yells to me, still across the street. He also says something about the baby being asleep and the door having a tendency to slam.
By the time I get to the door, a large white lab is looking at me through the screen. I walk cautiously inside, making sure to ease the door closed behind me. Hardwoods. High ceilings. Early 20th century. I follow the sound of voices through a den, a dining room, to the kitchen. I followed Mickyās voice, but I find Heather leaning over the stove top. Mickyās voice still echoes against the wood throughout the house. Itās become a sound to me, but Heather understands it. Years of practice has left them comfortable communicating with each other using the echoes of this house.
When Micky returns to the kitchen, heās worked up a sweat. He rolls the sleeves up on his button-down, he takes his sweater vest off, and in doing so he transforms himself from the man who owns Minton and Sons Tax Service to the kid I knew in high school. Itās not long until Iām reminded he is both of those people.
When I feel a shock on my butt, I turn to five-year-old Copeland running away from me with a wooden spoon. I try to take his picture, but he wonāt let me. He makes a game of hiding from my camera.
I pour myself a beer from the growler Micky picked up at the liquor store. Stoneās Throw, we think, but it could be the other one he got. They arenāt labeled. Micky pours himself one and asks Heather if she wants a beer as she walks in from the dining room.
āYeah, is this mine?ā she asks, grabbing the one on the island Micky already poured for himself.
When the new one he pours comes out with too much head, Heather ribs him about the bad pour. Micky looks boyishly disappointed, then says, āYeah, that oneās yours,ā giving her the better-poured beer in what translates to me as an admirable display of marital affection.
Heather and Micky move around each other flawlessly in the kitchen, always working as a team. He washes dishes, she puts them up. He feeds Vice, she tends to Copeland. She moves the rotisserie, he mashes the potatoes. When some potatoes end up on the drawer handle, they both come together to try and get Vice to lick it off.
When the baby wakes up, Micky brings him into the kitchen and they take turns holding him as they continue working on dinner. They pass him off like a 20-pound baton. Micky makes room in the fridge for the two growlers weāre drinking from.
āBabe, what the hellā¦?ā He says playfully while pulling out a large bowl with no top. āChoate, you want some old tuna fish?ā
The top of the tuna is noticeably hardened. Heather laughs and says, āI was planning to eat that the next day.ā Micky puts it back on the top shelf of the fridge.
āWhy are you putting it back in there?!ā She says.
āThereās no reason to pull it out now,ā he says. But then he does pull it out and put it in the sink to wash later.
When dinner is ready, we sit down to chicken, mashed potatoes, corn casserole, and croissants. This is a pretty standard meal in this house, with the exception of the corn casserole, which has been added for my benefit. We sit around their glass-topped table, Beckhem sits in his high chair. Until he decides to stand.
āBuddy, you better sit down,ā Heather says. Beckhem doesnāt sit.
They tell me Copeland wants to do right, all the time. He wants to succeed in school, and he does. If they tell him to do something, he will. Beckhem is the opposite. If Heather and Micky tell him to not hit his head on the table, he will absolutely hit his head on the table until it welts. Itās clear they love them both in their different ways.
In looking at whatās on the table and what is in their kitchen, itās also clear they believe in eating organic foods, and they support local commerce. They order their meat once a month from Falling Sky Farm. They speak with conviction about the benefits of giving back to the community in which they live, in which they are raising their two children. Not long ago, I ran into Micky at the Arkansas Cornbread Festival where he was volunteering. When I saw him, he was changing out a trash bag with a smile on his face. The time I saw him before that, he invited me to a fundraiser he was organizing for a cause I canāt remember. What I do remember was how sincere he was about raising money for something good. Just like heās sincere now as we talk at his familyās table about how important it is to give kids a chance in life, despite the terrible situations parents sometimes put them in. He doesnāt want to talk about helping, he doesnāt want to get credit for putting on a successful fundraiser, he genuinely wants to help.
After dinner, Copeland and I play a game in the den. He sets balls in the chairāa couple of blue ones, some yellow ones, and red ones.
āIf I pick up a blue one, you sling me onto the couch when I run by,ā he says. āIf itās a yellow one, then you go slow. And if itās red, umā¦umā¦if itās redā¦you donāt do anything.ā
As he steps back into the hallway to get a running start, Iām nervous about what Iām actually doing. I donāt quite understand the rules of the game. He charges down the hall on his bare feet. Iām standing with my feet spread wide, my knees bent, like an infielder, and just before he gets to me, he comes to a complete stop at the chair. I can tell heās searching for a blue ball. He picks it up, and then takes two steps toward me. I pick him up under his arms, my thumb covering the logo of his elementary school on his knit polo shirt. I drop him onto the couch like I do my nieces.
āI got the blue ball,ā he tells me. āThat was too slow.ā And then he tells me heās winning, Iām losing. I didnāt know we were facing off. The next time he grabs a blue ball from the chair I throw him across the room like a large pillow. He laughs, then declares he has earned another 25 points. When he grabs a red ball, he takes two steps toward me and then we just look at each other. He makes 15 points doing so.
Heather sits in the chair with Beckhem and laughs along with us. Micky prepares to head to the duck woods, and he stops to show me his shotgun. As we walk out of the house together, Copeland announces that heās somehow up 89 to zero in our game. I have lost the game, but I had good time playing.
Rotisserie Chicken recipe as sent from Micky via email:
Buy chicken, rip guts out, tie legs together, shove a pole up its ass, spin for 90 minutes.
No matter where you are, if you want to invite me to dinner, Iād love to come. In return, Iāll do my best to be a good conversationalist and document a small piece of your everyday life. Iām a fun dinner guest, people. Kids love me. Iāll give your pets a lot of attention. If you want to invite your weird uncle over for dinner, too, so heāll stop bugging you, nowās the time! Iāll talk to him so you donāt have to.
I live in Little Rock, Arkansas, but Iāll keep a list and when Iām traveling in your area, Iād love to meet you and your family/roommates/cat and enjoy a home-cooked meal. Email me at gchoate17 (at) outlook [dot] com with the subject line: Dinner at Our House.
