My phone hums where I left it in the console. I assume it’s work and ignore it. When it falls silent, I pick it up and am surprised to see Mrs. Holgerson’s name pop up on the screen. I know I’m a little late, but I told her that would be the case sometimes. No, this must be something more. My heart revs as I tap her name. It rings and rings, even though she just called me.
“Shit.” I jerk the wheel, making a U-turn in the middle of the street. Jubilee grabs the door to steady herself, but to her credit barely makes a sound. “What—”
“It’s Aja,” I say, cutting her off, my panic rising by the second.
I speed toward home, my mind conjuring worst-case scenarios as fast as I used to calculate square roots of numbers for fun as a kid. Did he run away again? Jump out of a window? Or something worse? When I pull into the apartment’s parking lot, I’m only slightly relieved to not see any police car, fire engine, or emergency vehicle flashing lights.
Without waiting for Jubilee, I run up the stairs two at a time and unlock the door, throwing it open to Mrs. Holgerson on her hands and knees scrubbing the carpet. The pungent scent of carpet cleaner and something else—burned dinner?—fills my nostrils. The apartment is otherwise quiet.
Her face contours itself into squished wrinkles of anger upon seeing me. “No!” she says. “No, no, no.” She struggles getting to her feet and I go over to her, extending my hand out for support. “I did not sign up for this.”
“Did The Dog have an accident?” I ask.
“Try four,” she says, holding a damp rag. My heart slows as I realize it’s just the puppy she’s mad about. “But that’s nothing compared to the fire!”
“Fire?” And that’s when I smell it. The acrid smoke lingering in the air that I mistook for burned food. I feel, rather than see, Jubilee step in the door behind me.
“Your boy! Almost burned down the whole apartment building,” she says. “Good thing I checked on him. Then has nothing to say for himself. Nothing!” She shakes her head. “You said a little trouble—not a delinquent!”
I pause and narrow my eyes. “He’s not a delinquent,” I say.
“Whatever,” she says.
“No, not whatever. He’s not a delinquent,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I’m sorry for the trouble, but I think it’s best if you just go.”
I reach in my wallet for enough bills to cover the amount we agreed on and hold it out to her, not taking my eyes from her face. She exchanges the damp rag she’s holding for the money and lifts her bag off the coffee table. “Good-bye,” she says curtly, and then mumbles something that doesn’t even sound like English. She huffs past Jubilee out the door, letting it slam with a thud behind her.
Jubilee’s eyes meet mine and there’s a hint of pride on her face, matching the same satisfied feeling I had in telling Mrs. Holgerson off, standing up for Aja, for my son. But that feeling is quickly replaced by something else.
“Shit,” I say, holding the pee-soaked rag. “I think I just ran off the best—the only—babysitter I had for Aja.”
Jubilee mutters something under her breath. It sounds like: “I’d hate to see the worst.” I smile.
“I gotta—” I stick out my thumb toward Aja’s room.
“Go.” She waves me off, bending at the knees to lower herself onto the couch. “I’m OK here.”
I take the rag to the kitchen sink and then head down the hall, the lingering scent of burning growing stronger with each step. “Aja?” I say, and peek my head around the corner, unsure what I’ll find. He’s sitting on his bed with The Dog on his lap. His wide eyes take me in when I enter.
“Bud?”
He’s like stone, except for the small tremors I can see rippling through his body, and my mind jumps back to the hammer-in-the-table incident. I need to handle this better than that. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
We stare at each other, the silence growing, until The Dog emits a whimper, as if he too is getting tired of the game.
Aja blinks. “Are the police going to come get me?” he whispers. And his voice sounds so young, so helpless—nothing like the adult way he typically speaks—that my whole body feels like it’s liquefying. The anger that was edging its way into my limbs dissolves, and I move my hand toward him on the bed, as close as he’ll let me. I yearn to enfold him into my arms.
“No,” I say, and then repeat it for emphasis. “No. Is that what Mrs. Holgerson said?” Wow. I really did a bang-up job picking a babysitter. “Tell me what happened.”
“It was an accident.”
“OK. Were you trying to set something on fire? Telekinetically or something?”
He shakes his head. “It was stupid,” he says.
I wait, scared to say anything for fear of shutting him down. The silence draws out, until Aja finally breaks it.
“Me and Iggy? We were Skyping.”
“Iggy,” I say, remembering the IM exchange I read between the two of them, and wondering if this Iggy is a bad influence and someone I should be more concerned about. For now, I decide to just listen. “OK.” I move my fingers closer until they’re brushing his kneecap. I try to give him a comforting squeeze, but he moves his leg. The Dog stands up, unhappy to have been disturbed, and repositions himself on Aja’s pillow with a sigh.
“We were playing a game.”
“What game?”
“The match game.” He ends every sentence as if it’s his final one. As if no further explanation is needed. I keep prodding.
“How do you play?”
“You each light a match at the same time and whoever drops theirs first loses.”
I take this in. “And you dropped yours?”
He nods. “Yes. It was burning my fingertips. And the trash can was right there.”
The tin trash can beside his desk finally catches my eye and I can see the blackened streaks running up the inside of it, along with some droplets of water from where I assume Mrs. Holgerson doused the flames. All I can think is: Thank god it wasn’t plastic.
“It was Iggy’s idea.”
I massage my face with both hands.
“I see,” I say. Because I really do. He was playing a game. A stupid game. And when the trash can ignited, he probably just froze in fear.
And even though I know I should be mad—not about just the fire, but the fact that Aja has run off the only option I was able to conjure up on such short notice for his after-school care—a smile starts to creep its way onto my face. My lips twitch. And then a sound burps from between them. And then another. And before I know it, I’m full-on laughing, like I haven’t laughed in years. I don’t know what’s funnier to me, picturing the look on Mrs. Holgerson’s face when she discovered the fire or the surprise on Aja’s when he realized a lit match was capable of burning him and looked for the closest receptacle, but I cannot get control of the guffaws that keep erupting from my belly. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and just when I think I can finally take a breath, Aja says: “At least it got rid of her old onion smell.”
And then I’m off again, my shoulders shaking from the effort. When I finally start to peter out, Aja is smiling at me, and even though I know he hates it, I reach up to palm his shoulder with my hand. Aja maneuvers away before I can touch him. I drop my hand and just stare at him. And in that moment, even though he has Dinesh’s thick straight hair, down to the cowlick at the crown of his head, and his crater of a dimple on his right cheek and charmingly large nose, his eyes—and the way they’re looking at me—are Kate’s incarnate. And I’m so glad I have him, to remind me of my two favorite people no longer on Earth. “God, I love you,” I say. His smile disappears and he looks down at his lap, clearly uncomfortable from the affection.
I clear my throat, sitting up a little straighter. And then I remember what Janet suggested, and realize this is the perfect opportunity to tell Aja about Dinesh and the time he almost burned a fraternity house down in college with his infamous flaming lips shot.
“You know, guys do a lot of s
tupid things,” I begin, smiling a little at the memory. “And your dad actually had his own little obsession with fire.” At the word “dad,” Aja’s eyes pop open even wider, almost in a panic. As I open my mouth to continue the story, Aja claps his hands over his ears and starts shaking his head, a moan emitting from his lips: “Nooooooooooooo-noooooooooooo.”
“Aja,” I say, standing up. I stare at him, unsure how to respond. “It’s OK! Calm down. It’s OK, bud.”
But he won’t stop. The moans get louder and he squeezes his eyes shut as if the offending sound is coming from someone else and he wants to block it out. I’m standing there, useless, wondering what Janet would advise I do next, when Aja takes a hand off his ear and points at the door. “Get oooooouuuuuuut!” he screams. And so I do.
I leave the room and shut the door behind me, my heart pounding in my eardrums, trying, but unable to erase the sound of Aja’s tortured moans from my memory. Maybe that’s why I haven’t shared any stories about his parents, I think, wanting to direct all my anger at Janet and her awful advice.
But I know the truth is far harder to swallow.
JUBILEE STANDS UP when she sees me walk into the den. I start, having almost forgotten she was here. She’s taken off her coat but left her gloves on, like she’s about to handle rare jewels or something.
“Is he . . . OK?” she asks, drawing my eyes to her face. The wailing has subsided, but it’s still ringing in my ears.
“Yeah,” I say, but I know it’s as unconvincing as it sounds. “Listen, let’s . . . uh . . . is it OK if we give him a minute and then I’ll drive you home?”
“How about I call a cab?” she says, and relief tinged with guilt floods me. I feel bad that I got her mixed up in my problems.
“Yeah. That’s probably the best option.”
After I call the taxi, we both sit on the couch, an entire length of cushion between us. The silence seems to stretch past us, from one side of the room to the other, until Jubilee breaks it.
“What’s the dog’s name?” she asks.
I chuckle. “We don’t really have one for him. We’ve just been calling him The Dog.”
“The Dog,” she repeats.
“Yep.”
“That’s a terrible name.”
I widen my eyes at her candor. “No more terrible than Rufus or Petey.”
“No, actually it is,” she says. “Come here, Rufus. That sounds right. Come here, The Dog. That doesn’t even make grammatical sense.”
I laugh, and the release feels good. “I guess you’re right. Would you be OK with just Dog?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I kind of like Rufus now.”
“I’ll have to run that by Aja,” I say.
She nods, content, and we sit in the silence for a few more minutes.
And then: “What are you going to do?”
I rub my hand over my face. “About Rufus?” I ask, even though I know that’s not what she’s talking about. It’s just that I have no answer. What am I going to do about Aja, his grief, about Ellie, about my seeming inability to parent with any kind of real know-how or acumen?
She smiles. “No, about Aja. Um . . . his babysitter?”
Oh. Right. Mrs. Holgerson. “I don’t know.” And as I say the words, panic begins to take hold. What am I going to do? I suddenly regret shooing her out, even though it felt good at the time. I can’t take off work tomorrow, not with this huge acquisition going on. Or any other day this week. As much as I hate it, I kind of need her. “I might have to call and beg her to come back, at least until I can find someone else.”
“Uh . . . I don’t think that’s going to work.”
“Why not?”
“When she left? She muttered something in Swedish: Fan ta dig, din jävel.”
I look at her, not understanding.
“The first part basically means ‘May the devil take you’—or, as we would say: ‘Go to hell.’ ”
“And the second?”
She pauses, and then says quietly: “ ‘You fucker.’ ”
My jaw drops at the idea of those words coming from that little old lady, and then I start laughing. Jubilee joins in, and the release feels good.
“Wait,” I say when we calm down. “You know Swedish?”
“No.” She shrugs. “Just the curse words.”
I smile, reveling in this unexpected detail.
She looks down and then raises her head again. “He could come to the library.”
I focus my eyes on her. “What do you mean?”
“Like, after school. If you need a place for him to go.”
I narrow my eyes at her and then give my head a shake. “No. No, I couldn’t do that. You don’t need . . . you’ve got plenty going on.” Although I don’t really know if that’s true. What do librarians do all day?
She shrugs. “I just thought . . . I mean, you’re picking me up this week anyway.” She looks down at her feet. “If, um . . . if you still were planning to, I mean.”
“Of course. Yes,” I say.
“So it just kind of makes sense. At least for a few days, and then you can figure out what to do.”
I stare at her. This woman. This confounding, beautiful woman who apparently wears gloves twenty-four hours a day (does she sleep in them?) and can translate Swedish curse words. And I know she’s right. It does make sense. I sit back, pushing my shoulder blades into the cushion behind me, and delight in the rare feeling of something just falling into place. Instead of just falling.
And then it occurs to me quite suddenly—that out of the two of us, maybe she’s not the one who needs help.
When the cab honks its horn from the parking lot, we stand up and walk to the door. From behind me, she says: “What happened to your coffee table?”
We both look back at it. I haven’t gotten around to replacing the glass top, so if you put a drink or your feet on it they would drop right through to the ground, meaning it’s not so much a coffee table at this point as just a metal frame.
I wipe my hand over my face again and sigh. “Long story.”
She follows me down the stairs and I get her bike out of the trunk, despite her now-expected protestations that she can get it herself.
As she’s climbing in the back of the cab, she stops and turns to me. “See you tomorrow?”
I nod. “Tomorrow,” I say, and I’m not sure if I imagine it or if her lips turn up in a grin. And then she ducks in the car and is gone, leaving me on the cold sidewalk, staring at the crimson taillights of the cab, and then nothing at all.
sixteen
JUBILEE
WHEN I GET in Madison’s car Tuesday morning, she’s holding her hands out toward me, palms up. In one, she’s got a doughnut. In the other, a blue pill.
“What is this, The Matrix?”
“Huh?”
I nod at the tablet.
“Oh! No. That’s funny.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Wait—how do you know about The Matrix?”
“I was in my house for nine years, not underground. I do have TV.”
“Huh,” she says, and then she lifts up her right hand an inch. “Anyway, this is Xanax.”
“For me?” I tilt my head at her. “Isn’t that a prescription?”
“Yeeeees, and lucky for you, I’m sharing.”
I purse my lips together, unsure of this gift.
“Look, you couldn’t even go into TeaCakes the other day. How are you going to make it through New York City?”
I know she’s right. It’s the reason I didn’t sleep last night, thinking of the buildings, the traffic, the streets crowded with all those people. Drugs, however, didn’t occur to me as the solution.
“Is it strong?”
“Meh.” She shrugs. “It’ll take the edge off.”
I pinch the pill between my gloved index finger and thumb, pop it in my mouth, and swallow. Then I nod at the pastry.
“What’s that for?”
“This is your first adventure.”
I stare at her. “Um, I’ve had doughnuts.” Seriously, does she think I’ve been living in a cave?
“Yes. But not a hot, fresh-off-the-line apple cider doughnut from McClellan’s bakery down on Forsyth Street. They don’t deliver. And trust me when I say it’s an adventure for your mouth.”
I gently pluck it from her hand, a mix of cinnamon sugar instantly coating the fingertips of my glove. She watches me as I take a bite. I chew quietly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a big production, but it does take every ounce of self-control in me not to moan out loud. She’s right. The doughnut is that good.
A smug smile appears on her face, and I know I haven’t completely concealed my enjoyment.
“Right?” she says.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, my mouth already full of the next bite. I give her a big smile, a mix of warm dough and cinnamon caking my teeth, and she laughs.
“Now, let’s get you to the doctor.”
On the drive into the city, I try to distract myself by letting my thoughts wander—and they make a beeline to Eric, like they’ve been doing off and on since I left his apartment last night. I was shocked when he showed up at the library as I was locking up—but also a little relieved. I had been feeling guilty since Saturday about how I treated him. Yes, he was pushy—curiously so—but as I thought about it, it did seem like he just genuinely wanted to help me, and it was hard to be angry at that.
But then, when he came toward me, hand out, wanting to shake on our “deal,” I froze. Technically it was safe—I had my gloves on—but I haven’t willingly touched anyone, or let anyone touch me, in years. I stared at his fingers—those fingers that I’ve weirdly thought so much about ever since I dreamed about them. That I’ve reimagined in more detail than any Renaissance painter. But it wasn’t a dream, and faced with the reality of them—of what they could do to me—I was terrified. He dropped his hand and didn’t make a thing of it at all, even as I flushed with embarrassment.
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