Chapter Thirty-Three
Judah and Evangeline were back in the dreams that don’t work – a hazy reinterpretation of church, meeting in a dark-hallways school, thousands of paper cut-outs waiting for Sunday School. Evangeline was fine and normal, but Judah was a foot shorter and… Korean.
“Mom?”
– The chubby face peeks out from his chocolate brown comforter [once ours] and The Bear’s expensive pillow, bunched over him on the linoleum. –
“Can I eat on the floor today?”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what they used to do in the old times.”
I don’t ask which old times, specifically. He can’t eat cinnamon rolls on the floor, but he will willingly emerge to play King of Crackers’ Condo, the contents of one sticky roll already in his stomach…
“More!” he gravely-voices from the stove. “More muffins! More!”
Muffins, rolls, whatever. The sugar hops him up, inspires him to beatbox a rap into my shoulder, jumping up and down, happy inside from warm pastry. If it can be called pastry. The Bear wakes up, growling around. He doesn’t like cinnamon rolls if they’re not mostly brown, but he doesn’t really care that much. He walks next door to Tasha’s. Tasha, planning her mother’s funeral with a computer that is…
“Eighty-nine point six five percent hacked,” says the foreign gentleman she can’t understand over the phone…
…which doesn’t make any sense of course. The Bear investigates. Sun is back for the second day now. Frozen breeze in cracked oak leaves. I wonder if the crazy man survived the night without his clothes. Or if they found him. Puck fortifies himself on our bed with six pillows and the eggplant throw blanket from Costco, stashing Crackers in a corner of it, and piling the heavy red plastic tool chest of matchbox cars in the center. He requests my help to play, laughing under a new hair cut. Well. I had busted out the sharp silver-snapping hair scissors that morning, and hacked at the wheat-blonde scraggles. Straight scraggles though. Shiny stuff flew, scissors and patches of hair. Puck wasn’t pleased, but once the deed was done, he didn’t care anymore. The Bear walks back in the door as Puck and I sit down to Wahoo, swirly glass marbles in red and yellow. The morning is warming over a little. And Tasha’s computer problems have been addressed. I wiggle my white gold sapphire engagement ring off with one finger to unlock the library door. I deliver another plate of chicken fajitas and sweet peppers…
“Lunch?!” The Bear exclaims.
Maybe that’s where Puck finds his excitement. Blankets of sky fluff roll in around that time. Puck and I share some Stax potato chips before he begs a Quiet Hour in the basement instead. I oblige. The Bear is slugging it out with participles in the back. He’s actually starting to like grammar. By the time the afternoon is completely gray, we finally drive out. The world is a little frayed this time of year. The time taxes come in weather-wrinkled white envelopes with no color inside. The zip is out. The air is flat. Maybe that’s why Iceland is still happy even in March. They like the cold better, the gray worlds.
Orange-haired Izzy is back. His little gold car is parked in the driveway to join Theodore and The Bear at the movies. Puck is happy to see the uncle he sees once a month or so. They have a wrestling match, which is mostly just Puck laughing hysterically while being tickled, and play a game on The Bear’s iPad. Gloria offers tea. A battered white mug – the kind you know has been used a lot and enjoyed – blueberry. I watch the purple melt into the clear around the pouch of herbs and dry things. The cat is happy for the cold. It means comfort. Gloria has allowed her in again, padding down the sand-colored couch, surveying. Izzy is now sliding Puck across the floor on his bum. I check in with Francis. He has spent all morning finally completing his Eagle project, directing the young scouts with Little Caesar’s for reward. Four benches for church placed out front the doors. Thirteen days before the deadline. Now the older folks have a place to sit while waiting for their rides after services. So now both of my brothers, and Wally – who might as well be Joe’s brother anyway, have contributed to the church on the old farm. Puck peels a banana. Gloria and I – mostly Gloria – push Puck on the swing in the cold. Pockets of light dipping through blue. Puck works up an appetite for the grass-fed chicken inside long after the guys are gone to the movies. Fire with the click of a button. Gloria shares her fuzzy socks with us; Puck slides on the floor with them…
“I really like these socks. They’re so comfortable,” he examines the pink and purple spots. “Even if they’re for girls…”
Gloria finds an old Netflix film about a boy and a wild bear cub in Florida. Puck watches, wide eyes. Sebastian watches, too, then naps on the black ombre rug. Saturdays are times for Gloria and I to swap information from the week. We usually get through all the kids, all eight. And often other kids surrounding the old days if anything is relevant. So many mini networks within the network. So many people, so many stories. Gloria sets out a fresh loaf of bread with butter to go with dinner. She won’t eat it, but Puck will. And a lot of it. Puck cries a little over the bear film, too. His chin quivers. But he is figuring it out, a little at a time. What to do about sad things. Gloria sends us off with the other loaf of bread, half a bottle of juice for Puck, and a hand-sized marzipan, because she knows I like it.
“Should I park the car in the garage tonight?” The Bear mumbles to himself as we pull up the driveway, hesitating a minute. “Naw… It’s not supposed to snow or anything, right?”
I fall asleep after eleven, knowing it’s a mistake with the alarm set for six.