father?
“Rodney needs your help,” my mother explains and folds her hands neatly in her lap. The phone rings and my mother goes to answer it. Rosa is at the grocery store.
“I’ll just leave Rodney to explain,” she says.
The phone is ringing again. It sounds more urgent. Phones do that when you don’t answer. They just get louder with every ring. But phones don’t matter to me right now. I won’t talk even if it’s for me. It is. “I’ll just call them later,” I say to my mother all casual-like, but really my heart is bouncing in my chest like it’s on a trampoline.
“You need my help?” I turn to Rodney trying to act perfectly normal, but my voice is at least an octave higher than normal. God! I hate myself when that happens. It did that the first time I talked to Anthony, too. Maybe I have a defect and my larynx is connected to my heart.
“Are you alright?” Rodney asks.
I shake my head, and clear my throat.
“Frog,” I explain, then, “What do you need my help with?” Talk of marriage will have to wait.
“With my grandmother’s things. My mother can’t stand the thought of going through them and my aunts have left it up to her.” Rodney stands up and rubs his chin.
“Think you could help me out?”
Could I?
“It won’t take long,” he says.
It can take forever, gladly! I see myself sorting through Mrs. Reed’s things for the rest of my life: Rodney is beside me, there’s streaks of gray in my hair, thick-soled shoes on my feet, an apron around my waist.
“No problem,” I say, pretending I’m my same old self and really my insides are jumping in circles.
My mother walks back into the room.
“So, do you mind helping Rodney?” she asks.
“Not at all.”
“I can go with you, if you like.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I’m—I’m fine. Really.” If she goes along it will ruin everything.
I’m not exactly sure what we’ll be doing while we sort through her things, but I don’t care, I’ll act like I’m well versed in it.
“Well then,” my mother says. “We’ll see you two later. I’ve invited Rodney to dinner.”
She’s invited Rodney to dinner! My mother’s invited Rodney to dinner! My mother has absolutely, positively invited Rodney to dinner. My brain is stuck in one gear.
“You ready?” Rodney says and motions with one hand toward the door. I follow him across the street to his grandmother’s house. There’s a large moving van parked in the driveway.
“We’re just going to sort through her clothes. They’ll get the rest,” he says.
I nod my head.
“You can show me what you think my mother might like to keep, for later, when she’s feeling better.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure if I’ll know what that might be.
***
“Handkerchiefs,” I say.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Your mother, she might like to keep these,” I say and point to the small stacks of hankies resting in neat little rows in Mrs. Reed’s top dresser drawer.
“Think so?” Rodney says, and I nod.
“And this,” I say, gently folding a lemon yellow shawl. “Whenever I saw your grandmother she usually had this on,” I explain. “I’m sure you’re mother will appreciate having it.”
Rodney smiles. “Then she shall have it.” He takes the shawl and places it in the small box on the bed. The handkerchiefs go in next. I don’t want this to end.
“I think the jewelry case is something your mother will want to go through on her own.” I hand him the case which is encrusted with little pearls and shells in all different sizes.
“Alright,” Rodney says. “I think that about does it.”
It’s taken hours but we’ve managed to sort through all of her clothing. Rodney decides Mrs. Reed’s church can distribute them as they see fit. We grouped them by seasons, the heavier ones on the bed, the lighter items draped on the chair with the matching ottoman. Sweaters are on the dresser. Blouses are neatly folded and sitting right next to them.
“She had a lot of
“Rodney needs your help,” my mother explains and folds her hands neatly in her lap. The phone rings and my mother goes to answer it. Rosa is at the grocery store.
“I’ll just leave Rodney to explain,” she says.
The phone is ringing again. It sounds more urgent. Phones do that when you don’t answer. They just get louder with every ring. But phones don’t matter to me right now. I won’t talk even if it’s for me. It is. “I’ll just call them later,” I say to my mother all casual-like, but really my heart is bouncing in my chest like it’s on a trampoline.
“You need my help?” I turn to Rodney trying to act perfectly normal, but my voice is at least an octave higher than normal. God! I hate myself when that happens. It did that the first time I talked to Anthony, too. Maybe I have a defect and my larynx is connected to my heart.
“Are you alright?” Rodney asks.
I shake my head, and clear my throat.
“Frog,” I explain, then, “What do you need my help with?” Talk of marriage will have to wait.
“With my grandmother’s things. My mother can’t stand the thought of going through them and my aunts have left it up to her.” Rodney stands up and rubs his chin.
“Think you could help me out?”
Could I?
“It won’t take long,” he says.
It can take forever, gladly! I see myself sorting through Mrs. Reed’s things for the rest of my life: Rodney is beside me, there’s streaks of gray in my hair, thick-soled shoes on my feet, an apron around my waist.
“No problem,” I say, pretending I’m my same old self and really my insides are jumping in circles.
My mother walks back into the room.
“So, do you mind helping Rodney?” she asks.
“Not at all.”
“I can go with you, if you like.”
“Oh no,” I say. “I’m—I’m fine. Really.” If she goes along it will ruin everything.
I’m not exactly sure what we’ll be doing while we sort through her things, but I don’t care, I’ll act like I’m well versed in it.
“Well then,” my mother says. “We’ll see you two later. I’ve invited Rodney to dinner.”
She’s invited Rodney to dinner! My mother’s invited Rodney to dinner! My mother has absolutely, positively invited Rodney to dinner. My brain is stuck in one gear.
“You ready?” Rodney says and motions with one hand toward the door. I follow him across the street to his grandmother’s house. There’s a large moving van parked in the driveway.
“We’re just going to sort through her clothes. They’ll get the rest,” he says.
I nod my head.
“You can show me what you think my mother might like to keep, for later, when she’s feeling better.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure if I’ll know what that might be.
***
“Handkerchiefs,” I say.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Your mother, she might like to keep these,” I say and point to the small stacks of hankies resting in neat little rows in Mrs. Reed’s top dresser drawer.
“Think so?” Rodney says, and I nod.
“And this,” I say, gently folding a lemon yellow shawl. “Whenever I saw your grandmother she usually had this on,” I explain. “I’m sure you’re mother will appreciate having it.”
Rodney smiles. “Then she shall have it.” He takes the shawl and places it in the small box on the bed. The handkerchiefs go in next. I don’t want this to end.
“I think the jewelry case is something your mother will want to go through on her own.” I hand him the case which is encrusted with little pearls and shells in all different sizes.
“Alright,” Rodney says. “I think that about does it.”
It’s taken hours but we’ve managed to sort through all of her clothing. Rodney decides Mrs. Reed’s church can distribute them as they see fit. We grouped them by seasons, the heavier ones on the bed, the lighter items draped on the chair with the matching ottoman. Sweaters are on the dresser. Blouses are neatly folded and sitting right next to them.
“She had a lot of
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