Page 32 of Skeletons in the Closet

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have a biscuit and tea. Boone’s working late. I don’t feel like cooking.”

“You need more than that. You’re too skinny. Birdie’s cooking. Remember Birdie?”

“The boys like me skinny.”

“Oh, do they? What boys would they be?”

“The ones at the barn dance. Boone can’t keep his eyes off me. Now, where’s he at?”

“Probably still working.”

I didn’t have the heart to constantly remind her of Grandpa’s death. It had been sixteen years, but with her mind going, she always wondered where her husband was. He was always on hisway home. Sometimes, she thought he was still at war and would constantly check the mail to see if he’d written.

Nana had been a little girl when Boone fought in the war. They hadn’t met or married until long after, but you’d never know it with how she went on sometimes. Other days, she told people Boone had run to the store for milk so she could have tea. Regardless, it was easier to tell her he was at work than dead. I couldn’t handle seeing her grief over and over again. Despite their generous age difference, they had been soul mates, and seeing her live her final days without Boone was sad.

Birdie poked her head into the living room, cooking spoon still in hand. She had a penchant for wagging it around when she talked. “D-ham. Help with the balls. Wind, wind, wind. I can’t do it. It hurts my hands. I have the arthritis, you know?” She made a fist with the one not holding the spoon. “It cramps.”

“No problem, Birdie Bird. I’ll take care of it.”

While Nana worked on her rows and Birdie returned to the kitchen, I found a skein of yarn in Nana’s basket and made it into a ball so she could knit with it. Nana owned a ball-winder, but neither she nor Birdie could figure out how to use it. I couldn’t be bothered digging it from the closet. Nana had taught me to wind balls of yarn as a kid. It had been one of the most important jobs in the world, so taking time to help now gave me a warm feeling in my chest. A touch of nostalgia.

Nana chatted while I worked. She had a way of saying a whole lot without saying anything at all. But it was nice to listen to her voice. She talked about the olden days when she was a girl picking daisies in the field. She talked about her sister, Martha, who was long gone. She called me Boone and reprimanded me for shaving my hair again. “I like it better when I can run my fingers through it.”

“I’ll think about it, Nana.”

“Remember those earrings you gave me?” she asked.

“Which ones?”

“The ones with the pearls.”

“Oh yeah. What about them?”

“They’re gone. Haven’t seen them in an age.”

“They’re in your ears, Nana.”

She put her knitting on her lap and touched the lobes. “Well, I’ll be. You found them. I’ve been looking for them.”

“Mystery solved.”

“You always were good at investigating, Boone. No one ever got the jump on you, did they?”

“Never.”

I’d finished one skein and was about to make headway on another when a door slamming upstairs made me stiffen.

Nana perked up. “Oh, Boone’s home.”

Only it wasn’t Boone. Heavy, stomping footsteps crossed the ceiling, then my father’s voice sounded in a half shout. I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew without hearing them that they would be followed by a meek reply. Dad would take over the TV, and Mom would tiptoe off to the kitchen to make his dinner and get him a beer.

So much for visiting. It was time for me to go. I stood, replacing the unwound skein in the basket.

Birdie must have anticipated my reaction and appeared in the doorway. “No way.” She waved the cooking spoon. “You stay. Eat.” She aimed the spoon at the ceiling. “Ignore him. He’s not your concern. She”—Birdie aimed the spoon at Nana—“is your concern.”

“I don’t want to cause a problem.”

“He’s the problem. Not you. Sit. I’ll bring the food. It’s ready. You need to convince this one to eat.” Birdie jabbed the spoon in Nana’s direction again. “Otherwise, she eats biscuits and tea. Not good enough. She needs more substance. Potatoes. Meat.”

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