On Pointe (18 page)

“What is that beautiful sound?” Mabel asks.

“Oh, it's Grandpa.

We found out yesterday

he can play the harmonica.”

Mabel hums the tune

and goes back in the house.

The two

together

sound beautiful.

She fed him breakfast

like it was no big deal,

and it took half as long as when

Mom or Dad do it.

“Race ya!” she called,

and zoomed through Grandpa's room

tidying up everything

before I could get my own done.

Of course, mine was much messier than his

at the start.

Now she's ironing his shirts,

pressing perfect creases down the arms.

I brush out Mija, who stretches and purrs.

“It can get kind of boring

around here sometimes.”

“How 'bout a game?” The iron steams up

around Mabel's arm.

“You want to play a game?”

“No. How 'bout a game for you and

your granddaddy?”

“Like what?”

“How 'bout checkers?”

“I think we have a set somewhere.

You want to play checkers, Grandpa?”

He grunts.

“Okay.”

Who ever would have thought

of that?

Mabel sets down the phone.

“That wasn't your mother

checking on us again.

It was Bruce. He asked me to tell the family

Mr. Lawrence can go ahead

and keep that harmonica.”

“That's nice. Did you hear that, Grandpa?”

He's smiling.

He heard all right.

We face off

at the coffee table.

“Are you sure he can do this, Mabel?”

“Give him a chance,” she says.

The pieces shake in Grandpa's hand,

and sometimes he bumps the board.

But he can play.

He wins the first game.

I win the second.

Grandpa bangs his armrest,

but he's grinning.

I scoop up all the black and red circles

and dump them in the box.

“Good game.”

Mabel comes into the living room.

“Mr. Lawrence, would you like a cup of coffee?”

He grunts yes.

“I'm going out to garden.” I stand.

“Alrighty, then.”

Mabel pulls Grandpa back

and whisks him to the kitchen.

She is super strong.

But so big. What's that like?

To have so much more of you

all around your bones.

To shake and jiggle

when you move.

I felt how soft it is

when she hugged me.

Soft and round.

I poke my hip bone

pushing out against my jeans.

It's a hard, sharp edge.

I suck my stomach in

till it caves backward.

I can't imagine

what it's like

to be fat.

The pansies are getting leggy,

spreading out real far.

I pinch off the wilted flowers.

Each plant looks stronger

without the dead stuff hanging on.

Mabel's hums slip out the window to me.

Grandpa joins her with his harmonica.

What is that song?

I pull a ladybug off my sleeve

and set it on a rose leaf.

“A mighty fortress is our God,” Mabel

sings loudly.

Oh, yeah. That's a little familiar.

Did they sing it at the prayer meeting?

I stand up. Her deep alto voice

vibrates into my muscles.

Such a powerful song.

I bring my arms up to fifth position

then down again.

Relevé

and take a deep bow

on the last note.

Perfect.

Mabel tosses the salad.

“Nothing like fresh basil leaves

in a salad. Mmhm. That is some garden

you have, Mr. Lawrence.”

Grandpa grins.

I pull out a chair and sit down.

Mija circles Mabel's wide ankles.

“And you sure do have

a beautiful kitty,” she adds.

Grandpa waves at the cat.

“You have a beautiful voice, Mabel,” I say.

“Well, thank you.”

“Did you ever sing professionally?”

“Oh, for a bit.”

She adds some dressing to the lettuce

and pops a couple olives into her mouth.

“I did sing for a time on stage,

but I didn't enjoy it.”

“Why not?”

“Why not. Well.” She chomps

a cherry tomato. “I found

when I sang professionally,

it wasn't as fun for me. The nerves,

the practices, the pressure.”

“Yeah. I know what you're saying.”

“Before I knew it,

all the beauty and fun of singing

were gone.”

She tosses the salad.

“I know some people can go out

and sing

and the performing fills them up.

That was never me.”

“Huh.”

“Yep. So I stopped

and sang again for myself

or sometimes for the church.

All my joy for song came back.”

“Because you were doing it for you?”

“Exactly.”

I look at Grandpa.

He's beaming.

I wander downtown.

It's nice to be able to go

alone.

Having Mabel to be with Grandpa

is going to be great.

I'll read in the park,

then get a cup of tea.

Everything is so normal,

even when our lives have totally changed.

I walk down the busy sidewalk,

right by the conservatory.

I'm not afraid of it.

“Excuse me,” says a woman pushing a double

stroller.

I lean back against the wall

so she can get by.

My fingers brush the smooth brick.

“And one and two,” Madame's voice

sifts down from the floor room windows.

My fingernails rake the rough mortar.

“And reach. Hold it. Hold it. Release.”

I pull away from the building

and flow with the crowd

down the sidewalk.

On the other side of the street,

Tommy's talking to Elton outside the bookstore.

It's great to see Elton!

Tommy looks pretty cute in street clothes too.

I wonder if he acts any more decent?

Elton sees me and waves.

I wave back.

He gestures for me to come over.

But the crosswalk is way down at the end

of the block,

and traffic is thick.

Now Tommy gives me a little wave too.

I give a good-bye, see-you-around shrug.

Hopefully they buy it.

They don't need to waste their time

talking to me.

I'm sure they are super busy

with rehearsals,

like Devin said.

What do I have

to talk to them about anyway?

Mom and Dad come home.

He starts dinner while she fusses all around

making sure Grandpa is okay.

Mabel gets ready to leave.

“You'll come back, won't you?” I ask.

“Surely, surely.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

“Okay.”

“So long now.”

“Bye,” I call,

and watch her drive away

in her long beige car.

She has to

come back.

“Clare, where are my olives?”

I look away from the TV.

“What, Mom?”

“I had a jar of olives in the refrigerator,

and they're gone.”

“Oh, I think Mabel nibbled on them today.”

I stretch out on the couch.

She doesn't leave.

“But I just bought the jar.

It was full.”

“Yeah.”

“So, those were special Greek olives.

They were expensive.

Imported.”

“She said they were really good.”

“Well, this won't do.

Not at all.

This will not do.”

“Mom.” I click off the TV.

“Mabel is worth

a jar of olives.”

She stares at me,

then walks away.

“She's great, Dad.”

We scootch Grandpa into bed.

“That is such a relief, Clare.

Mabel seems like a very nice person.

How's that, Lawrence?”

Grandpa nods.

Dad arranges his pillow.

I put the harmonica on his nightstand

with his glasses.

“Night, Grandpa.”

“Sleep well,” says Dad.

He flicks off the light,

and I follow him to the kitchen.

Mom's off-key voice

sings out from the shower.

Dad and I grin.

“Never did sound good,

but she loves to sing

and gives it all she's got.” He laughs.

“Mabel used to sing professionally,” I say.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

We load the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.

“That must have taken a lot of work.”

“She didn't say. But I guess so.”

I clink one plate against another.

“Here.” Dad makes a space for me

to slip a dish into the rack.

“She said she didn't enjoy singing professionally,

so she sings for herself now.”

“I can understand that.”

I dry my hands on the towel.

“I never really thought of doing that before.

I thought that'd

kind of be like failing

or something.”

Dad leans back against the counter

and looks at me.

“How can it be a failure

if she enjoys what she's doing?”

“Yeah. I know. That's what I'm saying.”

“Good.” He ruffles my hair.

“Dad,” I moan.

He does it again.

In my dream

I'm dancing.

Not learning to dance

or working at the barre.

I'm really dancing.

But not on a stage.

It's Grandpa's garden.

I twirl faster

and leap higher.

I'm turned inside out

and feel as beautiful

as the flowers.

I can see myself.

Dancing.

Happy.

Could I?

In the morning

I plié at the end of my bed.

Shorts and a T-shirt sure let you move.

I frappé, grand battement,

and hold an attitude.

Could I, for myself?

I toe step over to the dresser

and tilt the mirror to see my face.

Could I?

I brush back my hair

and pin it into a bun.

Maybe

I could.

“Mabel, you don't need to do this,” says Mom.

“Nonsense.” She serves up breakfast

for Mom and me.

“Mr. Dwight and Mr. Lawrence

already ate. You two dig into those toads.”

“Toads?” I ask, staring at my e
gg

in the center of a piece of bread.

“Toad-in-a-hole. You all never had this before?”

Mom and I shake our heads.

“The e
gg
is the toad

sitting snug in the bread. Go on.

You can trust a girl from Mississippi.”

We take a bite.

“Mmmm,” we say together.

“Best toad I ever had,” says Mom.

“Well, I don't know about that.” Mabel

sets the iron skillet in the sink. “I've had

some good

frogs' legs before.”

“Eewwww,” I say.

And we laugh.

Grandpa looks up from his morning TV show

to give Mom a kiss.

“Have a good day,” she says to him,

“and be sweet to Mabel.”

He smiles.

“What's that, Mom?” I ask.

“What?”

“That fancy notebook.”

“Oh, that.” She blushes

and shoves it farther down into her book bag.

“It's a blank book for writing.

If inspiration strikes or something.

If someone should happen to think of words

to write down.

It's for that.”

I go with her to the front door.

Dad honks from the car.

“Writing what words?”

“Maybe some poetry.

A little haiku.

Cinquain.

You never know.”

“Really? I never knew you wrote stuff.”

She kisses me on the cheek.

“I don't,

but it's always been

sort of a dream.”

“Cool.”

I watch her hurry to the car.

Knowing Mom,

it won't be a haiku,

it'll be

an epic ballad.

“Let's load,” says Mabel

from my bedroom doorway.

I look up from my magazine.

“What?”

“I got your granddaddy ready

and packed a lunch.

Let's go for a hike.”

“Hike?”

“Sure. It's a treasure of a day.”

She zips off.

A hike with Grandpa?

I pull on some socks and dig out

my hiking boots.

Who knows?

But I can't wait to find out.

“This van is a beaut.”

Mabel pulls through the intersection.

“You okay back there, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Grumpphher.”

“Good,” she says.

“Are you going to be comfortable

hiking in your dress, Mabel?”

“Surely, surely.”

“How are we going to hike anyway?”

“Most parks have a few paved trails

for wheelchairs.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“Okay.”

I have a feeling

there's not much arguing you can do

with Mabel.

My boots clomp on the asphalt.

We pass a few couples

on the trail.

“Afternoon,” says Mabel.

The people smile

and head down the hill

as we head up.

Little alpine trees