by Cari Noga
“What about it?”
“I can’t walk on it.”
She looks down at the ground, then back at me.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t walk on it. I won’t. It’s—I, I, I just can’t.”
“Can’t walk on this? Grass?” She pulls up a handful, letting it fall from her fingers. She looks at me, questions all over her face.
“Fine. Don’t believe me. I’ll just stay here, then.” But it’s hot in here, and I’m thirsty, and I’m starting to have to go to the bathroom. I press my knees together under the cage and pull the hood off my head.
“Stay in the truck? Lucy, I’ve got hours of work ahead. Come on, now. Be reasonable.” She reaches for the door handle, with the same hand that picked the grass, then realizes I’ve locked it.
“Open the door, Lucy!” She rattles it.
“Uh-uh!” I scoot over more and huddle behind Lexie’s cage.
“I’ve got customers expecting strawberries this week. It’s going to rain later. I need some cooperation.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. Strawberries? Rain? Who cares?
“Go! I’m not stopping you. Just leave me alone.”
She flings her hands into the air. “I can’t let you just stay—” Her hands fall down, and suddenly she turns and stalks across the grass to the house. It takes her eight steps to get inside.
I breathe shakily. Lexie’s meowing again, and I pull off the drape over the cage so I can look at her instead of all the green. I’m not all alone, after all. And I’m safe locked in the car.
All of a sudden there’s a creak and whoosh of air. Aunt Jane’s back, a key in her hand.
“Ahhh! You scared me.” I grab for the door, but she’s standing in the opening, blocking me.
“What if I give you a piggyback ride inside?” Her voice is loud now, with the door open.
I start to shake my head.
“Just listen. You climb onto my back. I’ll carry you across the grass, over to the door. There’s a little concrete threshold, see?”
I look over her shoulder, at the tiny gray square in front of the door.
“I’ll put you down there.”
I really do have to go to the bathroom.
“You won’t trip? I won’t fall?”
She shakes her head.
“What about Lexie?”
“I’ll come back for her.”
I stare at the green gap between the car door and the house. It’s the only way.
“OK.”
Aunt Jane swings the door wide, then backs up into the open space. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”
I close my eyes so I don’t see the grass. It’s only eight steps. Lexie meows again.
“OK, now hold on to my shoulders,” she says. “I’ll walk on the count of three. One, two, three.”
She lifts me out of the truck. Daddy used to give me piggyback rides. I imagine he’s carrying me down Fifty-Sixth Street, to visit Mom at the studio. We’re both laughing. I can see the picture so clearly it feels like I can touch it.
“Ow. We’re here. Let go. That hurts.”
I open my eyes. There are fingernail marks where I gripped her arms, but we made it! We’re on the concrete square. Aunt Jane opens the door, breathing a little hard. I slide off her back, stepping onto the concrete, then through the door onto a black-and-white checked floor. A cat brushes my legs.
“You have a cat, too?”
“Meet Sarge. I guess I don’t have to worry that you’re allergic.”
“Do you think he’ll like having Lexie to play with?”
“Actually, I’m worried about that. Sarge is pretty used to ruling the roost.”
“He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?” He’s a lot bigger than Lexie.
“I hope not. Might as well find out. I’ll bring her in.”
“Wait, I have to go to the bathroom.”
The bathroom has pink and white square tiles, and the sink seems really low. At least nothing is green. When I come back out, Sarge is sitting on a blue couch, licking himself. Aunt Jane is waiting by the open kitchen door.
“Be right back,” she says.
When they come in, Lexie’s little nose is pushed against the cage bars, and she’s mewling like crazy. As soon as Sarge sees her, his tail swells and his back arches. He hisses. Lexie backs up to the farthest corner, hunkering down as small as she can. I grab the cage just as Sarge leaps at it.
“¡Gato malo! Bad kitty!” I stamp my foot. Sarge backs up, then hisses again. “We should have stayed in the truck.”
“Oh, dear God,” Aunt Jane says. “Take her upstairs. Your room’s up there.” She opens the door again and pushes Sarge outside with her foot. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
I run up the stairs and slam the door. Aunt Jane has a cat! A killer cat. The door falls open. I bang it again. It swings open. I lean back against it, my arms wrapped around Lexie’s cage.
I can’t believe it. She never said she had a cat!
Well, I have to keep Lexie safe. That’s first. I look around the tiny room. It has little half walls on the side and a sloping ceiling. Like an attic. There’s a little desk and a chair. I jam the chair under the doorknob. There, that will keep it shut. I survey the room. What else could hurt her?
The one window is open. It looks out over the porch roof. That big tree shades the yard and the porch. If Sarge is an outdoor cat, too, he can climb up there and crawl down the thick branch that practically makes a runway to the window. I slam the window shut.
I put Lexie’s cage on the bed and unlatch it. She’s still huddled in the back, next to an empty food dish, her nose twitching like crazy. That mean old cat has probably marked the whole house. Well, not this room. Not anymore.
“It’s OK, Lexie. Come here, kitty. You’re safe now.”
There’s a knock on the door. Aunt Jane tries to open it, but the chair stops her. “Lucy? What’s going on now?” She rattles the doorknob.
I move the chair, and the door falls open. She stands there looking uncertain.
“So you found your room.”
I nod.
“Are you hungry?”
I shake my head, then remember Lexie’s empty bowl. “But Lexie probably is.”
“You can give her some of Sarge’s food. It’s in the mudroom, where we came in.”
Well, that’s one good thing about him being here. I follow her downstairs where she shows me the cat food, then clears her throat.
“I guess you probably don’t want to pick strawberries with me.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Have you always been, um, afraid of grass?”
I’m not afraid of grass, exactly. Just of stepping on it. But how can I explain that?
“Because no one told me that, and—”
“Go on. We’ll be fine inside.”
“Well . . .” She looks like she wants to go but thinks she should stay.
“I’m serious. We’ll be fine inside. As long as he’s not.” I nudge Sarge’s dish with my foot.
“OK. I’ll keep Sarge out there with me.” She puts on a weird hat. It looks like a baseball cap, with these two flaps hanging from the back, down past her shoulders. “I’ll check on you in a bit, then.”
I scoop Lexie’s bowl full, almost finishing off the bag. So there. I let her use his litter box, too. After she eats we go back upstairs. It feels kind of like a tree house. It is getting hot with the window shut, so I turn on the ceiling fan while Lexie sniffs in all the corners. It doesn’t take long. There’s a twin bed. At home I had a queen. The half walls are paneled and white, and the slanty walls and ceiling are painted a light blue. The front wall with the window and the back wall are covered with flowered wallpaper. I put my iPad on the desk and open the drawers of the tall white dresser. All empty, ready for my clothes. I’ll put the mirror next to that. There’s not much room for the papasan chair now, but if I move the desk—
Wait. Where’s my stuff? The fu
rniture, my fuzzy pink rug, the five boxes from the closet. Aunt Jane said the crate got here. Where did she say it was? The—uh-oh.
I go back into the hall, to the window that overlooks the driveway. The barn is beyond the truck. In between is more green. Three, maybe four times as much as the eight steps to the house. The tears come hot, like the rest of the upstairs. Through them, blurry, I can see Aunt Jane’s hat moving around in another giant green rectangle.
Lexie meows, rubbing against my ankle. I snatch her up and crumple onto the bed, my stomach crashing down to the basement again, and I can’t find the elevator button to make it stop.
Chapter 20
JANE
Does Lucy have a phobia? I’ve never heard of a fear of grass. Some city affliction? Or triggered by Gloria’s and Luis’s deaths? Why didn’t Langley or Deirdre mention it? Most of all, how is she going to cope here? Musing over the mystery slows me down. I’ve picked less than half the strawberries when Miguel’s truck swings into the driveway.
“Las fresas. My favorite,” he says.
“Try one.” I wave at the bucket. “What brings you by?”
He bites one off and tosses the stem. “Came to see if you could use any help.”
“Now?” I sit back on my heels. Rain’s held off so far, but the western sky is darkening. Haven’t heard a peep from Lucy.
“I’ve got someone new. Came up to work with his cousin, but cherries aren’t ready yet.”
I stand up and stretch out my back and gaze at the truck. Someone’s sitting in the passenger seat. My stomach rumbles. I skipped lunch to pick up Lucy. I should check on her, too.
“All right. Good timing. I want to finish up these before the rain hits.” I wave at the two remaining rows and the empty bucket.
“Juan!” Miguel yells at the truck, waving him over. They talk in Spanish, faster than I can follow. Juan turns to me, smiling one of those smiles so full of gratitude I feel guilty, knowing what I’ll pay him.
“Are you sticking around or coming back?” I ask Miguel.
“Stick around. Help him get started.”
“All right.” I step over the rows with the full bucket. “Just let me know when you’re done.”
Child and kitten have deserted the kitchen and entire downstairs. Leaving the berries next to the sink, I call upstairs. “Lucy? Everything OK? Lucy?”
No answer. Frowning, I climb up, ducking my head under the low ceiling where the old stairs make a ninety-degree turn. “Lucy?”
Her door is not quite shut. She’s asleep, earbuds on and phone by her side. The screen is dark, but I’d bet a bucket of strawberries she was playing that funeral slide show. So much for being past denial. Lexie’s curled up by her feet. The sweatshirt she was wearing is hanging on the chair. Though the room’s warm, an impulse compels me to drape it over her, resting my hand on her back as it rises and falls. She stirs, and I yank my hand back. Sleep is probably the best thing for her.
Back in the kitchen, I put the stopper in the drain and fill the sink to wash the berries, then open the cupboards, hoping there’s enough quart-size containers leftover from last week. This is really happening. A living, breathing child is under my roof. Not just a child, a girl. Una niña. My head spins with memories. A fierce blizzard. But not on Kodiak this time. Matt’s older, nine or ten, sleeping, and it’s here, on Old Mission, a snow day. I slipped into his room to turn off the alarm so he could sleep in, tucking the blue plaid bedspread over his shoulders, just like I did with Lucy’s sweatshirt.
“I need to get my stuff.”
Lucy’s voice startles me from the reverie, just as I’ve filled the last container. I peer over my shoulder at her, standing on the stairs, holding her cat.
“Ummm—your stuff?”
She nods.
What’s she talking about? “We brought in your suitcases.” Actually, I did.
“I mean from my crate. Out there.” She points toward the barn.
“Your crate? Oh, right!” I glance at the clock. After four already? Juan and Miguel will fill up the sink again any minute. Then there’s the rest of this week’s share to prepare, greens to pick, measure, wash. Then make dinner, including that shortcake. “Tomorrow, OK?”
“But I need it tonight!”
I try to put myself in her place, remembering how I felt in the cab in New York. This is another country to Lucy. Maybe another planet. A familiar pillow or chair might help a lot. And maybe if I opened the crate for her, it would be incentive to walk on the grass, in order to get her things back to the house. I should confront this fear or phobia or whatever it is head-on, not let it fester.
“OK. Walk out there with me, and we’ll bring it in,” I say.
“I can’t! I told you.” She’s near tears.
“Lucy—”
A knock on the door breaks our standoff. I wave Miguel and Juan in, their buckets transformed into red pyramids. A second before the door closes, Sarge bounds in behind and leaps at Lucy and Lexie.
“¡Gato malo!” Lucy shrieks again, backing away.
Miguel and Juan look stunned; by her Spanish or by Sarge, I’m not sure. Not another scene! “Lucy, take Lexie back upstairs. Miguel, get Sarge out of here. Juan, bring me those strawberries,” I snap.
They stand frozen for another moment, then move all at once. Miguel grabs a hissing Sarge in a fast, smooth motion and opens the door. Lucy disappears. Juan dumps the strawberries in the sink and exits, muttering something about more. A moment after the door closes behind him, Miguel returns.
“That’s one mad gato.” Long scratches line his arms.
“Sorry about that.”
Miguel shrugs. “His territory.”
“I’ve got bandages and rubbing alcohol. Down the hall.” I lead him to the bathroom.
“Is it safe?” Lucy calls.
“It’s safe,” I say wearily.
She pads downstairs, still holding Lexie, on her guard.
“Who were they?”
“Miguel and Juan.”
“They live here, too?”
I shake my head. “Miguel works for me now and then, around the farm. Today he brought Juan.”
“Hola,” Miguel says, emerging from the bathroom, smiling despite the scarlet scratch marks. “Is your gato OK?”
She looks down at Lexie and seems to relax. She nods.
“Sorry I let Sarge in. I didn’t expect another cat, or—”
“Not your fault,” I say. I haven’t told anyone but Matt about Lucy’s arrival, and I didn’t know about Lexie myself. “This is my niece, Lucy,” I say. “Lucy, this is Miguel Esquivale.”
“Con mucho gusto, Lucy. ¿Hablas español?”
Lucy nods.
“¿Cómo se llama tu gato?” He scratches between Lexie’s ears.
“Lexie,” Lucy says.
“Con mucho gusto, Lexie,” Miguel says, reaching out as if to shake a paw. I catch the tiniest smile from Lucy before she confronts me again.
“I need to get my stuff tonight.”
“Tomorrow, Lucy, I promise.”
“But I need it!” Now her lip trembles.
I set the consequence, I have to follow through.
“Can I help?” Miguel says.
“Yes!” Lucy’s face lights up. “I need my stuff from the crate in the barn.”
“Miguel, that’s kind of you to offer, but—”
“Let’s go take a look, then. ¿Vamos?” He steps toward the door and cocks his head toward Lucy.
Her face darkens. She takes a step back.
Miguel looks from her to me, his eyebrows lifted.
I give up. “I’ll walk you out to the barn.”
“Not without me!” Lucy wails.
“He’ll just check it out first. Make sure I’ve got the right tools to open it,” I tell her.
She hesitates. “You won’t open it without me?”
Miguel shakes his head. “On my sister’s honor.”
“OK.” Lucy sits down on the blue velvet couch,
Lexie in her lap. “I’ll wait.”
Outside, Juan is moving methodically along the strawberry row, nearly to the end. The risk of the rain seems to be past again.
“So you probably wonder what that’s all about.”
Miguel shrugs.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
He shakes his head. “Jane, you are a private person.”
He’s right, but the Lucy invasion has drained the energy required to keep my fences up. I suddenly feel so worn-out I can barely walk, let alone explain everything that’s happened since April and how I’m now the guardian of a child who apparently has a grass phobia, of all unheard of things. I’ve been up since five o’clock working, and there are at least four more hours before I can think of sitting down, let alone going to bed. Besides the strawberries there’s lettuce, rhubarb, and greens to wash and bag and snap peas to measure. And Lucy’s welcome shortcake to bake.
“Lucy’s afraid of grass,” I say abruptly. “That’s why she didn’t want to come outside.”
“Afraid?” We’re at the threshold to the barn door. Miguel squats to pick a handful of the grass that grows clumpy here. “Of this?”
“She wouldn’t get out of the truck this afternoon, when we got back from the airport. I had to carry her into the house piggyback.”
“Afraid of grass. Pero, ¿por qué?” He says it almost to himself.
“I don’t know why. The lawyer never mentioned it.”
“Lawyer?”
“My sister’s. Lucy’s mother’s. She and her husband died in April, in a car accident.”
“Dios mío.” Miguel shakes his head.
“She named me Lucy’s guardian. Lucy’s moved here to live with me.” The story spills out now. “This crate”—I elbow the side—“has all the worldly goods she brought with her from New York.”
“New York? New York City?” Miguel says, walking around the crate.
“That’s where I was this spring, when you fixed the driveway.”
“Dios mío,” he says again. “First no parents. Now no casa. I have a crowbar in my truck,” he says, heading back toward the house.
No casa. The magnitude of the two words settles heavily. Plain Jane’s is my world, especially since Jim left. I trot after him. “OK. What are you going to do?”
“Open the crate.”