“It’s because,” Oma leaned forward, “she’s a Dwyer. You can never trust a Dwyer.”
So if she’s a thief, why do you go with her? I wish I could have an actual conversation with you, like in the olden days.
The little bell over the door jingled upon Michael’s entrance. Maybe he was a Dwyer, too, since he rented the top apartment next door, and Muriel’s family owned the building.
I ducked my head, hoping he hadn’t seen us, but he strolled over with a swagger that made my heart flutter. I gnashed my teeth. He’s an arrogant idiot. I shouldn’t like him at all.
“Good morning,” he sang. “You must be our Kezy’s grandmother. I’m your neighbor, Michael.” He held out his hand to Oma.
She played with a loose thread on her sleeve.
He had to have met her before. Either he was reintroducing himself because of her dementia, or he poked fun at her over it.
“My name’s Keziah.” You imbecile.
“Sure, Kezy. Nice jewelry.” He grabbed my earring, a cameo with dangling silver chain.
I froze as his finger brushed against my throat. “Thanks.”
He stared at me with brows lifted, then turned to Oma. “Nice meeting you.” He walked toward the counter of baked goods in the back of the restaurant.
“Is that a friend of Jan’s?” Oma asked.
“He lives next door.”
“No he doesn’t. A lady lives next door. He must be a friend of Jan’s.”
“Sure.” The cameo suddenly felt heavy. The waitress arrived with our food dishes, and by the time she walked away, Michael had left.
“What’s this?” Oma snapped.
I stood up to look at Oma’s plate. “Eggs and toast. Why?”
“There are two eggs.”
“You asked for two eggs.”
“I never eat two eggs. I’m only eating one. Do you want me to be fat?”
The couple at the other table glared over Oma’s outburst. I stabbed my spoon into the whipped cream dotting the top of my hot chocolate. What foods do the Goat Children eat?
****
When Oma and I walked home from Ann’s, we found Michael washing his car in his driveway. The sight of him shirtless made my heart flutter, and I snapped my mouth shut when I realized I was gaping.
He dropped his scrub brush into a bucket of suds and turned around, his cheeks flushed with sunburn. “How was breakfast?”
“Michael wants to know how breakfast was,” I translated for my grandmother.
She stared ahead, her arm linked through mine.
I called over to him, “It was good.”
“Probably not as great as what you get in the city, huh?”
“What?” Oma squinted at me through her sunglasses.
“Michael says hi.” I pointed. “See. Michael, our neighbor.”
“Humph.” Oma kept walking, so I waved goodbye to him.
When he wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead, his muscles tensed. “Want me to help you clean your car?”
“Really?” I glanced at Oma’s Buick in our driveway.
“Sure. I don’t suppose you’ve washed a lot of cars, huh?”
“Never.” I fiddled with my earrings, recalling the way he’d studied them.
“Come out in ten minutes and I should be done. We’ll even wax it.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows.
I laughed even though it wasn’t even funny, earning a scowl from my grandmother. “Michael’s gonna wash your car,” I told her.
“Isn’t that nice of her,” Oma said.
I changed into jean shorts and an old Sailor Moon T-shirt. Complete with sandals and a ponytail, I ventured outdoors for my first car wash to find Michael screwing his hose into the faucet by Oma’s garage. When he pressed on the nozzle, a stream of water bombarded the Buick.
I couldn’t think of anything to discuss besides the weather. Wow, mundane topic, Keziah.
“Do you like stories?” I asked while he filled a bucket. Soap sprayed into the air. A few bubbles stuck to his jeans.
“What kind?”
“My grandmother has a story she made up. It’s called the Goat Children.”
“Cool. I tried writing a romance once. I wanted to be different. I mean, how many males do you know who pen love stories?”
I laughed as soap bubbles now hit my legs. “I can’t think of one.”
“Exactly. It never went anywhere, but I had fun, and I had a copy printed for my mom.” He handed me the brush. “You start washing, and when you get tired, I’ll take over.”
“Okay.” I slapped the soggy bristles against the side of the car. Soap ran down the door.
“What’s the goat book about?” Michael folded his arms and leaned against the porch railing.
“The Goat Children are magical warriors who ride Pegasuses.”
“Cool.” He didn’t laugh. “What else?”
“Not sure. She hasn’t told me much.”
“When she does tell you more, feel free to pass it on.” He sprayed me with the hose.
Ice cold water soaked through my clothes to nip at my skin. I squealed, lifting my hands against the stream. “A Goat Child would get you for that.”
He sprayed the hose again, this time into the air, and a cold mist rained over us.
****
I am ten years old. Oma finishes reading the complete Little House on the Prairie series to me.
“I want to write a pioneer story, too,” I say. My handwriting is atrocious, and my parents won’t let me use their computers, so Oma writes it for me.
We sit on her bed. She keeps a notebook open in her lap and listens while I tell the story aloud. When I have to go home, she gives me her tape recorder, and I finish telling the story into that. Later, she listens to the tape and keeps writing.
After a week, the story is complete. She tapes blank paper to the cover of the notebook, and I draw a picture of the main character. Underneath it, I write the title, Prairie Parents, and sign it, By Keziah and Oma. I put the notebook on her bookshelf.
“Someday, we’ll show your kids,” she says.
Chapter 8
“Take two chairs instead of one to the parade,” Oma said. “You’ll want to use mine, and I’m not sitting on the grass.”
“No, I don’t need a chair. The ground isn’t wet.”
“Ha! I know how kids are. We’re taking two chairs,” Oma said.
I folded the two lawn chairs with their hideous, neon green print and heaved them over my shoulders. “Oma, isn’t it awful early? The parade doesn’t start until seven.”
“Don’t you want a good place to sit?”
Sure, why not sit down the street for half-an hour?
I leaned the chairs against the porch railing while Oma locked the front door. Squirrels frolicked in the front yard.
“You didn’t tell me it was hot out.”
I stifled a groan. “It’s really not that hot. Come on, we better hurry before all the good spots are taken.” I didn’t actually believe that, but the chairs were hard to hold.
“I can’t go. It’s too hot.”
“What?” I hated the anger that crept into my voice. What happened to the old Oma who would go out in any weather, be it the middle of a heat wave or the aftermath of an ice storm?
“It’s too hot out. You should have known that. I can’t go out in this. It is way too hot.”
“Oma—”
“It’s too hot! I’ll die.”
“You won’t die,” I snapped. “Come on, we’ll go down there, and I’ll set up the chairs. It’s only a street away, so if you get hot or whatever, I’ll just bring you right back.”
“It’s too hot. I can’t go.”
I wanted to say okay, we’ll go back inside. I can read and block out your nonsense. Oma had been so excited about the parade, though. It didn’t seem fair to give up.
“No, it’s okay. It’ll be fun.”
So began the bickering, and after what seemed like forever, Oma followed me down
the street, her hand clenched around my elbow.
Other families walked along the sidewalk. Mothers pushed strollers. Fathers walked dogs. Children rode on scooters or roller skates, screaming to each other. One little boy dropped his lollipop onto the cement. He picked it up and stuck it back into his mouth. My throat clenched.
Oma’s hand slipped off me, and she gasped. I turned to find her sprawled in the grass blinking at me, her eyes expressionless.
“Oma!” I threw down the chairs. “Are you hurt?” I’m such a horrible keeper. I let her fall over.
“Why are you screaming? I’m not deaf,” Oma said. “Help me up, and don’t you dare tell your mother, or she’ll make me go to the doctor.”
I grabbed the outstretched hand, shocked at how bony it felt. The loose skin slid as I tightened my grip. Oma grunted while I pulled, using her other hand to heave herself onto her knees. I released her hand to grab her under the arms. Oma had always been a few inches taller than me. Now, with my chest pressed against her back, I was the taller one by five inches.
“That was a nasty fall,” a man said from behind.
I brushed off my skirt to have something to do with my hands.
“Hi, ma’am,” the middle-aged man smiled at Oma.
She rubbed her hands together.
“He’s talking to you.” I turned her around by the shoulders to face the man.
“What?” Her eyes glowed with something when she saw him.
“It’s good to see you out,” the man continued.
“Hi,” Oma said, emotionless. Blank.
She doesn’t know who he is.
“Hi,” I butted in. “I’m Keziah, her granddaughter.”
“I know who you are.” He offered me his beefy hand and I shook it. “I live next door.” He pointed at the house beside the Dwyer apartment building. “Luke Thesman. When you were little, you used to come over all the time and play with my goddaughter.” People emerged from the house he indicated. “That’s my wife, my daughter-in-law, my son, and their daughter.”
“I wanna go home,” Oma said.
I grabbed her words as an opportunity to continue down the hill to Seashell Lane. Where the seashells were, I had no idea. New Winchester was hours from the ocean.
“I’m hot,” Oma complained. “Where’s my water? Did you bring me water?”
“You don’t even have a water bottle at home.” I’d forgotten to check if she was all right from the fall, and asking now seemed pointless. Bad keeper. Bad!
People sat on the grassy space between Seashell Lane and the sidewalk, some in lawn chairs, others cross-legged. A few had blankets. Children perched on the curb or ran across the street. A car drove by, and a man hollered, “Kids, get out of the way!” As soon as the car passed, the kids ran back.
“We’re late,” Oma said. “Now what? Where am I supposed to sit? You just had to make us late.”
Wow, she really had meant it was best to get there early.
I wandered over to the family on a blanket. “Can we set our chairs up behind you? My grandmother really wants to watch the parade.”
“Sure, if you want to. We don’t need the space.” The woman glanced at the sidewalk where Oma pouted. Her husband talked on his cell phone and ignored me.
“Thank you so much,” I gushed, but the woman looked away, yawning. I tried to snap open the legs on one chair, but they stuck. I pulled harder, and with a gasp, the chair flew open, pinching my finger.
“Shit.”
“Hey,” the woman next to me said. “There are kids around here.”
Oops. I got the other chair up and hurried back to Oma.
“I’m hot,” she repeated.
I led her over to the chairs and sat next to her. The metal dug into my back and the seat pinched my thighs.
I sat in a lawn chair on someone else’s lawn, waiting for the start of a parade that was going to suck. New Winchester was a small town, so the parade was probably going to consist of the high school marching band and some fire trucks.
Across the road, sitting on the curb, a boy smoked a cigarette. A woman filed her fingernails. A baby started to cry, and that made a golden-doodle bark. A Pomeranian left a smelly present on a driveway.
Too bad I couldn’t have brought Phebe. My little sister didn’t get to interact with other children enough, but then again, Phebe shouldn’t be near the boy smoking.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice came from behind my chair.
Luke Thesman’s granddaughter held up a knock-off purse like Oma’s. The grandfather stood on the sidewalk waiting. He waved one finger in a lopsided hello, so I waved back.
“Excuse me,” the little girl repeated. “You dwop dis.” She flung the purse at me and ran back to her grandfather.
My jaw dropped, and my heart skipped a beat. This was Oma’s purse. When Oma had fallen, she must have dropped it, and I hadn’t even noticed. My face flushed hotter than before, and I snatched the purse off the grass. I unzipped it and flipped through the money to make sure nothing had been stolen.
Stupid, stupid. I’m so stupid.
“Do the Goat Children ever have parades?” I asked to get my mind off my lack of keeper skills.
“The Goat Children?” Oma squinted into the evening sun. “No, they don’t have parades.” Oma had beautiful green eyes, but her lashes had faded and thinned with age. The green still appeared pure and deep, bottomless.
“You have amazing eyes,” I blurted out.
“My eyes?” Oma barked a laugh. “They used to be brown like yours. When you become one of the Goat Children, your eyes turn green.”
Why not? I tipped my head to the side, still studying Oma’s eyes. They were deep set, sinking into her skull. Her skin was loose, but not wrinkled. Oma used too much Vaseline at night for her skin to consider wrinkling.
There was something else about Oma’s expression. Something haunted, lost in the never-ending depths, but there, surfacing for a second. Oma had seen things. She had done things that still plagued her, but the memories had probably become foggy with age.
“I’m hot,” Oma said. “I want to go home. I don’t see why you dragged me here in the first place, and give me my purse. I’m old enough to carry my own purse.” She snatched the purse, rising from her chair with her face growing red, be it from heat or anger.
“Okay. Fine. We’ll go home. I only came for you.”
Oma stormed up the slight hill to the sidewalk with purse in hand, hitting a little boy in the head.
“Hey,” the child yelled.
Oma kept marching.
“You old hag!”
“Stop,” I snapped at him. “You can’t call her that. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to respect your elders?”
“You have a funny accent.” The boy rounded on me. “You talk ugly.”
I couldn’t think of a comeback for that, but the boy’s mother chose that moment to push into the conversation.
“How dare you talk to my son like that? What gives you the right to upset him? That woman hit him.”
“Yeah, and she has dementia. She can’t help it.” Too bad I couldn’t whack the family with one of our chairs. It would hurt much more than the purse.
Band music played in the distance while I scurried to the sidewalk after her, our chairs slung over my shoulders.
How can Oma storm up a hill at her age? Oh yeah, she’s a Goat Child. Of course she’s tough.
****
I am five years old. Oma drives me to the shopping center. Mama is sick, so we are going to get her a get-well present from the card shop.
Oma pulls into a parking space and turns off the car. I open my door.
“I should stop putting my purse back there. I’m getting too old to grab it.” Oma leans into the back seat.
I grab the purse for her and start to step out, but a convertible crashes into my door and rips it off its hinges.
A few second later, and I might have been there. I burst into tears.
The driver hu
rries out. She’s an older woman, with long black hair.
“It’s your fault,” she yells at me in a thick accent. “Your fault!”
I cry harder. Oma hugs me, but she has to deal with the lady and swapping insurance. An onlooker calls the police. I sit in Oma’s car crying so hard I can barely breathe.
Later on, my parents ask what happened.
“Keziah was so brave,” Oma says. “She stood up to the lady and told her, ‘It’s your fault. You should have watched where you were going.’ The police declared her drunk. Keziah knew exactly what to do to that bully.”
I gape at Oma. I never said anything to the woman. Oma winks at me, and I swear to become that strong girl, just for her.
Chapter 9
When the alarm went off at seven on my first day of school, I pushed the snooze button until I only had half an hour left. Getting up early sucks.
Without time for my usual grits, I wolfed down a Greek yogurt.
“Bye, I’m leaving for school,” I called into Oma’s bedroom.
My grandmother laid curled on her side, the blankets tucked tight around her legs. The air in her bedroom always felt cooler because of the broken wood around one of the windows. The scent of the magnolia tree wafted in from the front yard.
I shook her foot. She snorted in her sleep, twitching her shoulder. Since she was so asleep, I grabbed my key and locked myself out.
I ran down the hill towards the school until I slowed my steps to avoid the other students walking to class. They didn’t try to talk to me, either chatting with friends or listening to iPods. I didn’t know them, and trying to converse with a stranger made my stomach churn.
Buses unloaded more students in front of the high school section. No one looked at me - good. On television, everyone always picked on each other at school, In first grade, a classmate had scribbled all over my textbook with a marker, and I’d been the one scolded.
When I entered the main office, I had to wait until the secretary finished talking to a teacher. My schedule had been sent through the mail, and I’d already marked the classrooms on the map enclosed.
The secretary tapped a pencil against the corner of her desk. Her black suit coat pinched her body as if a few sizes too small. It pushed her silk shirt until it wrinkled over her bosom.
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