hurt me. I might have to put the pillow over my head
when Mr. Dobbs snored too loudly or when my sisters had a farting contest, giggling as if they’d invented it. Even so, I knew
I was all right. I let myself fall asleep because at least for that night I wouldn’t wake later with a start, feeling that
something bigger than me was on my chest or maybe
in
it, taking all the air away, taking too much.
I N THE PARKING LOT of Donut Planet, a giant sugar-dunked cruller spun above the store, looking more like a flying saucer on a lightning rod
than anything you might eat. We sat in the car — my sisters and I, Keith and Tanya — while Granny went inside for donut holes
and chocolate milk. It was barely light, and we were on our way to the Gospel Lighthouse for Easter service 1973. To save
time, Keith and Tanya had spent the night at Granny’s, but the plan backfired. We were up past two, talking under our blankets,
and Granny, who had the hearing of a prize pointer, was up too, telling us to quit our yammering every hour or so. Now we
were tired, cranky, all pushing elbows and knees in the backseat.
After a particularly endless sermon, there was a picnic, complete with egg hunt and enough mayonnaisey potato salad to fill
a sedan. We gathered with the other kids in our good clothes, the boys wearing vests and striped clip-on ties, the girls in
floppy flowered hats and white gloves bought or saved especially for Easter, put away for the rest of the year. At the preacher’s
signal, the hunt began with a shriek, though for most of us the best part — waking to Easter baskets filled with hollow chocolate
rabbits, marshmallow Peeps and jelly beans, all resting on squeaky plastic grass — was over. That year, we got two baskets,
one from Granny and one from the Clapps. We’d come into the Clapps’ kitchen Friday morning to find the baskets sitting on
the table where our plates should be. Wrapped in purple cellophane with floppy yellow ribbons, the baskets were bigger than
anything we would ever get from Granny. I stared at my basket as if it couldn’t possibly be real, but it was. There were the
jelly beans I could hold in my hand like change, parceling them out so that by the time I had a red one, I wouldn’t quite
remember what the last red one had tasted like. Was it cherry or strawberry or that unplaceable
red
flavor, sweet enough to choke on?
The baskets were real, so did that mean something had changed? Would Mrs. Clapp get up from her chair and do something motherly?
Hug us, maybe, or say she was sorry? I waited without committing to it, touching the cellophane on my basket gingerly, as
if it might give off a shock.
A FTER THE PICNIC, WE started the drive across town toward Keith and Tanya’s, past the old airport with its empty blue tower, and neighborhoods
dotted with Easter decorations, plastic eggs on strings in the shrubbery and accordioned paper rabbits hippity-hopping in
picture windows. Usually we sang gospel songs in the car because that’s what Granny liked to hear, but that day we sang “Leader
of the Pack” with Keith growling the motorcycle part. We sang “Sherry” and a deafening “If I Had a Hammer” that hit its peak
as we rounded the corner onto their street. Then we were silent because parked in the driveway with its tires well onto the
lawn was a police squad car. Another car was parked in front of the house, and several officers stood on the porch next to
Vera, who for some reason still wore her bathrobe. She drew both hands to her mouth when she saw us drive up and seemed not
to know whether to run back into the house or toward our car. Granny looked rattled too. She told us to wait there while she
went to talk to Vera, but Keith wouldn’t. He crawled over us to get to the door, making a half-sobbing, half-coughing noise
as if he somehow knew already what the police were about to tell Granny: Deedee was dead.
There were hours of
when Mr. Dobbs snored too loudly or when my sisters had a farting contest, giggling as if they’d invented it. Even so, I knew
I was all right. I let myself fall asleep because at least for that night I wouldn’t wake later with a start, feeling that
something bigger than me was on my chest or maybe
in
it, taking all the air away, taking too much.
I N THE PARKING LOT of Donut Planet, a giant sugar-dunked cruller spun above the store, looking more like a flying saucer on a lightning rod
than anything you might eat. We sat in the car — my sisters and I, Keith and Tanya — while Granny went inside for donut holes
and chocolate milk. It was barely light, and we were on our way to the Gospel Lighthouse for Easter service 1973. To save
time, Keith and Tanya had spent the night at Granny’s, but the plan backfired. We were up past two, talking under our blankets,
and Granny, who had the hearing of a prize pointer, was up too, telling us to quit our yammering every hour or so. Now we
were tired, cranky, all pushing elbows and knees in the backseat.
After a particularly endless sermon, there was a picnic, complete with egg hunt and enough mayonnaisey potato salad to fill
a sedan. We gathered with the other kids in our good clothes, the boys wearing vests and striped clip-on ties, the girls in
floppy flowered hats and white gloves bought or saved especially for Easter, put away for the rest of the year. At the preacher’s
signal, the hunt began with a shriek, though for most of us the best part — waking to Easter baskets filled with hollow chocolate
rabbits, marshmallow Peeps and jelly beans, all resting on squeaky plastic grass — was over. That year, we got two baskets,
one from Granny and one from the Clapps. We’d come into the Clapps’ kitchen Friday morning to find the baskets sitting on
the table where our plates should be. Wrapped in purple cellophane with floppy yellow ribbons, the baskets were bigger than
anything we would ever get from Granny. I stared at my basket as if it couldn’t possibly be real, but it was. There were the
jelly beans I could hold in my hand like change, parceling them out so that by the time I had a red one, I wouldn’t quite
remember what the last red one had tasted like. Was it cherry or strawberry or that unplaceable
red
flavor, sweet enough to choke on?
The baskets were real, so did that mean something had changed? Would Mrs. Clapp get up from her chair and do something motherly?
Hug us, maybe, or say she was sorry? I waited without committing to it, touching the cellophane on my basket gingerly, as
if it might give off a shock.
A FTER THE PICNIC, WE started the drive across town toward Keith and Tanya’s, past the old airport with its empty blue tower, and neighborhoods
dotted with Easter decorations, plastic eggs on strings in the shrubbery and accordioned paper rabbits hippity-hopping in
picture windows. Usually we sang gospel songs in the car because that’s what Granny liked to hear, but that day we sang “Leader
of the Pack” with Keith growling the motorcycle part. We sang “Sherry” and a deafening “If I Had a Hammer” that hit its peak
as we rounded the corner onto their street. Then we were silent because parked in the driveway with its tires well onto the
lawn was a police squad car. Another car was parked in front of the house, and several officers stood on the porch next to
Vera, who for some reason still wore her bathrobe. She drew both hands to her mouth when she saw us drive up and seemed not
to know whether to run back into the house or toward our car. Granny looked rattled too. She told us to wait there while she
went to talk to Vera, but Keith wouldn’t. He crawled over us to get to the door, making a half-sobbing, half-coughing noise
as if he somehow knew already what the police were about to tell Granny: Deedee was dead.
There were hours of
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