Katie Chambers
Cindy DeAnda’s 8th Grade; Jeff Hill, Principal
Clarksville
Academy, Clarksville, Tennessee
The June I went to live with my grandmother,
the honeysuckle were heavy on
the garden gate and the air was thick with
summer. My mother ushered me out of the car and
piled my belongings in my arms, just so many
things she wouldn't have to bother with
anymore. A stuffed teddy bear tumbled from my
grasp, and she picked it up and hissed not to
drop anything else, or I would get it.
Tears began to well in my eyes, but I had no
free hands to chase them away. My mother,
suddenly businesslike, swept her hair behind
her ears, slicked down her dress, and rang the
doorbell all in one smooth motion. We must
have waited for five minutes, and then Mother,
frustrated, pushed open the screen door and
tried the knob. It yawned open, slow and soft, to
reveal the prettiest house I had ever seen. I
was breath-taken, awestruck. I couldn't move.
" Beverly Ann, you shut your mouth. You
want to frighten your grandmother away with that
ugly face?" my mother snapped. I could
only shake my head and stumble over the threshold
of this Eden, this complete and divine
perfection.
I could smell my Grandmother, and then hear
her, before I ever saw her. The only person
smells I had ever known were those of my
mother: her hands like hair dye, her breath like
stale coffee, her red lace dresses, identical,
six of them, like cheap perfume. When she came
home late at night, she was draped, no,
tangled in scents. There were fragments of smell about
her, like accidents, like she had walked
through a cobweb and come out in the faintest traces
of beer and cigarette smoke. But not my
grandmother. She smelled of cookies baking on a
Sunday morning, of talcum powder, of sixteen
different recipes .for shortcake. Of love.
I opened my mouth to tell my mother about the
smells, but she pressed her finger to her lips
and narrowed her eyes
to thin slits. And then I realized that I could hear Grandma, too,
if I listened closely enough, and there it was, her sound, her feet
slapping the butternut floor
with a kind of careful cadence, a kind of soft
poetry.
As the footsteps neared, I could feel my
mother stiffen beside me. "Remember, Beverly, little
girls are to be seen and not heard,"
Mother said in a kind of honeyed sing-song, cheap and false
as saccharine. She began to say something
else, too, but it was cut short by a squeak from me
and a gasp from my Grandmother, who had
rounded the bend in the hallway carrying a tray of
pie and milk, which she immediately set down.
She gathered my belongings in one fell swoop
and tossed them onto a nearby davenport. All
my earthly belongings, suddenly inconsequential ,
just ash to the winds. And then, with both our
arms emptied, she gathered me into her, held me
at arms' s length, took me back in, and then
dangled me from her again, laughing. I knew from
my mother that I was too big to be held, but
Grandma didn't know , and when she bugged me I
fit so perfectly into her I thought maybe that's what I had been made for. She
twirled
me around, and over her shoulder I could see
my mother, sucking on her cheek, checking her
watch, scratching the back of one ankle with
the toe on her Stiletto. My grandmother set me
down on the floor, crouching beside me, whispering she lovedmelovedmelovedme
and that I
really should have come sooner, and Honestly,
Claire, why didn't you bring her sooner? I
whispered back that I was so happy, happier
then I had been in the longest time.
We stayed like that for goodness only knows
how long. We talked some of the time,
talking fast and low and like we had to get it
all out now, like we didn't have all the time in the
world, which we did. And there were other
times when we just looked deep into each other's
eyes, trying to read what all was back there
besides tears. And it was one of these times that my
mother told me to get up off the floor, she
was going to be late if she didn't get on soon.
And it was one of those times that I didn't
listen, just went right on with what I was doing.
She said it again, louder, but I stayed. Then
she said my name, soft-like, coaxing, and when I still
just crouched there, she said it again. Her
voice cracked, and Grandma and I both heard it, both
knew. My mother took my forearm in her grasp,
and said, " It's all a mistake, Morn, Beverly
living here with you. I see it now. She'll
just have to come on with me, so come on, Beverly.
Come on." My Grandmother just raised her
eyes from me to my mother, and said quietly,
"Maybe it's just me, Claire, but I think
she might be happier if she just stays on. Is it so,
Beverly?"
And I said yes,
And nobody said anything else. Grandma
returned her eyes to me and asked me what color
I'd like my room to be painted, come fall. And
my mother just let her fingers slide one by one
from my arm, curling themselves up like little
wilted flowers. My grandma and I just stayed on
like that, talking fast and low, and I could
hear my mother crying in a scratchy sort of way
behind me. And when we were talking, I think
talking about milking the cows, I heard her pick
up her purse and start for the door. I could
feel her eyes on my hair, my back, my hand,
lingering, but I didn't turn. My grandmother
whispered that she never knew what she had 'til it
was gone, my mother, and I bit my lip and
nodded, only half knowing. But we kept talking.
But like when dogs sense when
storms are brewing or cats scatter when an earthquake
comes, I knew she was still behind me,
watching, waiting, but that she was nearly gone. And
then she was gone.
The last I heard from my mother
were her gentle steps on the floor, more gentle than I
had ever known her to be. And later, her
little sigh, like feathers, as she shut the door,
composing a soft poetry all her own.