dropped apple, addressed to Cat and me, Mama’s name in the left-hand corner.
I’d watched Cat walk up the front path from the mailbox, slowly, as if caught by the camera in slow motion or in a series of what Grandfather called stills: Cat smiling. Cat looking eager. Cat, her face suddenly unfolding out of a smile. She brushed past me at the front door and opened her hand, the letter falling to the table.
“No return address,” she said flatly. My grandmother stirred soup on the stove 7 and looked sideways at me. After a moment she looked away again.
Grandfather, cleaning his camera lens with lens paper, lifted his shoulders in a sigh, the way he always did when he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “I expect—” he began. Grandma’s voice made me jump. “Marcus!” Then softer. “Let it be.” Cat began to cut carrots at the kitchen counter. My grandfather flinched with each violent stroke.
“I think (thwack) that what Grandpa (thwack) means is that there will be (thwack) money in that envelope. Not words.”
Cat stopped and stared down at the counter, the sudden silence like noise filling the room.
“Not the words you want,” Cat said softly.
I felt tears behind my eyes. There was something soft and sad in Cat’s voice that made me think of Mama.
Grandma stopped stirring the soup, and Grandfather cleared his throat.
“You will be disappointed,” he said.
“I’m not disappointed,” I said loudly. “I’m not!”
I reached over and tore off one end of the envelope, blowing inside the way Grandfather always did.
Inside were two small packets of money, the bills fastened with paper clips and a torn piece of paper on each. One said CAT. The other said JOURNEY. The paper clip over my name was bent, as if Mama might have tried to make it right and hadn’t. I stared at that paper clip for a long time.
“There are words,” I said. My voice rose. “There are words! Our names are there. Our names are words!”
There was silence. The sound of my voice hung in the air between us. Cat turned to face me.
“Journey, you keep the money. Do whatever you want with it.”
She began to cut the carrots again, this time calm and steady.
“I’ll put it in the bank,” I said. Grandmasmiled at me from the stove. Grandfather peered at her through his camera and snapped a picture. I stood, suddenly angry, wanting him to stop taking pictures.
“I’ll start a travel account!” I shouted.
Surprised, Grandfather put down his camera.
“So that when Mama tells us where she is, Cat and I can go visit! We’ll take a bus … or a train. Something fast.”
I looked down at the letter in my hand.
“She forgot the return address,” I said.
Cat turned at the counter to stare at me.
“She forgot, that’s all,” I said softly.
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and came over and put her arms around me. I smelled onion and something like flowers, lilacs maybe, and I burst into tears.
“Ah, Journey,” Grandma murmured.
I heard the click of Grandfather’s camera. “Why does he do that?” I asked, my voice muffled in Grandma’s shoulder. I leaned back to look at Grandfather. “Why do you do that? Why?”
“Because he needs to,” said Grandma softly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know,” she whispered.
* * *
My bedroom was sun-dappled and quiet, the smell of lilacs strong through the open window, mingling with the lily-of-the-valley from under the bush outside.
“Journey?”
The door opened and Grandma stood there with a bowl of soup in one hand, an album in the other. She set the bowl on the table by my bed. Then she opened the album. It was full of pictures, pictures of people I didn’t know— men in black suits and white starched shirts and broad-brimmed hats, women in flowered dresses, and children with bows as big as balloons in their hair. Grandma pointed.
“Me,” she said, “when I was Cat’s age.”
In the picture Grandma sat in the garden swing,
I’d watched Cat walk up the front path from the mailbox, slowly, as if caught by the camera in slow motion or in a series of what Grandfather called stills: Cat smiling. Cat looking eager. Cat, her face suddenly unfolding out of a smile. She brushed past me at the front door and opened her hand, the letter falling to the table.
“No return address,” she said flatly. My grandmother stirred soup on the stove 7 and looked sideways at me. After a moment she looked away again.
Grandfather, cleaning his camera lens with lens paper, lifted his shoulders in a sigh, the way he always did when he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “I expect—” he began. Grandma’s voice made me jump. “Marcus!” Then softer. “Let it be.” Cat began to cut carrots at the kitchen counter. My grandfather flinched with each violent stroke.
“I think (thwack) that what Grandpa (thwack) means is that there will be (thwack) money in that envelope. Not words.”
Cat stopped and stared down at the counter, the sudden silence like noise filling the room.
“Not the words you want,” Cat said softly.
I felt tears behind my eyes. There was something soft and sad in Cat’s voice that made me think of Mama.
Grandma stopped stirring the soup, and Grandfather cleared his throat.
“You will be disappointed,” he said.
“I’m not disappointed,” I said loudly. “I’m not!”
I reached over and tore off one end of the envelope, blowing inside the way Grandfather always did.
Inside were two small packets of money, the bills fastened with paper clips and a torn piece of paper on each. One said CAT. The other said JOURNEY. The paper clip over my name was bent, as if Mama might have tried to make it right and hadn’t. I stared at that paper clip for a long time.
“There are words,” I said. My voice rose. “There are words! Our names are there. Our names are words!”
There was silence. The sound of my voice hung in the air between us. Cat turned to face me.
“Journey, you keep the money. Do whatever you want with it.”
She began to cut the carrots again, this time calm and steady.
“I’ll put it in the bank,” I said. Grandmasmiled at me from the stove. Grandfather peered at her through his camera and snapped a picture. I stood, suddenly angry, wanting him to stop taking pictures.
“I’ll start a travel account!” I shouted.
Surprised, Grandfather put down his camera.
“So that when Mama tells us where she is, Cat and I can go visit! We’ll take a bus … or a train. Something fast.”
I looked down at the letter in my hand.
“She forgot the return address,” I said.
Cat turned at the counter to stare at me.
“She forgot, that’s all,” I said softly.
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and came over and put her arms around me. I smelled onion and something like flowers, lilacs maybe, and I burst into tears.
“Ah, Journey,” Grandma murmured.
I heard the click of Grandfather’s camera. “Why does he do that?” I asked, my voice muffled in Grandma’s shoulder. I leaned back to look at Grandfather. “Why do you do that? Why?”
“Because he needs to,” said Grandma softly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know,” she whispered.
* * *
My bedroom was sun-dappled and quiet, the smell of lilacs strong through the open window, mingling with the lily-of-the-valley from under the bush outside.
“Journey?”
The door opened and Grandma stood there with a bowl of soup in one hand, an album in the other. She set the bowl on the table by my bed. Then she opened the album. It was full of pictures, pictures of people I didn’t know— men in black suits and white starched shirts and broad-brimmed hats, women in flowered dresses, and children with bows as big as balloons in their hair. Grandma pointed.
“Me,” she said, “when I was Cat’s age.”
In the picture Grandma sat in the garden swing,
Similar Books
