Everyone at the tables chatted and laughed. The people sitting at the bar watched a baseball game on a flatscreen. A man behind the counter read a newspaper. I wove between the tables towards him, and my skirt caught on a woman’s foot.
“Woo hoo,” she said. “It’s little Cinderella. Where’s your mice, sweetie?”
Laughter nipped at my back, but I had a feeling the woman wasn’t being mean, only teasing. Why hadn’t I changed out of the dress?
“Excuse me.” I squeezed between two men to get to the bar. I touched the corner of it and cringed, pulling away from the sticky surface.
The bartender looked up and licked his upper lip. “What do you want, kid?”
“I’d like to place an order for take-out. If that’s okay,” I added when a bored look crossed his face.
“Want a beer while ya wait?” the man to my right asked.
I glanced at him, taking in his greasy hair and golf tie. He snickered.
“Okay, sure, you want to go to jail? I’m only seventeen.”
That shut him up, and he muttered, “Smart ass teen,” before his attention turned back to the television.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” The bartender pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and scribbled on a page. “Go back there.” He hooked his thumb at a dark hallway in the rear of the room. “That’s the restaurant area. Somebody there will take your order.” He tore out the notebook page and handed it over.
Stepping through the dark hallway, I emerged in a room lined in booths with long tables erected in the middle. An elderly couple sat near a window sipping from mugs.
The door in the corner swung open, and a waitress emerged carrying a tray of plates. One had lasagna, the other stuffed shells. She set them in front of the couple.
“Need anything else?” she asked. When they shook their heads no, she carried the emptied tray over to me. “You can sit anywhere.”
“No, I need a take-out, for me and my grandmother.”
The waitress shrugged. “It’ll be, like, twenty minutes.”
“That’s okay. I have other errands to do.” I fished one of the fifties from my purse, but kept it in my fist.
“What’ll it be?”
“Can I see a menu?”
The waitress brought one over from a rack on the wall and I flipped through the pages. Oma wanted the spaghetti dinner, except I hated spaghetti, so it would be the eggplant parmigiana for me.
“It’ll be twenty minutes,” the waitress reiterated. When I held out the money, she rubbed her wrist across her nose rather than accept it. “You pay when you pick up the food.”
“Okay.” I stuffed the money back into my purse. Exiting through the bar, I kept my eyes glued on the floor.
Even though Vighesso’s wasn’t the cozy, Italian restaurant I’d expected, the clothing store was dowdy, just as Oma had described. Most of the pants had elastic waists, the coloring either drab or pastel. The air smelled of bad perfume.
No one came over to help, so it took ten minutes before I found a black dress in my size, with a Peter Pan collar and a wide skirt. “Forty-nine dollars,” I read off the ticket. I winced as I paid the woman behind the counter.
Back in Vighesso’s, I sat in one of the booths to wait.
“You should’ve just gotten TV dinners,” the waitress whispered when she brought me the take-out containers. “That food’s better.”
“Oh.” A sour taste crept into the back of my throat.
As I left the bar, passing a table, a man stood. He stumbled, and his beer toppled. The murky liquid rose in a sloshing wave, bubbles and droplets splattering across my bodice and dripping down the skirt. I yelped, scurrying backwards. The beer, cold and sticky, ran everywhere.
“Wow, geez, I’m sorry.” He reached for a napkin from the table.
His companions laughed, their voices slurred.
Tears pricked my eyes. My beautiful dress I’d gotten for one of Dad’s events last year was ruined. The back of my nose tightened and I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, eyes burning, before I ran for the door. I pushed it open, the drunken laughter following me into the street.
****
“It’s your fault,” Oma said. “You should watch out for your surroundings.” She clicked her tongue. “This would have never happened to a Goat Child. We learned to pay attention.”
“The Goat Children aren’t real!” Her mythical warriors weren’t going to save my dress or my dignity. I’d actually cried in public. Snot poured down my face from my nose.
Oma shook her head. “It’s just a dress, Kezi. Here, take it off. I’ll rub some ivory soap on it and see if it’ll come out.”
“It’s ruined. Besides, it has to be dry cleaned.” I blew my nose into a tissue.
“If it’s already ruined, it won’t matter if we try washing it in the machine, then. I’ll see what I can do.” Oma unzipped it for me and helped me step out. “It’s just a dress, sweetie. It’s not the end of the world.”
I wasn’t just crying about the dress. It was everything. It was Oma. This Oma, the one helping me get into my pajamas, was the Oma I loved, the one from long ago. What happened when this Oma was gone forever?
****
Exhaustion drove me into a thick sleep. I dreamt of a woman with kinky black hair, garbed in a white dress and holding a pewter dragon. She tossed the item to me.
“I might be a Goat Child, but I still love dragons.” She laughed.
I laughed with her, although I didn’t understand the humor. “It’s nice.” I trailed my fingernail over the pewter carving.
“You could be a Goat Child.”
I handed the statuette back. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you ever hear them scream?”
Ice coated my skin. “What?”
“Do you ever hear the screams of the people who need your help? If you were a Goat Child, you could save them.” Her laugh transformed into a shriek.
I pressed my hands over my ears, but the noise wouldn’t cease.
I sat up in bed, my heart racing. The scream continued, and then stopped, only to resume a few seconds later.
“Oma?” My voice shook. No, it was too muted, coming from outdoors. My legs wobbled as I tiptoed to the hallway. Darkness consumed the glass of the front door.
The floor creaked beneath my feet, and I held my breath. The scream became louder the closer I came to the door. I parted the sheer curtain and peered out to the porch.
The streetlight flickered out, so I could make out only dark shapes. I reached for the light switch, but paused. My hand hovered. Should I turn on the light? What if something, or someone, took that as a sign to attack?
I checked to make sure the door was locked and flipped the switch. The porch light flared to life.
Nothing except the blue recycling bin. The houses up and down the street were dark. Someone else must have heard the scream.
I frowned. The noise sounded as if it were coming from the cellar now. I grabbed the flashlight off the stairs and crept into the kitchen. I flipped on the cellar light fast and threw open the door.
Nothing. I closed my eyes. Stupid, it might’ve been a killer.
I laughed. A killer. Yeah, right.
The scream came again, this time as though from the garage. I turned on the garage light and peered through the window in the door. Nothing moved, or looked as if it had moved. Whatever screamed had to be an animal of some sort.
An animal stuck somewhere around the house.
I turned off the lights and returned to bed, but kept the flashlight next to my pillow. The screams persisted. I watched half an hour pass on the clock. The animal must really be stuck or injured. I could call Uncle Jan, but he didn’t seem the type to come over in the middle of the night.
Michael! I used the flashlight to find his number on the Internet and called on my cell. I counted eight rings, my heart dropping into my stomach. Great, he isn’t going to—
“Hello?” Michael rasped.
“It’s me. Keziah. There’s an animal outside. It’s hurt. It’s screaming.”
“Keziah? It’s two in the morning.”
“Two-fourteen.” My forehead throbbed. “Please, I don’t know who else to ask. The animal won’t stop.”
“I don’t even hear it.” He groaned.
How could he not? The sound pierced through my skull like a nail.
“Please. It’s been screaming for a while now.”
“Okay, I’ll come over and take a look.”
“Thanks so much.” I shut my phone. Maybe I should awaken Oma, but when I checked on her, she snored. I stood at the front door with my forehead pressed against the glass, frigidness soaking through my skin. The scream wouldn’t cease, save for a few second’s worth of pauses, yet nothing stirred past the porch light’s glow.
“Keziah?” Michael called.
The scream diminished. I unlocked the door and stepped onto the porch. Air nipped through my Hello Kitty pajamas, making me shiver. He wore only a pair of plaid boxers. I dragged my gaze off his flat abs to his face.
“So this noise?” He combed his fingers through his mussed hair. “Where is it?”
“It,” I licked my lips, “stopped.”
He stared at me. “You don’t hear it anymore?”
Despite the cold, my cheeks burned. “No. First I thought it was out here, but then I thought—”
“I’ll take a look around,” he interrupted. “Maybe it got scared.”
“Thank you so much.” A corner of my mind said the scream wouldn’t start again. Something wasn’t normal about this.
“No problem.” He pecked the top of my head.
The voice of the woman in my dream flitted past my ears. Do you ever hear the screams of the people who need your help?
****
I am four years old. Next year, I will start kindergarten, and then I will have to eat in the cafeteria with my class. For now, I stay with Oma during the day. When Mama has her lunch time, Oma prepares a meal, and we walk it down the street to the elementary school. Usually, Oma makes sandwiches with veggie cold cuts, or she spoons Mama’s salads into Tupperware containers.
Oma signs us in at the office.
The secretary stands up to smile at me. “Keziah, you get bigger every day.”
“That’s because I water her.” Oma takes my hand and leads me to Mama’s classroom.
I know the way, but sometimes, older kids walk by, so I’m glad Oma is with me.
Mama sits at her desk, and Oma pulls a chair over from the computer table. I choose the rocking chair in Mama’s story corner. It faces the window, so I can watch cars drive by in the road.
When Mama goes to pick up her class from the playground, Oma gathers up the supplies into the two lunch bags. Holding hands, we walk home.
Chapter 11
The calling hours for Muriel Dwyer were held on Friday.
“Funerals are for families, not neighbors,” Uncle Jan said. “We’ll just go to the calling hours.”
He parked at Oma’s, and we walked down the street to the funeral home. A tall man in a black suit opened the door for us. I smiled up at him, but his face remained solemn, and I realized I shouldn’t smile at this sad time.
I made my expression somber while I followed my uncle up the stairs into a hallway. Nerves nagged my body.
I’d never been in a funeral home before. I expected gray walls and hardwood floors, but instead, a lush carpet of maroon with dark green vines covered the floors. The walls were white with green wainscoting and a floral border along the ceiling. Landscape paintings resided over gilded chairs and matching tables. Victorian style lamps and tissue boxes covered the tables.
Should I be crying?
A plaque over the assigned door read, ‘Muriel Dwyer’. A few people occupied the couches and chairs. None of the faces looked familiar. I’d wanted to be respectful and see what calling hours were like, but how little I’d known Muriel Dwyer.
Uncle Jan rested his hand on my back, leading me towards the casket in the back of the room. It was polished mahogany, and the fluorescent lights in the ceiling reflected off the smooth surface. Inside, Muriel Dwyer lay nested amongst roses on white silk. Her face was pale and firm, like wax. There was a small smile on her lips, her eyes were shut, and her hands were folded over her chest, clutching a rosary. She appeared so pure and unreal. Tears came to my eyes.
Muriel Dwyer was never going to call me Rebecca again.
I hadn’t really known the woman, but looking down at her lifeless body made the reality all the more final. Before I could start crying, Uncle Jan led me to an elderly man standing beside the casket.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Uncle Jan said. “If there’s ever anything we can do, just let us know. My mother wished she could have come, but it’s hard for her to get out these days.”
“Thanks for your respects.” Mr. Dwyer nodded.
I couldn’t meet the man’s gaze. He’d just lost his wife, and I couldn’t imagine his sorrow. Nothing I thought up to say sounded soothing.
Still holding my arm, Uncle Jan led me away from the casket.
“Jan,” a man called. “It’s been a while.”
“Hey!” Uncle Jan released my arm to shake hands with the stranger. “How’ve you been?”
I stepped against the wall to provide my uncle with some privacy. My gaze wandered around the room to absorb the unfamiliar faces. Once upon a time, before I moved to the city, had I known these people?
“Keziah, right?”
I looked to the left as Michael approached. “You know my name.”
“I thought we were going to come to this together.” He leaned against the wall near me. “You going to the funeral tomorrow?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Uncle Jan wanted to come today. I came with him.”
“So, how are you holding up?”
“I really didn’t know Muriel Dwyer. I feel really bad about that, but I just got to New Winchester, you know?”
A smile pulled at his lips. “No, I mean, how are you holding up with your grandmother?”
My cheeks burned, and I lowered my gaze. The carpet was really quite exquisite, like the kind to roll on and pretend to fly over Arabia. “It’s fine.”
“Have you always been close to her?”
“I was closer to her when I was younger. She always watched me while my parents worked.”
“What do they do?”
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It drew attention to the shiny buttons on the cuff of his black suit. My gaze flitted over the crowd. Only Matt wore a suit.
“My mom teaches elementary. My dad works for a magazine. He travels a lot, writes stories about his travels. Like, he goes to Australia and writes a long paper about everything he did there. He goes to a new place every issue.” I rambled, and he smirked as if in placation. I snapped my mouth shut.
“That sounds exciting,” he drawled. “Do you ever go with him?”
“No.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Okay, sometimes,” I said. “Not usually. I have to stay home with Phebe. She’s my sister. My mom home schools us, but I can help Phebe with her work. Sometimes, like if our dad goes somewhere in America, he takes us along.”
“How come only you came to live with your grandmother?” He took his cell phone from his pocket and tapped the screen.
For a second, I thought he didn’t care about my answer, but then he put the phone away.
“She doesn’t like my dad. It wouldn’t have worked.” A corner of my heart blossomed to know Michael didn’t belong to the sect of people who ignore others for the joy of a cell phone.
“And your uncle? Why doesn’t he live with your grandmother or her with him?”
“My aunt won’t let Oma live with them.” If I called her nasty, Michael might think me disrespectful. If I related a story—like how when we lived in New Winchester before, my aunt used to call up my mom at least three times a week to
ask a favor, but whenever my mom wanted something, my aunt was “too busy,” or said, “Not right now, dear”—Michael might think I complained too much.
“So how do you like high school? Is it everything you thought it would be?” He wiped his mouth again, opening and closing his hand, and I realized he wanted something to do, a drink in his hand perhaps.
“No, it’s not what I expected.” I watched his fingers. They were thick and sparsely haired, and they twitched. “I’d been expecting people to be really mean, but they aren’t. Not really. Everyone pretty much ignores me now.”
“No boyfriend?”
I pictured Matt and suppressed a sigh. “Nope, no boyfriend.” At least Matt was happy with his man.
“Hey, you wanna walk home with me?” Michael glanced at Uncle Jan. “It looks like your uncle might be a while.”
Two other men had joined Uncle Jan. One of them laughed, clapping my uncle on the shoulder.
“Let me just ask, okay?”
I worked my way to Uncle Jan. “Do you mind if I walk home with Michael?”
“Feel free.” He turned back to his friends. Not introduction time then. Michael rested his hand on the small of my back to turn me towards the doorway, reminding me of how Uncle Jan had steered me in.
No one seemed to care Muriel Dwyer was dead. They flitted amongst each other, chatting and smiling. No one except me wore full black. These were calling hours, not a party. Where were the hollow eyes and solemn smiles I’d imagined? Was this how people would act when I died?
Once outside, Michael drew a deep breath, puffing out his chest. “Is it just me, or was it stuffy in there?”
Muriel Dwyer was going to be sealed into the Earth. That was stuffy.
Michael slid his hands into his pockets. “So tell me more about school. What are the classes like?”
“Hard. My mom never gave me homework or anything, and there’s a lot of homework here. Every night I have almost two hours’ worth, and then my grandma gets mad. She calls my mom and complains that all I do is sit at my laptop. Oma always says when I get home, it’s going to be in the garbage, but I know she doesn’t mean it.”
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