The Things We Keep(28)

Everyone looks at me, even Legs. I don’t know what to say. Every time I ask someone, they tell me something different. Mom says it was an accident. Nana says Daddy had a sick head. The man who talked at Daddy’s funeral said Jesus took him somewhere. I don’t think anyone knows what happened to Daddy. Except that he went to Heaven, which is in the ground.

“He was old,” Legs says when I don’t say anything. “And sick.”

Sometimes I really love Legs.

And Miranda says, “That’s not what my mom said,” Miranda says.

I frown. “What did your mom say?”

Everyone looks at Miranda. She takes a long time to answer. I want to grab her face and make her answer right away.

“She said he died because that bastard was too scared to face the music.”

Everyone goes really quiet. I don’t know what that means, but I do know that “bastard” isn’t a nice word. Also, I know it’s not true. Daddy wasn’t even scared of going into the basement at night or of Maleficent when she turned into the giant snake in Sleeping Beauty. He would never be scared of music.

“What music?” Legs asks.

“Don’t know,” Miranda admits. “Probably some really scary music.”

The bell rings and Miss Weber tells us to line up in two straight lines. Miranda runs to the front and seems to forget all about the music and how Daddy died, but I keep thinking about worms and Heaven and what was so scary about that music.





10

When I get out of class, Mom is waiting. She’s wearing a white shirt and jeans and flat shoes and she’s standing by herself instead of with the other moms. I remember how, before, Mom used to wear earrings and a skirt and shoes like Miss Weber’s. And she stood in the center of the group of moms.

I wave at her, and she pulls a gingerbread man out of her purse and puts it up to her face so it sounds like it can talk.

“Hello,” it says. “I’m First-Day Fergus. Please don’t eat me!”

“Of course I won’t eat you, Fergus,” I say—then I bite his head off. Mom and I giggle.

Usually after school, I stay and play for a while so Mom can chat to Legs’s mom, but today we leave right away. As we walk, I ask, “Was Daddy scared of music?”

“No,” Mom says slowly. “Why?”

“No reason,” I say, feeling relieved. Then I ask, “Are the worms eating Daddy?”

Mom stops walking. “What?”

“Miranda says if you’re in the ground, worms eat you.”

Mom says something quietly that sounds like cheeses. Then she says, “Daddy’s in Heaven, remember?” She gives me a little sideways cuddle. “I’m sure he’s watching over us.”

I hate it when people say this. I don’t want Daddy watching over me. I want Daddy here. So he can walk me to school tomorrow and do the funny voices of the witches when he reads Witches Wear Britches to me before bed.

“How did he die?” I ask.

Mom looks at me. “We’ve talked about this, Clem. It was … an accident.”

“Was Daddy a … bastard?”

Mom doesn’t say anything for a while. And then, “Did Miranda say that, too?”

“Yes.”

Mom squats down. “People might say things about Daddy, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about. Who knows Daddy the best in the world?”

“We do,” I say.

“That’s right.” She smiles a little. “Anyway, did Miranda even meet Daddy?”

“Once. At my fairy princess party.”

“Just that once?” Mom says. “Well, what would she know?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “What would she know?”

Mom winks. Then she stands and we start walking and I don’t worry anymore, because I know that Daddy wasn’t scared of any music, and Miranda doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

*

I play outside for a while before Mom calls me for dinner. By the time I’ve washed my hands and got to the dining room, there’s only one seat left, next to a bald man. I wriggle onto it.

“Hey!”

I look up. He’s frowning.

“That’s Myrna’s seat.”

“Oh.” I slip off the seat quickly. The bald man is very cranky. “Sorry.”

Another lady puts her arm around me. She’s soft and has yellow hair and smells of flowers. “Why don’t you sit here, darlin’, right by me?”

I like this lady. She has a nice smile and a funny voice, slow and long, like the people in the The Princess and the Frog. I sit beside her.

“Now, let me see,” she says. “You must be about … six?”

“I’m seven,” I say. I do not look six.

“Ah, I apologize. I have a great-granddaughter who is six. Or”—she frowns—“maybe she’s seven? With twenty-seven great-grandchildren, it’s hard to remember them all.”

I agree that does sound like a lot to remember.

“I’m Clara,” the lady says. “This is my husband, Laurie.”

“I’m Clementine,” I say, forgetting to change it. Sometimes I like to pretend I have a different name. I don’t know why, it just makes me feel good to pretend.