him that you appreciate his feelings, but you're just not interested." She patted my hand. "Your time will come." She went back to the kitchen.
I wouldn't have to tell Malcolm that I wasn't interested, because he had left Nordby.
He had wished me a long and healthy life. Even if he turned out to be sane it didn't matter. He had gone.
I picked up another bill, this one from Acme Supply Company. Thirty days overdue.
Another from Visa was also thirty days overdue. If only we could just throw them in the trash and be done with them, like bad sardines.
"Good-bye, Katrina. Good-bye, Anna. Good-bye, Irmgaard," The Boys called, the front door closing behind them.
"Grandma?" I went into the kitchen. "Did you see the late fees on these bills? They add up to hundreds of dollars."
She waved me away. "Not now, Katrina. I'm not feeling well. I'm going to lie down."
She gripped the handrail and slowly pulled herself up the stairs. Going to bed at 4:30
in the afternoon wouldn't solve our money problems, but sometimes, crawling under the covers is the only thing a person can think to do.
I started to wipe down the counters, when Irmgaard opened her purse and took out her wallet. She held out two twenty-dollar bills.
"Oh, thanks, Irmgaard, but I'm sure things aren't that bad," I said. "We'll work it out."
She frowned and put the money on the counter.
"You know Grandma won't accept that." I picked up the bills and tucked them back into her purse. Irmgaard didn't have money to give away. No customers meant no tips.
I changed the radio station. Irmgaard never seemed to mind. Getting lost in the music always made cleanup go faster. As I hummed, the image of Malcolm with his eyes closed kept popping into my head. Did he know how perfect his face was? Did he know that even with those ragged clothes he was gorgeous? Watching him standing there, I had wanted to lean forward and kiss his lips. I didn't even know him and I had wanted to kiss him.
A sudden tap on my shoulder nearly gave me a heart attack. Irmgaard stood next to me, her coat and hat on. "Closing time already?" I asked.
She bit her lower lip and looked away, uncertain about something.
"What's wrong?" I turned down the radio.
She pulled a small book from her coat's pocket--one of those little gift books that you find near a cash register. The gold foiled title was Angels Among Us. She waved it at me. "Is it for me?" Irmgaard had given me tons of gifts over the years, remembering every birthday and every holiday. On Easter she always brought a basket of chocolate eggs, on Valentine's Day she brought a bottle of drugstore perfume. She didn't have kids of her own, so I always figured I was sort of her surrogate kid.
She pointed to the image on the cover, one of those religious paintings from the Middle Ages. The person in the painting was robed, with large wings on his back and a golden halo radiating from his head. I took the book. "It's an angel," I said. She nodded eagerly, then motioned me toward the front door. She opened the door, then motioned again.
We stood outside the shop and Irmgaard pointed up the sidewalk. Then she pointed to her skirt. I was clueless. She tugged at her skirt. "I don't get it," I said.
We went through this all time. It was a game called What is Irmgaard trying to say?
Vows of silence can be really annoying. Certainly they can create an aura of mystery and even reverence, for any kind of vow takes dedication, but if you're going to be silent, then you'd better develop a keen ability to play charades, or you'll drive everyone crazy.
She pointed--sidewalk, skirt, sidewalk, skirt.
"I still don't get it."
She sighed, walked up the sidewalk, then stopped. She held out her hand, palm up, as if balancing something. She pointed to her hand, then to her skirt, then to the sidewalk. Over and over and over.
Oh. "Do you mean the guy who was standing right here on the sidewalk, holding the sample cup? The guy wearing the kilt?"
She nodded, then took
I wouldn't have to tell Malcolm that I wasn't interested, because he had left Nordby.
He had wished me a long and healthy life. Even if he turned out to be sane it didn't matter. He had gone.
I picked up another bill, this one from Acme Supply Company. Thirty days overdue.
Another from Visa was also thirty days overdue. If only we could just throw them in the trash and be done with them, like bad sardines.
"Good-bye, Katrina. Good-bye, Anna. Good-bye, Irmgaard," The Boys called, the front door closing behind them.
"Grandma?" I went into the kitchen. "Did you see the late fees on these bills? They add up to hundreds of dollars."
She waved me away. "Not now, Katrina. I'm not feeling well. I'm going to lie down."
She gripped the handrail and slowly pulled herself up the stairs. Going to bed at 4:30
in the afternoon wouldn't solve our money problems, but sometimes, crawling under the covers is the only thing a person can think to do.
I started to wipe down the counters, when Irmgaard opened her purse and took out her wallet. She held out two twenty-dollar bills.
"Oh, thanks, Irmgaard, but I'm sure things aren't that bad," I said. "We'll work it out."
She frowned and put the money on the counter.
"You know Grandma won't accept that." I picked up the bills and tucked them back into her purse. Irmgaard didn't have money to give away. No customers meant no tips.
I changed the radio station. Irmgaard never seemed to mind. Getting lost in the music always made cleanup go faster. As I hummed, the image of Malcolm with his eyes closed kept popping into my head. Did he know how perfect his face was? Did he know that even with those ragged clothes he was gorgeous? Watching him standing there, I had wanted to lean forward and kiss his lips. I didn't even know him and I had wanted to kiss him.
A sudden tap on my shoulder nearly gave me a heart attack. Irmgaard stood next to me, her coat and hat on. "Closing time already?" I asked.
She bit her lower lip and looked away, uncertain about something.
"What's wrong?" I turned down the radio.
She pulled a small book from her coat's pocket--one of those little gift books that you find near a cash register. The gold foiled title was Angels Among Us. She waved it at me. "Is it for me?" Irmgaard had given me tons of gifts over the years, remembering every birthday and every holiday. On Easter she always brought a basket of chocolate eggs, on Valentine's Day she brought a bottle of drugstore perfume. She didn't have kids of her own, so I always figured I was sort of her surrogate kid.
She pointed to the image on the cover, one of those religious paintings from the Middle Ages. The person in the painting was robed, with large wings on his back and a golden halo radiating from his head. I took the book. "It's an angel," I said. She nodded eagerly, then motioned me toward the front door. She opened the door, then motioned again.
We stood outside the shop and Irmgaard pointed up the sidewalk. Then she pointed to her skirt. I was clueless. She tugged at her skirt. "I don't get it," I said.
We went through this all time. It was a game called What is Irmgaard trying to say?
Vows of silence can be really annoying. Certainly they can create an aura of mystery and even reverence, for any kind of vow takes dedication, but if you're going to be silent, then you'd better develop a keen ability to play charades, or you'll drive everyone crazy.
She pointed--sidewalk, skirt, sidewalk, skirt.
"I still don't get it."
She sighed, walked up the sidewalk, then stopped. She held out her hand, palm up, as if balancing something. She pointed to her hand, then to her skirt, then to the sidewalk. Over and over and over.
Oh. "Do you mean the guy who was standing right here on the sidewalk, holding the sample cup? The guy wearing the kilt?"
She nodded, then took
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