Buzz and John-John stared at her red-faced.
“I said, do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” muttered John-John, looking down at his feet. “We hear you.”
Buzz seemed like he was going to say something hotheaded, but instead he kicked his brother in the shin, and the two boys yanked their bikes around and pedaled back down Trowbridge Road toward their house.
“I don’t like those boys,” said Ziggy.
“Neither do I,” said Nana Jean, putting her arm around his shoulders.
“They remind me of the bullies who bothered me at school this year.”
“The ones who made fun of your hair?”
“Yes,” said Ziggy. “And other things.”
Nana Jean took the elastic from Ziggy’s braid and undid his red hair so it was long and fell past his shoulders. It looked very cheerful and bold against his purple T-shirt.
“What if I take you downtown today and we get your hair cut and maybe buy you some new clothes?” Nana Jean asked.
“I don’t want new clothes,” said Ziggy. “And for your information, all magical beings have long hair. If I cut my hair, I won’t be able to teleport anymore.”
“Is that so?” asked Nana Jean.
“Yes,” said Ziggy. “It is.”
Nana Jean smiled at him with her eyes so filled with love, it almost broke my heart. “Well, come on, then,” she said. “Let’s finish our lunch and try to forget about them. You and me, we are way too fine to let small-minded folks like that bother us.”
Nana Jean led Ziggy back to the quilt and offered him a deviled egg, which he took and liked. After that, she gave him a strawberry, and after that, a chocolate macaroon, which I could taste without even closing my eyes, and finally, when we were all full of real and imaginary things, Nana Jean put the leftovers back in the basket and Ziggy lay down with his head in her lap to look at the clouds.
Nana Jean ran her fingers through his long red hair, working at the tangles, strand by strand. Then, when it was clear she was going to need better leverage, she hoisted herself up and led him back to the porch steps, where she sat behind him.
She worked gently, coaxing out the snarls. It must have felt good to have someone’s hands making your head less complicated. Nana Jean hummed while she worked, the boy wedged between her knees like a cello. She combed and hummed, taking up one frayed snarl and worrying at it until it came apart like strands of silk.
For the rest of the afternoon, they simply existed together. Nana Jean worked on her macramé owl while Ziggy and Matthew chased each other around the lawn, the boy in his purple unicorn T-shirt, throwing pinecones, the ferret leaping through the grass to find them. Sometimes Nana Jean threw back her head and laughed at something Ziggy said or did, and he grinned with crooked teeth, returning from the lawn to the porch steps every few minutes for a hug or a kiss.
I pretended I was one of them, getting kisses and hugs until five o’clock, when Ziggy began to look sleepy. Now when Nana Jean kissed him, he leaned in for longer, letting his shoulders slump, his head drooping against her. Nana Jean put her arm around him and led him slow and easy back into the house. They held the door open for Matthew, who skittered inside, thin and sleek as a wisp.
Long after Ziggy and Nana Jean went in for dinner, long after the fathers came home and all the other kids disappeared into the mouths of their houses, long after the neighborhood started to darken and the sleepy golden evening lights turned on behind the windows, I crept from the copper beech tree and trudged the one, two, three houses down and across the street to number twenty-eight. I took off my shoes, wiped the world from my skin the best I could, and tiptoed up the narrow staircase to our small white room.
“You’re late today,” Mother said from the pillows.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost track of time.”
“What were you doing out so late?”
“Climbing trees.” A half-truth.
Mother surprised me by smiling and pulling herself up. “I used to love climbing trees when I was your age,” she said, delighted. She hugged the white blanket around her. “I was one of the best tree climbers in my whole school.”
“You were?”
“Oh yes,” she said, her eyes far away. “Oh yes. Nothing scared me back then. I would climb up and look out at the world. You can see so many things from the top of a tree. So many beautiful things.”
“I know,” I said, smiling at her excitement. “I like that too. Maybe next time you could come out with me. I bet you could still climb trees if you tried.”
“No,” said Mother. “I couldn’t.” She slumped back down on to the mattress and curled toward the pillows again.
I wanted her to be better so badly, it was worse than being hungry. I started to climb toward her into our bed, but Mother took a deep breath through her nose and her face contorted into a horrible mask.
“Wait,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.
“What?”
“Go wash up first. Your hands and your face, especially. You smell a little.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” said Mother. “You definitely smell. Use soap and hot water. Then you can come back, and we can read our books together until it’s time to go to bed. Please, June Bug. Wash. And then come back to me. That’s my sweet girl.”
I did as I was told. Even though it was barely eight o’clock and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep for hours, especially on an empty stomach.
I filled the sink with hot water and used the soap to scrub my hands and face, rubbing back and forth across my lips until I was fresh and clean.
Then I found my book and climbed back into bed.
I lifted the covers and lay down beside her, turning toward the wall. I opened the book and pretended to read, but the lines were all blurry on account of my tears.
“I missed you today,” I said to the wall.
“I missed you too, sweetheart,” said Mother, her voice far away. “I always miss you waiting here all alone.”
But I knew I was not the one she really missed.
Most nights Daddy would come home late, long after Ryles Jazz Club was closed and the last outbound Green Line train from Boston pulled into Newton Highlands station.
He would walk through town in the dark and into our sleeping house, still dressed in his favorite patchwork coat and his faded linen shirt. He would put his satchel by the door, pour himself a glass of wine, and fall asleep at the kitchen table, where we would often find him in the morning, with his cloth fedora still tipped over his eyes.
He was tall and willowy like a dancer. Soft-spoken. His eyes were deep and gray and he had such long eyelashes that whenever I looked at him, I was moved to take his hands into my own and stroke them.
When I was small enough to fit in his lap, I would cuddle up and scratch my fingers into his beard and kiss his chin until my lips tickled. This was before the virus left him a pale shadow lying in the hospital bed we set up for him in the dining room so he wouldn’t have to climb the stairs.
The dining room was the first place to fill with morning light, and it had a high ceiling so he wouldn’t feel quite so closed in. Mother hired men to carry out the dining room table and move in the grand piano so he could spend the day playing music. When he was tired, he could lie down in the hospital bed. When he needed a bathroom, he could stagger across the hall.