Hutch

7

Hutch

My mom still lives in the same house I grew up in. It's in a neighborhood that's seen better days. There are no gangs here, but the houses are just this side of run down. Our small home isn't as shabby as the ones around it simply because over the summer, I'd wrangled all the guys to help me paint it. I'd also repaired the front porch steps and fixed the busted plumbing in the bathroom. I wasn't kidding when I said I cleared a lot of money from scholarships. Mom never wanted me to spend it on her, but I had the funds to make the repairs so I did. I caught her at work and we had the entire house painted by the time she got back. The front porch was just me, but I did a decent job. I'm not a carpenter by any means, but nailing a few boards isn't rocket science. The framework was already there.

The small, two bedroom house sits between two that look identical to it sans the new paint job. The front porch has two large salt bags sitting beside the door, which I pick up and take inside. Theft is an issue, especially when the people around can't afford everything they need. I don't want Mom to need this one morning and not have it. She broke her arm last year when she slipped on the icy driveway because someone had taken the last of her ice. Not that she'd say a word. She always told me growing up if someone needed something bad enough to steal it, then they could have it.

Part of my goal in making the NHL is to buy my mom a better house. She wouldn't like fancy or big, but something in a nicer neighborhood where I don't constantly worry about her would be exactly what we booth need. She's done everything humanly possible to make sure my hockey dreams came true. There were many a night we had ramen noodles so I could afford to go to hockey camps. The least I can do is make sure she's taken care of going forward. And if I don't make the NHL? I'll still make sure she has a house before I do."Yo, Mom, where are you?" I call as I kick off my shoes. "Bedroom," comes her muffled reply. I take the two bags of salt and put them in the hall closet before wondering into the kitchen. It smells delicious. Not sure what she's got cooking, but I've worked up an appetite.

When Mom comes in, she looks tired. Her dark brown hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail and she's got on sweats and a faded t-shirt with my old high school logo on it. She's in her early forties and today she actually looks it. Normally Mom has on makeup and her hair done up even if she's in sweats. She must really be exhausted if she didn't bother with any of that today.

"Are you working double shifts again?" I do my best to keep the accusation out of my tone, but her eyes narrow.

"Jonathan Wayne Hutchinson, don't you take that tone with me."

I bite my lip to keep from snarking, but its hard.

"You look tired."

She shrugs. "I am tired, but such is life. How's school?"

"Changing the subject doesn't mean I'll forget about you promising not to work so many doubles."

"Honey, I am not your responsibility. You worry about you and I'll worry about me."

Stubborn. What is it with all the stubborn women in my life all of a sudden? First Daisy and now Mom.

"What's for dinner?" Might as well just change the subject and sneak it back in later. Smells like she worked hard fixing whatever she's cooking. I don't want to ruin our supper with an old argument.

"Honey glazed salmon and baked root vegetables."

"Honey?" My nose curls slightly. Who would put honey on a fish

?"What do I always say?"

"Try it before you declare its disgusting.

"She nods and pulls the tray of vegetables out of the oven. "It's healthy and it'll taste good. The small amount of honey I used for the glaze won't disrupt your diet."