“Excuse us.” I steered Oma away.
His voice followed us down the next aisle. “Where’s your ring, my dear?”
I had no idea if he spoke to us, so I didn’t answer.
Five people waited to be checked out. I drew Oma to the end of the line.
“We’re leaving now, so can you wait here while I grab the toilet paper?” I asked.
“What’s this?” Oma held up the candy bars.
“The candy bars you wanted.”
“I only want one.”
“You said to get one for Uncle Jan and—”
“I’m not buying all these.” Oma thrust the two milk chocolate bars at me. “Take them back unless you want to buy them. I only want one.”
I wanted to throw the candies in her face. “But you hate dark chocolate.”
“What?”
“The one you’re still holding is dark chocolate.” I bit out the words.
The woman ahead of us turned to look. Into her phone, she said, “It’s hard to hear with all these disturbances.”
I groaned. “Okay, I’ll go put these back.” Oma didn’t need a new bar, and I could eat the dark chocolate one later.
“Well,” Oma growled, “if you really want one, I can guess I can buy you one, too.”
I put the two milk chocolate bars back in their aisle and found the toilet paper next to shampoos and across from condoms. I wondered if it was embarrassing to buy condoms. I really wanted to buy a pack and tell the clerk I was going to have a lot of fun later.
When I got back to the checkout line, a woman had gotten behind Oma. She smiled at my grandmother, but in a “you’re not all there and I feel sorry for you” way.
“The weather’s nice,” she said to Oma, “especially for the start of December.”
“I speak…uh…” Oma frowned.
“I’m back.” I stood next to Oma, then smiled at the stranger. “Hi.”
The woman pointed at Oma. “She speaks Uh.”
I blinked. “What?” Someone else with dementia. Lovely.
“English,” Oma said. “I speak English!”
“No, you said you speak Um.” The stranger giggled.
“She couldn’t hear you,” I explained. “She thought you were speaking a foreign language.” It had happened one other time. A boy scout had come to the house collecting cans for the hungry.
“I speak English,” Oma repeated.
“Speaks Um.” The stranger still giggled.
I bit my lip to keep from joining in. No, I shouldn’t find it funny.
“I just asked her how she’s feeling in this great weather,” the stranger said.
I raised my voice to Oma. “She wants to know how you feel.” I didn’t see how the snow and cold was great, but maybe the woman was a winter fanatic.
“I feel with my hands.” Oma huffed. “Not that it’s any of her business.”
I led Oma from the store into the parking lot.
Once we got in the car, Uncle Jan asked, “How was the trip?”
“Fine.” I folded my arms, leaning back in the seat.
“The air’s muggy,” Oma complained.
My mind jumped back to the man who’d asked about the ring. Maybe Oma had stolen a magical ring from him, an enemy of the Goat Children, long ago.
****
I am seven years old. Oma, Mama, and I take our summer vacation in Niagara Falls, on the Canadian side. We visit the butterfly conservatory and frequent the tourist traps. My favorite part is taking a trip behind the falls, feeling the rush of water as it bathes my face.
We are leaning against the railing, overlooking the Horseshoe Falls.
“I would love to fly.” I point at the rising mist. “I would fly down and soar up, just at the last second. Do you think I’ll ever be able to?”
Mama shakes her head. “No. That would be dangerous.”
“Maybe someday you will.” Oma’s eyes twinkle.
Chapter 20
On Monday, I met Domenick during the change between first class and second. My purse hit him in the gut, and he staggered. I feared I’d pegged him in the groin and imagined that he was going to crumple to the floor in howling agony.
“Oh, my gosh! I am so sorry. I can’t believe I just did that.” I’d just taken out the guy I liked.
“It’s okay.” He coughed. “What’s the rush, speedy?”
I was embarrassed to say I’d drank one cup of apple juice too many for breakfast and had to run to the bathroom before the next bell rang, so I mumbled, hoping he wouldn’t press the matter.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” He stepped over against the lockers.
Dinner was awful. Oma ruined it, and Jim helped with that, and I miss my family.
When is he going to mention our botched relationship?
“It was nice.”
He had a cut under his left eye, the wound swollen and purple. I dragged my gaze away before he could ask why I was staring. I fixated on his dark irises.
He grinned. “That’s good. How’s your grandma?”
“She’s doing well. Um, thanks for asking.” Maybe the cut had come from a snowboarding accident. I imagined him owning a snowboard with a dragon image.
“We had a really nice time. My uncle came up from Florida.” Domenick picked thorugh his pocked and pulled out an automatic pencil.
I should’ve asked how his time had been. Again, my gaze fell on his cut. He must have noticed this time, because he lifted his hand to finger it.
“Sorry.” I stared at the mud on the tile floor. I wanted to say something comforting like, “It doesn’t look that bad.”
“I dropped one of the china plates.”
“What?” A quarter rolled across the tiles; it hit the wall and stilled.
“Every year, at the holidays, my mom always gets out the hand-painted china. My parents are like obsessed with it. You know how it is with heirlooms.”
Oma always wanted to bring heirlooms down from the attic and put them outside with “for sale” signs. She called them cheap junk she was sick of seeing, even though they stayed packed upstairs.
“Yeah.”
“I broke one of the plates.” He pointed to the cut. “So, you know, I deserved it.”
“Wow.” My eyes bugged. “One of the shards cut your cheek? That’s awful! It’s a good thing it missed your eye.”
“No, not one of the shards.” Domenick cupped my shoulder to draw me close. He lowered his mouth and whispered in my ear, making my heart race. “My dad hit me.” He nudged me away. “Okay, see you around sometime, Keziah.”
“Wait!” I grabbed his sleeve. “Are you serious? He hit you?”
“Shh.” Domenick narrowed his eyes. “You know how teachers get when you talk about that kind of shit. Come on, Kez, don’t make a big deal. I already told you it’s my fault.”
“You broke a plate on accident. That doesn’t give him a right to…you know.”
“Aw, come on.” His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Haven’t you ever been hit before?” He swatted my butt. “You never got one of those?”
“Never,” I breathed. Domenick’s father had hit him hard enough to cut his cheek.
He shifted his stance. “You won’t tell anybody, will you?”
“No.” The word swelled in my throat. “I won’t tell.”
He patted my shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.” Instead of his retreating back as he walked down the hallway, I imagined him sprawled on the couch in his basement sipping Gatorade, intent on my words, the consternation in his eyes and his somber words of sympathy over Oma.
I refused to picture him beaten.
It clung anyway, the way his face had looked so haunted. He’d wanted someone to know. I’d told him my innermost thoughts, so he’d told me his. Maybe in some perverted way, he felt we were even on a scale somewhere.
Should I tell a teacher?
Everyone seemed to watch as I set my books down at my desk. They all knew. The secret was written ac
ross my face in bold, Sharpie marker. I tugged my unbound hair until it covered my head like Cousin It. A beep sounded over the loudspeaker, followed by some static, and then the principal’s voice.
In a loud, calm, clear tone, he announced, “We are going into lockdown mode. Everyone in the hallways needs to enter the nearest classroom.”
What did that mean? My class groaned.
A boy shouted, “We’re all gonna die.”
The mathematics teacher rushed to the doorway to beckon students inside.
“Come on.” A girl grabbed my sleeve. “We have to line up against the wall. We had some of these drills last year.”
“I don’t think it’s a practice round,” a boy said. “They wouldn’t do that in the middle of switching classes.”
“They’re practicing for a real emergency.”
Great, the school pretended while I suffered through real emergencies, namely Oma and Domenick. When did I get to go into lockdown mode?
I followed them to the wall beside the door. What did “lockdown mode” even mean? Fire drills I understood. There’d been five of those in the autumn.
The students snickered and whispered as they sat down, their backs against the wall beneath the chalkboard. I bent my head to keep from smacking it on the chalk holder. Mr. McGraw, the mathematics teacher, shut the door and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to remove a manila folder. He took out a rectangle of blue construction paper and taped it to the inside of the classroom window before joining the students along the wall. He made a few of them move over so he could sit beside the door, the manila folder clutched to his chest.
I ran the heel of my boot back and forth across the tile floor, savoring the slow squeak.
“Hey.” The girl next to me leaned over. “You’re probably used to this shit, aren’t you? You’re from the city? You must see, like, ten shootings a day.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Maybe fifteen or more.” I scraped my boot over a crack, digging it deep so the heel caught.
“Wow. That must be scary.” The girl giggled.
“I’m kidding.” Shiny spots dotted the tiles near the bulletin board. They looked like glue.
“Class, please,” Mr. McGraw barked. “We need complete silence. This is an emergency drill.”
The classroom phone rang. When Mr. McGraw answered it, more students chattered. His face whitened as he spoke, the words inaudible over the students. Mr. McGraw’s cheeks turned red, the color spreading to his ears, and then his hands shook. When he hung up, he had to cough twice before speaking.
This can’t be good.
“Everyone needs to stand up and get in line in a neat, orderly fashion.” The words sounded repeated, robotic.
Someone laughed. No one moved. He had to repeat it before a couple girls obeyed. I followed.
“This is not a drill,” Mr. McGraw announced. “We need to evacuate the school as soon as possible. You need to get in line.”
Whoa. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jacket. How exciting, a sudden half-day.
“We’re all gonna die,” someone yelled sarcastically. A few students snickered.
“We’re not going to die, but we do need to get in line immediately,” Mr. McGraw said.
“But it’s snowing out and we don’t have our coats,” a girl whined, which set other students firing out agreement.
What could the emergency be? Maybe a gas leak. Did schools have gas leaks? I’d never heard of one, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. Maybe we would get the rest of the week off.
Mass exodus spilled out from the school. I spotted Domenick in the hallway, but he didn’t look in my direction.
Outside the school, instead of lining up for buses, we were led down the street. No one looked put out by this, just excited, and a little scared. I elbowed my way through the crowd to Mr. McGraw.
“Excuse me. Mr. McGraw?”
“Hush, get in line. Now isn’t the time.” Snowflakes clung to his graying hair.
“But, Mr. McGraw, where are we going?”
“To Saint Stephen’s Church.”
“Why aren’t we going home?”
“Because this is an emergency evacuation.” Mr. McGraw increased his speed. “The high school goes to Saint Stephen’s. The junior high goes down the street to the Methodist. The elementary goes to the Baptist church.”
I fell back in line, not sure how to argue with that. I had to argue with it, though, because “emergency evacuation” sounded like a long complication. We probably wouldn’t leave the church any time soon, and it was almost lunchtime. I had to get home by lunch to feed Oma. She wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make it.
Why couldn’t I just walk home? It was right up the street. I wasn’t even Catholic.
When we got in Saint Stephen’s, a teacher I didn’t recognize announced, “Everyone, please go sit in the chapel.” I hovered in the back while everyone crowded onto the benches, then I ran over to the principal.
“Excuse me, but I have to go home,” I said.
“Young lady, sit down.” He didn’t look at me.
“But I have to feed my grandmother.”
“This is not the time. Sit down.” He walked back out of the chapel.
I stomped my foot. The teachers in the doorway ignored me.
“Hey, Keziah.” Meg’s voice drifted to my ears. “Over here, girl.”
I didn’t feel like talking, but I walked over to her anyway. The chapel smelled like incense. My nose watered, and I wiped it on the back of my sleeve since I didn’t have a tissue.
“Wasn’t it cold out?” Meg asked. The chapel, although large, rang with voices, so she had to shout.
I shrugged. I have to get home for Oma.
“What’s the matter with you?” One of Meg’s friends popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Why does your foot keep tapping like that? It’s wicked annoying.”
“So I heard,” Meg exclaimed, “it’s a bomb threat! Can you imagine? They found something that looks like a bomb in the dumpster and then a note came in. Dude, we’re gonna be here a while.”
“But we can’t,” I blurted. “I have to get home.”
“Chill,” the gum-chewer said. “We’ll get home eventually. You know, if the bomb doesn’t blow us up here, too. You know what all the teachers are doing, right? They’re calling home. They’ve all got those folders with our info.”
Oma would think I was in danger, or worse, dead.
“I have to use the bathroom.” I darted for the doorway.
The gum-chewer called after me, “Yeah, don’t pee your panties. That’d be nasty.”
The school psychologist hovered near the doorway with a walkie-talkie.
“Excuse me. I have to use the bathroom,” I said to her.
The psychologist pointed down the hallway. “Hurry up. There might be a line.”
My heart sank. I’d hoped it would be possible to dart out of the church and run home, but the principal spoke to two police officers in the foyer.
I wandered into the bathroom. since the psychologist watched me. Five girls waited around the filled stalls. Two more hovered near a frosted window. They had propped it open and were smoking cigarettes.
I ran my hands through hot water and rubbed them over my face, careful not to get my glasses wet. On television, splashing water always helped calm a person down.
It just made my face sticky. I wiped my hands on a paper towel and left. Right outside the bathroom, a young man pushed a mop. He nodded to me with a toothy grin.
“Howdy, miss. Enjoying all the excitement?”
“Not really. I have to get home for my grandmother.” The story slipped out, about how I had to feed her, but now I wouldn’t be home for lunch. She might eat something bad—like laundry detergent. Oma sobbed whenever I was late coming home from school. She also cried when I came home on time, but only if she forgot what time school let out.
When I finished talking, I panted. The janitor smiled.
“It�
�s tough,” he said. “My grandmother had Alzheimer’s. She lived with us for years, and I still miss her every day. Your grandmother is lucky to have you.”
“Thanks.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve again. Was it allergies or had I driven myself to hysterics?
“But,” he continued, “you must always remember everything in life is an adventure as great as in any classic. Take Treasure Island for example. Little boys who miss their father shouldn’t be the only ones to go off after a treasure map. Don’t you agree?”
“I never read that book.”
“All of us can find treasure maps. We can all hunt for gold at the ends of rainbows. I have as much of a right to have an adventure as you do. Just think, we’re all having an adventure right now just by breathing! Life is an adventure.” He paused to dunk his mop. “You know what I always picture as a big adventure? Going to another world. It’s a world up above ours, lived in the clouds, but unseen by everyone, even the pilots flying by in planes! Even if we don’t know they’re there, they’re protecting us. Someone’s got to do it, huh?” He squinted at me.
I stepped back. My mouth was dry, so I gulped. Oma had described the world of the Goat Children just like that. They were unseen, even by planes, yet they were there, protecting the Earth. They lived in the clouds.
I’d read one of the notebooks last night. In it, Oma had described her time with the Goat Children as a constant adventure.
“I never knew what adventure meant before. Now, I’ll never forget.”
I tipped my head to study the janitor. Impossible.
“Yes.” It came out as a squeak, so I had to cough. “Right. An adventure.” I edged around him, hurrying into the chapel. I sat with Meg’s group and listened to them talk. No one tried to include me; good. My mind rotated around the Goat Children.
I was going insane, just like Oma.
****
When I got home after the bomb scare, water soaked the kitchen floor. The tiles glistened with moisture, and when I crouched to look closer, I noticed a film along the surface. Oma had the lid to the washing machine lifted, and when I peered inside, I saw a few pairs of underwear wadded in the corner.
My grandfather, once upon a time, had known to install the dryer in the cellar, out of the way, but the washing machine resided in the kitchen.
The Goat Children Page 15