Page 14 of Wrong Number, Right Unicorn

We fell into step, not talking, just pacing along the sidewalk in a comforting silence. I hoped Errol was experiencing it the same way.

“This is a nice neighborhood. Has Grams lived here long?”

“Since she was married in her early twenties.”

She must’ve had neighbors that could look out for her, but Errol couldn’t expect people living next door to act as caretakers. It was fortunate that Errol worked as a trainer at a nearby gym. He was freelance, so he made his own hours, and with Grams being poorly, his hours had been reduced.

When Errol opened the door, a voice singing off-key greeted us. I recognized the song. It was from an old movie, one my grandfather had loved because he watched it as a teen with his folks.

Following Errol, we walked into the kitchen. Grams was clutching a raw chicken by its wings and dancing around the table.

Is that hygienic?my unicorn asked.

Forget the chicken.

“Grams, what are you doing?”

She stopped and stared at Errol, her expression one of confusion.

“Darling, are you quite well?” She put a hand to his brow. “No fever.”

“Grams, what?—?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m cooking.”

Gods, this was worse than I imagined.

“Have you eaten?” Errol put an arm around her and attempted to pry the chicken away.

“No, silly.” She jerked her chin at the chicken. “I’m cooking dinner.” She drew in a deep breath. “Can’t you smell it? Roast chicken with all the trimmings is your favorite.”

Errol flashed me a glance that I interpreted as “I’m sorry.”

“Roast chicken is my favorite too,” I told her.

“Good. As long as you’re both not starving, dinner will be ready in ninety minutes.”

“Grams,” Errol protested. “We just ate.”

The older woman patted her grandson’s tummy. “But you’re a growing boy. You need energy for your football game on Saturday.”

Errol’s eyes filled with tears, and I jumped into the conversation. “That sounds amazing. Can I help you with anything? Peel the potatoes, perhaps?”

Grams patted my arm. “Thank you, dear, but you and Errol go and finish your homework.” She tried shooing us out of the kitchen, but I needed to make sure she washed her hands.

Rubbing soap on my hands, I stuck them under the running water and sang, “This is the way we wash our hands, wash our hands…”

Grams squeed. “I always sing that to Errol because he gets so dirty playing in the sandbox.”

With everyone’s hands washed, I grabbed paper towels and patted the chicken, making sure to toss the towels in the garbage and wash my hands again. I turned on the electric oven to a high heat and crossed my fingers it would kill any bacteria. My folks used to rinse raw chicken in vinegar, but I’d since learned that safety experts agreed that was a no-no.

Errol didn’t move as he stared at his grandmother and the chicken that I’d placed on a wooden chopping board. I steered him into the living room.

“Let her be. If it gets dropped on the floor, we’ll think of something to divert her attention and trash it.”

Luckily, the stovetop and oven were electric, ‘cause if they were gas, I would have insisted Errol disconnect it. “And if the food israw, we can shuffle it around on our plate and pretend to eat. If it’s cooked, you can have the leftovers tomorrow.”

“She might cut herself.” He peered around the corner with me at his side. Grams had already peeled and chopped the potatoes, so she’d bypassed that catastrophe.

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