“Can’t we just go down and look?”
She hesitated. Then she made herself smile. “Sure, we can go down and look,” she said. “I think there might be a can of soup somewhere. I can walk down the stairs with you. But you know I don’t like going into the kitchen, June. The kitchen’s so close to the door. Anything can come through the cracks. And we could get very sick, June. I don’t want us to get very sick.”
“I know,” I said. “But I don’t think anything bad is going to happen.”
“You can’t know for sure,” said Mother.
“I do know for sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and reasonable the way Daddy always used to do. “Nothing’s going to come through the cracks, Mother. Nothing ever comes through the cracks.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “One time it did.”
I took her hand and helped her out of bed. I led her down the stairs one footstep at a time into the kitchen. She walked on tiptoes and kept her eyes on the wall, as though the faded white surface could save her somehow. I brought her to the threshold and left her clutching the carved wooden banister, halfway into the kitchen, halfway out. Then I let go of her hand and bounded into the pantry on my own.
She was right. There was one can of soup left.
I knew where the can opener was from the Chef Boyardee Ravioli Uncle Toby had brought the week before. I found the dented saucepan under the sink even though it had a dead bee inside it. I emptied the bee onto the floor and stepped on it.
We had an antique stove, which I had to light with a wooden match. The lit gas made a blue halo around one burner. I stirred the soup with the wooden spoon and pretended that I was the mommy cooking good wholesome meals for her baby girl, and I wanted to feed her and feed her so her tummy would be full and she could grow.
See, little baby? Mommy loves you.
I stirred and hummed the kind of song I thought a cooking mommy would make.
Soon the heat from the antique stove and the heat from the summer day and the heat from the steaming soup filled the kitchen.
I poured the steaming soup from the saucepan into a bowl and then carried the bowl to the empty table, still pretending to be the mommy and the baby so happy to sit and eat together. Mealtime. Mealtime. Come and get it.
I sat down in the chair.
I dipped a spoon into the soup and fed myself a tiny sip.
Here you go, baby. Good for you. Yummy soup.
But then when I tasted it, I suddenly realized I couldn’t get it to go down fast enough with my spoon, even when I sipped and sipped one spoonful after another.
I spooned soup so fast into baby’s open mouth, she slurped and burbled. So hungry, Mommy. So hungry I can’t get full.
I put the spoon down and picked up the bowl. There were noodles and carrot squares and tiny wonderful cubes of chicken. I raised the steaming bowl to my lips and drank and drank until soup rolled down my chin.
One afternoon, soon after Ziggy moved in, Nana Jean brought an old calico quilt and a wicker basket onto the lawn. I perched in the tree and pretended I was sitting on the quilt along with them. We were a family. Ziggy and I were twins and Nana Jean was our mommy and we loved to be together. Come over here, children. I have something delicious for you. There’s room on the quilt for everyone.
Ziggy’s long hair was tied back in a braid. He wore a purple unicorn T-shirt. Nana Jean wore a green sleeveless sundress and a wide yellow sun hat with a curved brim that made her look like a daisy.
Watching her take the food from the picnic basket was so beautiful, it made me dizzy.
First came the basket of strawberries covered in a white cloth napkin. Then came the plate piled with more sandwiches than anyone could ever eat: egg salad and tuna salad and ham and cheese, all on white bread with the crusts cut off because that is the way we like them.
Then came the two cans of grape soda that said pssssshhh when we popped the tops. I pretended that Ziggy and I were drinking from the same can. He took a sip. Then I took a sip. It gave me a make-believe purple-cow mustache so sweet and so purple, I had to lick my lips and close my eyes to taste it.
Ziggy held a slice of ham out to Matthew, who sat on his haunches and snatched it with his pink hands. Then Ziggy threw another slice onto the sidewalk, and Matthew skittered away, grabbing it in his mouth and returning to his people, springing on all four feet and chattering as he went.
I was so hungry, it made my eyes water to see the ferret eating their leftovers, but then I remembered I was pretending that I was eating too, and I held an invisible sandwich in my hands, the bread all fluffy and white, and sank my teeth in.
Egg salad. My favorite.
Nana Jean, you make the best sandwiches in the whole world.
Thank you, June Bug. I sure do love you.
I disappeared into my imagination, make-believe eating sandwiches and make-believe hugging Nana Jean and Ziggy for almost half an hour until the Crowley boys came screeching down Trowbridge Road on their bikes.
Ziggy wandered to the curb and watched them riding back and forth, playing chicken, pedaling full speed at each other and then swerving at the very last second, screeching with laughter until John-John lost control of his bike and fell off.
“Stupid fairy,” said Buzz, who had a shaved head and a voice that was so ugly, it made my skin crawl.
“No, you’re the fairy, fairy!” said John-John, scrambling back onto his bike and wiping the dirt off his knees.
“No, you are,” said Buzz.
Ziggy started laughing from his place on the curb.
“What’s so funny?” said Buzz.
“You,” said Ziggy. “Neither of you looks even remotely like a fairy.”
“Oh, and you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” taunted Buzz.
“Actually, yes,” said Ziggy. “I happen to know a great deal about fairies. For instance, most fairies have diaphanous wings. Also, they’re generally much skinnier than either of you. Plus, they have large vocabularies and don’t like loud noises. Or vehicles with wheels.”
Buzz jerked his bike violently, and Ziggy doubled over, laughing.
“A fairy would never do that,” he said.
“So, I guess that makes you king of the fairies,” said Buzz.
“No,” said John-John, coming closer to his brother’s side and snickering. “He’s the queen, right, Buzz? That’s why he’s dressed like that and he’s got all that long hair like a girl.”
Ziggy stopped laughing and considered this.
“Ziggy,” called Nana Jean from the quilt, patting the ground beside her, “come back and finish your lunch! Bernard! Jonathan Junior! You two boys better head on home now.”
John-John made a horrible face at Ziggy while Buzz looked on, smiling.
“Hey!” shouted Nana Jean. She pulled herself up from the quilt and marched to the curb with her hands on her hips.
She gave Buzz and John-John a smoldering look that could have burned a hole through rock. “Don’t you dare be mean to this boy,” she said. “He’s been through enough. Now you turn those bikes around and ride back home before I call your mama and tell her you two rude boys are disturbing my peace. You know, I was your mama’s sixth-grade teacher once upon a time, and she was scared witless of me. I can be right nasty when I mean to be, and you do not want me calling to complain about you. So get along home. And leave this boy alone. You hear me?”