The Summer Kitchen (26 page)

Finally, I had to stand up on my own, because I needed to know Opal was okay and if Kiki really did sleep through it all, or if she was hiding.

The living room was empty and still. “Opal?” I whispered, because I couldn’t help thinking that Uncle Len might be outside again. “Opal?”

Rusty’s bedroom looked empty, and the door to my bedroom was still cracked open a little. The closer I got, the more I could tell that Kiki wasn’t in the bed. She wasn’t anywhere in the room, and she wasn’t in the living room, either.

Kiki took Opal. Kiki took Opal and they ran off while I was down at the storm ditch giving sandwiches to the kids. . . .
My heart went wild again, and I started running through the house, checking the closets and under the beds, thinking,
No, no, no!

Kiki wasn’t anywhere. My eyes filled up with tears. I shouldn’t of left Opal in the apartment. I shouldn’t of left her, even for a minute. I’d let Kiki have long enough to grab her and run off.

Please, God. Please don’t let her be gone. . . .

I thought about Jesus with the red on his hands, with the strawberry jelly and all the little kids sitting on his feet.
Jesus, please, Jesus . . .

Something squeaked in the kitchen, but all I could see was a blur, and then a pan rattled in the cabinet by the stove. I rubbed my hand across my eyes, then stood a few steps away and listened. The pans moved again, so soft I almost couldn’t hear it, and then there was a little sound, just a tiny squeak. I knew what it was right away, because I’d been hearing it all day. Plastic rubbing together. Opal’s little pink shoes.

Every bone in my body dropped out, and my fingers were like rubber, opening the cabinet door and letting the light in. There under the shelf in the back was Opal, curled up in a cake pan, making herself as tiny as she could. Her body was covered in shadows, but her eyes caught the light and made my throat go stiff. Kiki didn’t take her after all. Kiki must of been gone before we ever came home in the first place. Maybe she ran off after the first time Uncle Len came banging on the door.

I didn’t care where she was, so long as Opal was safe.

“Come here, Opal.” My voice was a dry little croak. “It’s all right.” I stretched out my hand, but she didn’t move. “It’s all right now.” I sank down on the floor and let my head fall against the wood. My eyes were burning and heavy. I let them close and tried to go to a mind place. Anyplace. Anywhere but here.

The pans shifted, and Opal crawled closer, and I smelled the peanut butter and jelly she’d smeared on her T-shirt, and the laundry soap I’d washed it in, and shampoo, and plastic shoes, and her hair, and something else I didn’t know at first. Her hand touched my face, and the smell was of something green, and tall, and thick. I smelled the hollyhocks, and I found a mind place.

Opal crawled into my lap, and we went to the summer kitchen, where the walls were high and solid all around us. We were safe, and the ceiling was a clear, crystal blue filled with fluffy white clouds.

Chapter 15

SandraKaye

Over the next few days, life began to take on a routine as we awaited the results of the insurance investigation of Christopher’s accident. Each morning, I woke early to take him to school, dropped by the store for bread and supplies, picked up Bobo at the house, then continued across town to Poppy’s in the tail end of rush-hour traffic. Cass and Opal were always waiting on the porch—Cass in the tattered high heels she would kick off sometime during the day and replace with flip-flops I’d brought from home, and Opal with her doll propped against the porch post. Usually she’d be singing to it—not a nursery rhyme or a lullaby, but melodies she seemed to make up, and words only she could understand. Every so often during the day I’d see her lift the doll’s dress and put a finger on the little printed heart that said
I Love You,
as if she were checking to be sure it was still there. Occasionally she’d bring the doll to me and ask, “Ut say?” and I’d tell her. Then she’d show Bobo the doll’s painted-on heart and explain, “Say wub-oo, Bobo.”

Teddy, Hanna Beth, and one of their day nurses, either Mary or Ifeoma, came by around midmorning, and the girls went outside to help with weeding the flower beds and gathering starts of Aunt Ruth’s heirloom plants. Teddy had begun the painstaking job of cleaning out the garden shed, and I took advantage of the time inside to paint.

Around noon each day, after Teddy left, the girls and I held a tea party, during which Bobo drank lemonade from a tiny cup and waited for falling scraps. On a whim, I brought a small iron table with three petite soda-shop chairs from the rec room at home. Together, the girls and I dragged everything through the wall of hollyhocks and furnished the summer kitchen.

After tea, we made sandwiches—more each day, it seemed—then we packed them into a grocery bag, and Cass took them home. Each day, I offered to drive her, and each day she declined, saying that she and Opal had plans to visit the Book Basket on the way. I took time once to look at the store she was so fond of. It was little more than a hole in the wall, just a crumbling stone structure I remembered as a gas station and repair shop, back in the day. Now, a hand-painted sign read, BOOK BASKET, NEW AND USED, with suns and moons and what looked like astrology symbols around the edges. On the portico and under a ragged tree out front, long strings of beads held glass bottles suspended, so that they waved and clinked in the dry breeze from passing cars. The old plate-glass windows were stacked high with yellowed paperbacks in all possible sizes. The place looked odd and mystical, like a fortune-teller’s shop, and not the sort of place children should be wandering into alone.

I’d considered stopping to meet the proprietor, whom Cass referred to as MJ, but whenever I happened by, the store was closed. I wanted to be sure the shop was a safe place for Cass and Opal to be spending time, but I was also curious as to whether this MJ could fill in some of the blanks in the girls’ living situation. Cass’s story changed daily, and as bad as it sounded, I suspected that the reality was worse. There was little point in asking, because when I pushed, she backed away. She was happy to come to Poppy’s and spend her days helping with chores and playing tea party, but that was it. She didn’t want me involving myself in her life, and she only occasionally asked about mine—as if it were perfectly natural for two people to spend time in proximity but never move beyond the surface.

I was surprised when she inquired about Poppy as we were painting some closet doors I’d had Teddy carry out to the back porch before he left. My renovations had moved far beyond their original scope, and on some level I knew I was making excuses to keep spending time here. So far there hadn’t been any indications of buyer interest in the house.

On the inside of one of the closet doors, we unearthed a growth chart of sorts, marking heights, and ages, and names. There were my mother’s marks, Maryanne’s, and mine on one side of the frame, and on the other, Jake’s and Christopher’s. There was even a growth chart for Bobo, undoubtedly put there at Jake’s request. The tallies ran in neat little columns that started near the bottom of the door and moved upward as the dates evolved.

Cass was fascinated that the house had seen two generations of my family grow taller than the little closet door.

“Did Poppy build the house all by himself?” she asked.

“Is a Pop-pee-howse?” Every so often, Opal popped up and echoed whatever Cass had to say. Then she’d sit quietly with Bobo and wait for an answer, her face open and inquisitive.

“More or less, he did.” Touching the closet door, I thought of Poppy, and had the strange realization that I hadn’t considered calling the detective about his case in over a week. “Poppy could build almost anything and fix almost anything. He was always finding broken bikes, and wagons, and toys in trash piles. He’d bring them home and repair them, and then he’d give them to kids he knew, or he’d set them out on the sidewalk for whoever wanted them.”

“Cool,” Cass said. “I asked my brother about fixing your burglar bars in front, and he said he could do it when he has some time off, if you want. Rusty’s good at fixing things. Like Poppy. He doesn’t fix toys, I mean, but he can fix other stuff.”

“Pop-pee toy?” Opal asked, her long lashes fanning upward in hope. Over the last several days we’d discovered toys and pieces of old board games hidden behind closet doors and tucked in the corners of upper shelves. We’d even found a naked Barbie behind the water heater and fashioned a dress from paper towels and twist ties.

“No, sweetie,” I told her. “Poppy doesn’t have any more toys around here. I think we’ve found them all.” I made a mental note to go through the closets at home and see if there were any leftovers Opal or Cass might like. For the most part, the boys’ childhood things had either been packed away or donated to church rummage sales long ago.

Cass leaned close to the door. “Who’s Jake?”

“What?”

“Jake.” She pointed to Jake’s name. “Who’s Jake?”

“My son.” I touched the marks, let my finger run along them, and was filled with memories. Poppy’s house was Jake’s favorite place. The summer we brought Jake home, Poppy had a garden out back. Rob was working long hours and it was lonely at home, so Jake and I often drove in to spend the day helping Poppy and Aunt Ruth with planting and weeding, harvesting and canning. Even though Jake was just three and knew only a few words of English, he understood the language of plants, and we gathered that he must have lived in one of the farming villages in the Guatemalan countryside. In the afternoons when he grew tired, we’d find him under the plants, drifting off to sleep. Aunt Ruth would bring out an old quilt, so Jake could curl up on the swing beneath the bur oak tree and fall asleep. I could still picture his tiny body, his skin brown and smooth, his dark hair falling in curls over his forehead, his lashes brushing his cheeks in inky streaks as his lips fell open with slow, steady breaths.

The swing was gone now. The rusty brackets that had held it lay with the rubbish and estate sale debris by the curb. I had the strang est urge to hurry to the pile, grab the brackets, and tuck into my car these things that had once held my son suspended above the ground. I’d show them to him and ask him if he remembered falling asleep on the old swing . . .

A slipknot of dread trailed behind the thought, and I stepped away before it could wrap around me. Of course I couldn’t show the brackets to Jake. He was gone. The little boy who slept on the swing was lost in the world again, wandering the marketplaces alone, searching for something he might never find.

“Oh.” Cass’s voice seemed far away, light and innocent in comparison to the dark images of Jake in a foreign country with no family and no means of support. “I thought you just had Christopher.” Over the past few days, Cass and Opal had inadvertently listened in on so many phone calls about Christopher’s accident that they talked about him as if they knew him.

“Jake is Christopher’s older brother.” I dipped the brush into the paint, then wiped the bristles against the rim and watched the excess drip away in thin, white streams. “Rob and I adopted him from Guatemala when he was three.”

Cass pulled her finger away from the door, then braced her hands on her hips and looked at me. “Really? Like in South America?”

“In Central America.”

“Whoa. Like on TV?”

“We didn’t think of it that way. We just knew we wanted children and hadn’t been having any luck.”

“Pppfff.” Cass laughed. “My mama always said all she ever had to do was look at a man and she’d get pregnant. I bet I’ll be like that, too. Someday, I mean. I don’t want any kids for a long time. Like after college and stuff.”

“That’s a good plan.” Looking at Cass, I tried to imagine her future. Where was the path from wandering the streets unsupervised, saddled with a three-year-old, to college and a family?

“Does he like to come here, too?”

“Who?”

“Jake. Does he like to come here, too?” As the shed cleaning had proceeded, I’d told Cass about Christopher’s desire to find the pocketknives and the wood carving tools—special treasures he remembered from his time with Poppy. I hadn’t mentioned that I’d been stalling Chris because I didn’t know how to explain the ongoing activity at Poppy’s house. Just considering it made it all seem more absurd. I could imagine what Rob, what Holly, what everyone would say if I told them I was driving across town every day to renovate a house no one cared about, to have tea parties with two little girls I barely knew, and to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which would be taken down the road and handed to whoever wanted them.

Rather than descend into self-analysis, I related the story of Poppy and Jake—their close relationship when we adopted Jake, their fishing trips and backyard engineering projects together, Jake’s decision to attend college close by so he could help care for Poppy, their baseball and football nights together, and the one night Jake didn’t show up, and what it led to, and Jake’s disappearance after the funeral. I’d almost finished the story when I looked into Cass’s face, took in her wide blue eyes, her small round nose just beginning to sharpen and mature, her lips parted slightly over two front teeth that still looked as if she needed to grow into them. I realized I was telling the story to a child, and it wasn’t appropriate.

I felt the dampness of tears on my face. “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my cheeks with the back of a painting glove.

Frowning, Cass stretched out her arms and hugged my waist. I heard Opal’s footsteps cross the porch; then I felt her wrap herself around my leg. Our embrace was awkward at first, but I surrendered to it, and we stayed there until Opal grew impatient and tried to shinny up my leg.

“Opal, stop,” Cass scolded, then picked her up and took her back to her toys. “You can’t, like, climb on people whenever you feel like it, and you’re gonna get paint on your clothes. I told you to stay over here.”

Opal’s pout lip made known her opinion of being left out. Cass ignored her and picked up a paintbrush again. We worked in silence for a while, painting the other doors, but not the one on which Poppy had charted family history. When we’d finished the others, we stood looking at it.