The Princess of Las Pulgas (32 page)

Mr.
Smith
says.

“Nope,”
is
all
Jeb
tells
him.

Mr.
Smith
shakes
his
head.
“I
was
young.”

“Like
my
father
told
you,
you
should
have
known
better,
all
the
same.”

From the window over the
sink I watch the three of them cross the orchard and disappear
around the barn. Keith is jabbering away, and Jeb points this way
and that, just like a tour guide.
And
who’s that other cowboy next to them? What did Jeb do with Mr.
Smith—the one good thing I found at Las Pulgas High?

“They seem to like each other,” Mom says.
Her batter sizzles as she tips the pan to spread it evenly.

“I guess you’re talking about Keith and
Jeb.”

“Yes, but Mr. Smith, too. It’s nice to have
some men around, isn’t it? It makes a difference for Keith.”

“Jeb
isn’t
Dad.”

Mom
flips
a
crepe
from
the
pan.
“No,
he
isn’t,
but that’s
not
the
point,
Carlie.
When
Keith’s
with
Jeb,
I
see
my son
the
way
he
used
to
be.
I’m
counting
on
Jeb
to
help
me
get
Keith
to
go
back
to
school.”

“So
he’s
using
Mr.
Smith
to
make
Keith
cooperate?”
I
can’t
mask
the
acid
in
my
reply.

“Yes,
that’s
part
of
his
plan.”

“Some
plan.”
I
hate
that
we’re
already
sniping
at
each
other.
But
why
can’t
she
see
that
Jeb
causes
more
problems
than
he
solves?

“Stop,”
Mom
says
as
she
taps
her
spoon
on
the
side
of
the
pan.
She
removes
the
crepe
pan
from
the
heat
and
leaning
against
the
counter,
she
rubs
her
temples.
“I
want
Keith
back
in
that
school.
I
want
him
to
run
cross
country
again,
to
come
back
to
life
the
way
he
was,
instead
of
letting
anger
chew
up
a
little
more
of
him
every
day.
If
it
takes
a
hundred
Jebs
to
help
him,
you’re
going
to
have
to
learn
to
accept
every
one
of
them.”

Then
Mom
takes
me
in
her
arms,
rocking
me.
I
keep
my
eyes
closed
and
let
her
hold
me.
I
feel
like
a
child—small,
scared,
and
broken.

That’s how I feel—small,
scared, and broken.

“I want my life back the
way it was,”
I
tell
her.
”

“You
can’t
have
it
back,
Carlie.
None
of
us
can.
We
all
need
to
move
on.”
Mom
tightens
her
arms
around
me,
then
holds
me
away
from
her
so
she
can
look
into
my
eyes.
“Your
dad
would
tell
us
that
same
thing.”
She
cups
my
chin
in
her
hand.
“And you know I’m
right.”

Yes
. For months he’s told me, and for months I haven’t listened.
I haven’t wanted to hear it.

“Let’s finish the crepes
before those three characters come back.”

I’ve seen Mom make crepes a
hundred times, and one by one, the perfect French pancakes
grow
into
a
small
stack,
waiting
for
the
diced
apples
already
scenting
Jeb’s
kitchen
with
cinnamon
and
sugar.

“Why
don’t
you
fill
and
roll
these,”
Mom
says
as
she
sets
the
crepes
on
the
table.
“I’ll
start
the
dishes.”

I
finish
the
crepes
and
station
myself
at
the
kitchen
window
just
as
Mom
stacks
the
last
clean
pan
on
the
shelf.
The
three
men
come
from
behind
the
barn
and
stroll
toward
the
house.
Quicken
trails
behind
them,
sleek
and
fat,
and
clearly
very
happy.

At least your cat found a happy ending,
Carlie.

Keith’s
talking,
using
his
hands
to
punctuate
his
words.
Mom’s
right.
My
brother
is
different
when
he’s
with
Jeb—and
I
hate
that.
Why
can’t
he
be
himself
without
this
bossy
interloper?

“It’s time to move on, Carlie love.”

Dad’s
voice
is
so
close
to
my
ear,
I
can
feel
the
rush
of
air
from
his
breath,
like
when
I
was
small
and
he’d
tuck
me
into
bed.
He’d
whisper,
“Sleep
tight,
Carlie
love.”
Out
of
habit,
I
reach
u
p
and
almost
expect
to
touch
his
cheek.
But
there’s
only
an
empty
space
where
he
should
be.

When
the
three
men
enter
the
kitchen,
Jeb
picks
up
his glass.
Mr.
Smith
and
Keith
do
the
same.
“To
Keith’s
summer
job.”

Mom
wipes
her
hands
and
finds
her
glass.
She
holds mine out to me, her eyes slightly moist and
hopeful.
Please, Carlie,
her eyes ask.
Please
.

I
take
the
sparkling
cider
and
drink,
but
my
toast
is
silent and different from theirs:
To
moving on.

Jeb
sets
his
glass
down
and
picks
up
an
oven
mitt.
“Now,
let’s
see
if
this
dinner’s
ready.
Everybody
hungry?”

“I’ve
been
ready
to
eat
since
I
first
smelled
that
stew
of
yours,”
Mr.
Smith
says.

“Good.
Carlie,
you’re
in
charge
of
setting
the
dining
room
table.”
Jeb
opens
the
oven
and
lifts
a
large
pot
from
inside.

Mom
pulls
out
a
drawer
and
counts
out
the
flatware.
When
she
gives
it
to
me,
she
mouths,
“Thank
you.”

At
dinner
I
eat
and
listen
to
the
conversation
that
goes back
and
forth
across
the
table,
as
Mom,
then
Mr.
Smith,
then
Jeb
or
Keith
tell
stories.
My
brother’s
become
quite the
talker
and
in
a
reversal
of
roles,
I’m
now
the
silent
one.