Writers & Lovers(47)

The door opens a little wider, and Jasper’s face hovers over the doorknob.

‘Let her in.’ John nudges Jasper out of the way.

I step inside. It’s not what I expected. I didn’t know I had expected anything until it wasn’t there. No entryway, no front hall, no doors or doorways. On the outside it’s a regular clapboard colonial, but inside all the rooms have been removed. The whole downstairs is one large space, walls painted bright white and a set of stairs that seem suspended by wires cutting a diagonal to the left and revealing an open section of the second floor. The kitchen is in the middle, with an island and bright red stools along its outer edge. Oscar has his back to me, bent over and fiddling with food on a tray in the oven.

‘Is Casey in the house?’ he says.

‘Casey’s in the house,’ John says.

‘She rode a bike,’ Jasper says.

‘Did she wear her helmet?’

I hold it up for the boys to see.

‘Yes!’

‘I can take that for you,’ John says.

Both boys are wearing button-down shirts and khakis. Belts around their small waists. Jasper already has a few smudges on his white sleeve. All three of them have damp hair, cleanly parted.

Oscar straightens up. ‘Twelve minutes on each side.’ His face is splotched, and his eyes are wild.

‘Hi there.’ I kiss him on the cheek. He feels stiff and far away. But handsome, in a navy linen shirt and jeans.

I put my backpack on one of the red stools and pull out a bag of chocolate chip cookies I made in my toaster oven, three at a time. I unzip the top. Jasper leans into the smell. John tells him he can’t have any until after supper then bends over the bag, too.

Oscar is busying himself in the fridge.

There are pictures taped to its door, drawings in crayon and colored pencil, most of them variations of a curved green line with bits of yellow at one end.

‘Is that a snake?’

‘No!’ Jasper says and slaps his head. ‘It’s a dragon!’

‘A fire-breathing dragon?’

‘Yes! A fierce dragon breathing out tons of fire!’

‘You’re screaming,’ John says.

Jasper jumps up and down and whispers, ‘Lots and lots of fire.’

The drawings are signed ZAZ at the bottom. ‘ZAZ?’

‘His nom de crayon,’ Oscar says at the sink, with a pretty decent accent.

‘What’s that?’ John says.

Oscar turns on the faucet to rinse the cucumbers and doesn’t answer.

‘A nom de plume is French for name, “nom,” of the pen, “de plume,” ’ I say. ‘Some writers don’t want to publish things under their real name, so they use a fake one, a pen name. Your dad said ‘nom de crayon’ because Jasper used a crayon not a pen. It also works as a double entendre, which is another French word and means ‘double meaning’ because ‘crayon’ in French means pencil, and you have a few pencil drawings here, too.’ I feel lightheaded after explaining this.

‘She’s giving me a lot more credit than I deserve, boys. A delightful trait, to be sure.’ He glances up at me quickly before he starts peeling the cucumbers. The skin falls off in long fat strips.

‘How can I help?’

‘Just keep educating the heathens.’

‘We got new juice boxes,’ Jasper says.

‘What’s a juice box?’

This makes them all laugh. They think I’m joking.

‘There’s kiwi-strawberry, peach-mango, and grape-something,’ John says.

I choose grape-something, and the boys run into a closet and fight over who will bring it to me. It’s decided John will take out the straw and push it through the little hole on top, and Jasper will hand it to me.

‘You would think Madonna has come over,’ Oscar says.

‘Don’t cry for me, Argentina!’ Jasper sing-shouts as John prepares my juice box.

‘You’re bursting my eardrums. Here.’

Jasper takes the box from John and hands it to me. ‘Thank you kindly.’

‘You’re welcome kindly.’ Jasper is still bouncing.

‘Do you need to wee?’ John asks him.

‘No!’

They watch me drink through the tiny straw. It’s sweet and chemical flavored. Oscar slices the cucumbers loudly on the cutting board. We drain our juice boxes and make noises sucking up the last drops. Somehow I remember the deck of cards in my backpack.

I pull them out. They startle me. I haven’t touched them since the gazebo in Pawtucket.

‘You like cards better than board games,’ John whispers.

‘Crazy Eights!’ Jasper says. ‘Do you know Crazy Eights?’

‘Of course.’ My mother taught it to me when I had chicken pox in kindergarten. I made her play for days.

We move to the living room area. The boys start to sit on the couch, but when I drop down on the rug they come join me and we all sit cross-legged, our knees bumping.

‘We do have chairs, you know,’ Oscar says.

‘You have to play cards on the floor.’

It’s a good deck. It’s old and flexible. The cards belonged to Paco’s grandmother. We ended up with them after visiting her in Zaragoza where we played Chinchón. Paco and I used to play gin rummy in bed. I forgot that. Sometimes we’d find cards between the sheets in the morning. They have a woven reed pattern on them. When I pulled them out of my bag in Pawtucket, Luke held them and said, ‘Ah, wicker,’ and I laughed so hard. I can’t say why.