Daddy and I are looking at the treasures we want, me a bucket of Matchbox cars, and Daddy a tattered old Nikon camera, when Mommy bounds up to us, breathless, holding a blue plate to her chest and smiling like she has just found the gold at the end of a rainbow. This is when I realize she has red in her cheeks again, and her hair is already two or three inches long, and she looks like she is going to live forever.
She holds out the china plate. It has a pattern all along the rim. It’s just like the one we had when I was a little girl, she says. I never thought I’d see this pattern again. Look at it. See the bridge? The pagoda? See the tiny blue woman walking with her walking stick? I used to love that little blue woman. When I was a little girl, I used to sit there and talk to her and talk to her. Can you see the woman, Max? See her on the bridge?
Yes, I lie, I see her. Do you like my cars?
That whole bucket? Mommy says. That’s a lot of cars, Max. How about you choose three?
I start making myself cry. I am good at this.
Choose three. Or none at all, says Daddy.
His voice can be very final when he wants.
So I stick out my lip and flop on the dusty floor and plunge my hand into the bucket and rummage around until I find three black ones, because black is my favorite. They feel good in my hand and they sound good when they crash into each other. Clunk. The sound of one little metal car hitting another. Clunk. And then they spin away backward.
How much is the plate? asks Daddy.
Twenty, says Mommy. But it’s special.
I want these three, I say.
Good choice, says Daddy.
In the end, Daddy doesn’t get the camera.
“I haven’t seen a plate like this since I was a little girl,” Mommy says to Ernie.
“It sure is a beauty,” says Ernie.
Except he’s not looking at the plate. He’s looking at Mommy.
See the little blue woman? she asks him in a voice filled with wonder, pointing at the plate, her eyes wide. Really, really tiny? Crossing the bridge? That’s what makes it special. There are lots of Blue Willow china plates, but this is the only pattern I’ve ever seen with the tiny blue woman. Can you see her? Look close. Can you see her crossing the bridge?
Ernie takes off his glasses and peers at Mommy’s plate. Then he puts his glasses back on and peers at her.
Sure, he says. Sure, I can see her. Pretty little thing. He is staring right at Mommy, who stares back at him.
Daddy moves to Mommy’s side and puts his arm around her.
Ernie offers to wrap the plate in newspaper, but Mommy says no thank you.
Goodbye, goodbye, see you next time. The little bell above the door tinkles behind us. Maybe there won’t be a next time, Daddy mutters, and Mommy throws back her head and laughs, but not too hard, because she doesn’t want to drop her plate.
She cradles it against her heart all the way home, past the cider mill and doughnut place, past the boarded-up vegetable and fruit stands and past the cold, empty fields all covered in snow. Mommy and her special Blue Willow plate with the little blue woman on the bridge.
Are you glad we came, Mommy? I ask her. Oh yes, says Mommy. She reaches back for my hand behind the seat. Her hand is warm. We drive in silence, Daddy at the wheel with his arm around her shoulder, windshield wipers pushing back the snow, the Blue Willow plate with the blue woman against Mommy’s heart, and me and Mommy holding hands, and holding hands and holding hands, all the way home.
BLUE WILLOW
It is the first night of Chanukah, but instead of celebrating, we are sitting at the kitchen table with Chinese takeout from Panda Wok. Mom loved Chanukah more than anything. We never had a lot of extra cash, so sometimes she would give us gifts she found or made. On her last Chanukah, Mom gave me fifteen turkey feathers that she had collected on her morning walks after she had been diagnosed the second time. Because when I’m gone, I want you to spread your wings.
Dad sticks his chopsticks into the lo mein and eats straight out of the take-out container. He slurps a few wayward noodles into his mouth.
“You can’t just ignore it,” says Grandma, frowning at Dad from across the table.
“Yes I can,” he says.
I take a sparerib and gnaw on it.
“If I made latkes, would you eat them?” she asks.
“I might eat them,” says Dad. “But I don’t want to light candles this year. It just feels wrong.”
“Anna loved Chanukah,” says Grandma. “She was always my little candle monkey.”
Dad and I exchange glances.
When I was little, Mom used to say I was her candle monkey. Something she passed down to me, I guess. That and a tumor who likes to call me a pussy.
It was always my job to chip the wax off the menorah with a toothpick and then choose what color candles for each night. Sometimes, when I said the blessing, Mom’s eyes filled with tears of joy, which, in case you were wondering, have an entirely different chemical makeup than tears of sorrow.
“Have some Chinese food, Jean,” says Dad. “It’s good.”
Grandma scowls at the paper containers filled with fried rice and lo mein. “I used to make latkes for Anna. I think I still remember the recipe. Potatoes. Onions. Matzo meal. Salt. Oil. Eggs. You got eggs?”
“Actually,” says Dad, “I think we’re out of eggs.”
“How can we be out of eggs?” says Grandma.
“I don’t know,” says Dad. “We just are.”
“Do you have a grater?”
“A what?”
“A grater. To grate the onion and the potatoes.”
“Oh,” says Dad. “That thing. Well, we probably do. But we haven’t used it since Anna was well enough to cook.” He shuffles into the pantry, rummages around, and then comes back out and plunks the grater on the table in front of Grandma. “There you go, madam. One grater.”
“Thanks,” says Grandma, “but the grater’s no good if you don’t have the rest of the stuff. Can you go to the store tomorrow?”
“Sure,” says Dad. “If you want me to.”
“I do,” says Grandma.
“Well, then I will,” says Dad.
“Good,” says Grandma.
Everything around the table feels prickly and dismal all of a sudden.
Dad continues eating his Chinese food.
Grandma continues staring down at her empty plate.
I pull another sparerib out of the container and take a bite.
There’s a knock on the front door. Then a quick pattering of smaller knocks.
“I’ll get it,” I say, grateful for the chance to leave the table.
I walk through the front hallway to the door.
A gust of winter.
A stomping of boots.
It’s Lydie and Luna and Soleil.
Luna is carrying a menorah in one hand and candles in another. Soleil is carrying a wooden dreidel by its stem. And Lydie is carrying a plate of potato latkes.
“Happy Chanukah!” sings Luna.
Soleil smashes the dreidel into my palm, stem first. Then she licks my hand.
I wipe my hand on Soleil’s dress.
“Hello!” Lydie calls into the kitchen. “We brought you some latkes!”
Dad hurries into the front hallway.
“Oh my goodness. This is so nice.”
They hug.
Then Dad hugs the twins. He picks them up and twirls them.
“I hope it’s okay we didn’t call. We were very bummed out celebrating at home and we were thinking it would be nicer celebrating with you.”
“Thank you so much,” says Dad. “Max, would you take their coats?”
“Okay,” I say.
They pile coats on me. They take off their boots and go into the kitchen where I hear Dad say, “Jean, this is our friend Lydie Grossman. The one I told you about who helped us get a spot for Max at Baldwin. And these pretty girls here are Luna and Soleil.”
“Twins!” says Grandma.<
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Soleil meows and pretends to be cleaning her paws.
“Twins on Chanukah are good luck,” says Luna.
“Good luck?” says Grandma, smiling. “I could use some good luck.”
I come back into the kitchen.
“We won’t stay long,” Lydie is saying. “We just wanted to light candles and give you some latkes and spin the dreidel and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Joe doesn’t want to light candles this year,” Grandma says. “My Anna’s favorite holiday is Chanukah.”
“It was,” says Dad. “She loved it.”
“So did my husband, David,” says Lydie.
Everyone is somber for a moment. Then Grandma says, “What are we waiting for? Let’s have Chanukah.” She starts to remove the Chinese food and plates from the table.
“Let’s have Chanukah!” agrees Luna. Luna picks a pink candle from the box, and Soleil picks a yellow one. Then Soleil places them in the menorah with absolute care, as though this were the most important thing in the whole wide world.
I feel a pang of jealousy. I’m supposed to be the candle monkey.
Lydie takes two bags of chocolate gelt out of a big cloth shoulder bag and sets them on the table along with two little glass jars. She stands in front of the menorah and lights the match herself, setting Luna’s pink shamash aglow before shaking out the match. Then she uses the pink candle to light Soleil’s yellow one. She sings the prayer. Her voice spreads into the room like golden wings unfurling.
Baruch atah, Adonai
Eloheinu, Melech haolam,
Asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav
V’tztivanu l’hadlik ner
Shel Chanukah. Amein.
Suddenly, I feel so thankful that it hurts.
Dad is looking away so no one except me sees him wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Mom couldn’t carry a tune. When she sang the Chanukah blessing, or “Happy Birthday,” or “The Star-Spangled Banner,” or anything really, we used to laugh like crazy because she had no shame. She would just shout it out like she was some kind of drunken opera singer. She could be like that. And the awesome thing was, she knew her singing was horrible. But she didn’t care because singing made her happy.
My head hurts.
“Latke time!” shouts Luna.
Soleil jumps up and down and claps her hands and spins in crazy circles.
Grandma smiles. “Okay!” she says.
Lydie takes the tinfoil off the latkes and all at once the room smells glorious and golden.
“Voilà!” she says.
“Oh my!” says Grandma.
Lydie opens up the little glass jars filled with sour cream and applesauce.
Soleil claps her hands and licks her lips.
“Max,” says Dad. “Would you get some plates and silverware for us?”
“Okay,” I say, even though the tumor behind my eye has started shouting obscenities.
I bring out silverware and six plates and set them around the table.
I give myself Mom’s Blue Willow plate. I follow the pattern with my eyes.
Lydie serves us latkes. We spoon sour cream and applesauce onto our plates.
Everyone eats. There’s laughter and talking and people reaching over people to take more food. I use my spoon to spread sour cream across the landscape, the little mountain path that the tiny woman walks each day, her back curved from the exhaustion of trudging uphill for so long. I spread sour cream on the little bridge and on the jutting mountains and on the head of the bird flying over the mountain looking down. The woman is singing while she walks.
“So Max,” says Lydie, noticing my silence. “Let’s have an update. How are you liking Baldwin so far?”
“Pretty good, I guess.”
She wants to have a conversation with me, but it’s hard to have a conversation while I am trying to hear the woman singing. She is out of tune, but she doesn’t care. Her voice is the tiny buzz of a mosquito. The bird flying overhead is laughing, and his laughter makes me furious. Stop laughing at her. She can’t help it.
“Have you had an advisory meeting with Dr. Cage yet?” asks Lydie.
I look at her, but I don’t answer.
“Answer her, Max,” says Dad.
“We talked a little after class yesterday. He told me to stop moping. I guess that was our first meeting.”
The tiny woman stops on the path and looks straight at me.
She’s trying to tell me something. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, but all I hear is the tiniest buzz.
“Dr. Cage is Max’s faculty advisor,” Lydie tells Dad and Grandma. “He’s a real legend in our school. He’s a published author. A total nonconformist, political activist, ex-hippie.”
“Sounds great,” says Dad.
At the sound of Dad’s voice, the tiny woman begins jumping up and down and waving her arms.
“Max has Creative Writing with Dr. Cage. Don’t you, Max?”
I nod without looking up.
“I’m sorry,” says Dad. “This holiday is hard for him.”
“I know,” says Lydie. “It’s hard for all of us.”
The tiny woman drops to her knees in the snow.
It’s such a long walk up the mountain.
If I could, I would put you on my finger and carry you to the top.
Luna and Soleil are finished with their latkes.
“Can we be excused?” asks Luna.
“Yes, you may,” says Lydie.
Luna takes a bag of gelt and sits herself down on the floor. She arranges the chocolate coins in rows from biggest to smallest.
Soleil bounds from her seat and begins galloping around the kitchen table. She neighs and tosses her head and stomps her feet.
“That’s cute,” says Grandma, smiling.
“She does a lot of this,” says Lydie. “Everything is about animals right now. Sometimes she gets carried away. Be careful, Soleil!”
On her next pass around the table, Soleil stumbles into Grandma, who catches her and tickles her until she is a giggling mass of craziness. And now Grandma is part of the game and each time Soleil passes by, Grandma tickles her, and Soleil squeals and squirms out of her grip and gallops around the table again.
The tiny woman is pounding on the surface of the plate from the inside. Her whole body heaves with the power of her screaming, her curved back, her knees, her arms all rigid and clenched.
The tiny woman puts her head in her hands.
It’s such a long way up the mountain.
All the paths are covered with snow.
I begin removing sour cream with my finger, careful not to crush her. I plow the paths, lifting the plate closer to my face to make sure I see all the places where the trail twists and turns.
My head hurts so badly that my hands start shaking.
Luna arranges her coins into the shape of a heart.
Soleil barrels into Grandma, who catches her again and tickles her until she squeals and wriggles out of her grip. Then she comes crashing into my dad, who tickles her, and then she crashes into me.
I drop the plate.
It shatters all over the floor. There are shards everywhere.
I fall to my knees, screaming.
“That was Anna’s favorite plate,” says Dad.
“Oh my goodness!” says Lydie. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Soleil! Stop it! Stop it!”
“Stop it, Soleil!” says Luna.
Lydie grabs Soleil’s hand and pulls her close. Soleil puts her thumb in her mouth and starts to whimper.
I search desperately, sweeping my hands across the floor. I can’t find the shard with the screaming woman. It has to be here. It has to be here. Somewhere. Oh my God. Oh my God, what am I going to do without her?
“Max,” says Dad.
He is on the floor with me. Trying to calm me down.
The tiny woman is screaming but I can’t find her anywhere.
She screeches my name, her voice frant
ic and broken. Finally I spot her under the kitchen table, trapped on a tiny triangular shard. I reach for her and fold her into my palm. I put the shard in my mouth and run my tongue over the smooth glaze. I drop my head into my hands and squeeze my eyes shut and I rock and rock until Lydie and the twins are gone, Grandma has gone up to bed, and only Dad is left, kneeling next to me on the kitchen floor, broken pieces of plate scattered all around us, the shard under my tongue like a bitter pill, the snow falling softly outside the window like ashes.
AFTER
The next morning, I put the shard in my back pocket. My brain hurts and everything feels surreal, the way the world always seems different after a storm. Grandma is waiting for me at the kitchen table as always. There is no trace of the broken plate. After I eat breakfast, she says, “Sweetheart, come over here.” I go stand next to her and she reaches out to hold my hands.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too,” I tell her.
“We’d better go,” says Dad.
Grandma nods. She’s not smiling.
I swing my backpack onto my shoulder and follow Dad out the door and into the cold morning. We both climb into the truck, he puts his key in the ignition, and we head down the road. Dad doesn’t know what to say. Every once in a while he looks over to make sure I’m okay. He puts his arm around my shoulder, but I’m rigid so he doesn’t keep it there for long.
I can feel the corner of the shard poking into me. I shift in my seat just a little so the sharp end presses harder. There’s something about that discomfort, that tiny spot where the edge pushes into me, that feels right somehow.
We drive through town and make the slow turn up the snowy hill toward Baldwin campus. Dad pulls into the parking lot and stops the truck. We sit for a while looking out at the icy world, the frosted paths, the buildings hooded in snow, the beautiful students with their hands plunged deep into their winter jackets on their way to Trowbridge Hall.
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