MR. SANTANA SAT UP front with Amy while my dad scrunched into the back seat with me. The car had so little leg room his knees were up around his ears, but he kept saying it wasn’t a problem—just like I kept saying it wouldn’t be a problem to walk to Great-Aunt Esther’s old age home. My dad and Amy were too afraid the cold would do me in, or my legs would give out beneath me.
“I think the retirement residence has a barbeque,” Amy said. “Isn’t that right, Jonathan? I thought I spotted one on the patio out back. It obviously doesn’t see much use in the wintertime.”
Before my dad could answer, Mr. Santana said, “I can do more than just barbeque. I been cooking all my life. My first memory is sitting at the kitchen table watching my ma get dinner ready. She’d always give me this or that to d
