by Crystal Chan
“I don’t like how he called your mom Rose.” He grimaced and turned back toward the TV. “That’s not right for a kid to talk to an adult like that. No respect.”
“Mom said that’s what he should call her.”
Dad shook his head, and I wasn’t sure if that was because of Mom or me or John. “She likes to believe that things like that don’t matter, but they do.” He gave me a long look. “The smallest things can have the greatest significance.”
I had no idea what Dad was referring to.
“Just . . . be careful.” He stared at the TV for a while. “Having a boy named John around our family . . .” He sucked on his teeth. “I don’t want bad luck in the house.”
I swallowed hard. Could I be bringing in even more bad luck by calling Eugene “John”? Suddenly I wanted to talk. I wanted to talk more than I’ve ever talked to my parents, to ask them about Bird and Grandpa and the silences and to have these questions answered, once and for all, and, so to take away some of the pressure in my chest, I said, “Dad, what was Grandpa doing last night?”
Dad jerked his head toward me. “What?”
“When John was here. What was Grandpa doing in his room, making all those noises?”
I looked at Dad, and he looked back at me, and I could tell he knew I was waiting for an answer. His face looked scared, almost. Then it ironed out. “He was upset about some things.”
“About what?”
Dad shook his head.
I stood there, waiting.
“We shouldn’t talk about this,” he said.
“What things?” I pressed. “Why not?”
Dad turned up the volume. “Not now. I’m watching the game.”
That same sadness with a hard edge flashed over me, and my eyes got squinty. I went over to Dad and stood between him and the TV. “What things shouldn’t I talk about?” I asked.
“Jewel.” Dad’s voice got louder. Annoyed.
“If Grandpa’s upset, shouldn’t I know why?”
“Don’t use that tone of voice with me,” he warned.
“I want to know,” I said, my own voice rising. I crossed my arms, and the same mix of feelings swept over me as when I was throwing rocks at John: surprised but powerful. I couldn’t believe Dad wanted to go back to watching TV. He’s acting like I’m a stranger, I thought, grinding my teeth. If Grandpa was going to make a scene in front of us, in front of my friend, shouldn’t I know why? Why didn’t I deserve to know?
At that moment, Granny’s picture—the one with her white, flowing dress on the hill—fell off the living room wall.
There had been no breeze. No pounding. Just like that, lickety-splat, the picture fell off the wall.
Dad stared at Granny’s picture, then at me. I was scared too, but I didn’t move. “I want to know,” I repeated.
Dad cleared his throat. “Grandpa thinks that John is a duppy,” he said in a strange voice.
“John?” My mouth went dry. “He’s not a duppy.”
“The rice was for him.” Dad pressed his lips together, grabbed the remote, and turned off the TV.
Suddenly it made sense why Grandpa didn’t want me to go with John though the cornfields and why he was so upset when I did. And if Grandpa thought John was a duppy, then of course he would throw rice on the ground and salt on the floor.
“So that’s why Grandpa marked the ground with an X when he first saw John,” I said, thinking out loud.
Dad grimaced. “That wasn’t an X, Jewel. That was the Roman numeral for ten.”
A number greater than nine that would keep a duppy away.
Dad sighed. “Okay?” Like he wanted the conversation done and over with.
“But John’s not a duppy,” I said, louder.
“They can take human form sometimes, to trick you.”
A shiver raced through me. “Really?” I asked.
Dad nodded.
“But John’s not a duppy,” I said again, but more uncertainly this time.
Dad ran his palm over his hair and looked away.
Then a thought hit me. “You said Grandpa was upset about some things,” I said warily. “What else is there?”
Dad stood up. “No more.” He walked out of the living room and didn’t say another word. I knew at least one reason why. Talking about a duppy can only attract its attention and bring it into your home.
But we both saw Granny’s picture fall. And that meant it was already here.
It turned out that the little metal bracket on the back of Granny’s picture had gotten loose and that’s why it fell. When I picked up the picture, I half expected it to burn my hands or start flying around the room. But it was just a picture, cold and dead. I was hanging the photo back on the wall when I saw it: a flicker of light.
I stopped. There was a coil of gold lying at the base of our wall, where Granny’s picture had just been, nearly hidden in the carpet. A thin chain. I went over and held the necklace up, and it sparkled and twisted in the lamplight.
It was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you go quiet inside.
I bit my lip. How long had this been here? And it was real gold, I could tell just from the gleam and the weight of it. Which meant it wasn’t Mom’s. The only gold jewelry she had was those earrings. And anyway, if it was Mom’s and she’d lost it, she would have made sure we knew because we’d be helping her look.
I swallowed. Maybe it came from a duppy. And if it did come from a duppy, it wouldn’t be too wise to put it on. I slid my thumb and forefinger down the gold chain, over and over. Then again, it could just be a necklace. Mom would definitely say that.
I opened the clasp and fastened it around my neck, feeling like a grown-up. I’d never worn anything that was real gold before. If anyone asks about it, I’ll just say I found it, which isn’t a lie, I thought. The chain slipped perfectly under my T-shirt.
I went to my room and grabbed some paper to draw, but I couldn’t concentrate. So I lay on my bed, played with my necklace, and stared at the ceiling. Grandpa thought John was a duppy. So Grandpa was burning rosemary and hanging up red socks and horseshoes to protect me. And of course that’s why he was really mad when I ran off with John: Who knows what a duppy could have done to me? Maybe Grandpa was right to be mad like that, banging on plates and spitting and even hitting John—since he thought John was a duppy. It’s not like he could shout.
It was strange to think that Grandpa had actually been trying to protect me all this time.
My brain spun like the blades of the fan that was blowing in my room. Just then I heard a noise on the other side of the wall. A thud-thud-thud.
Grandpa.
I swallowed back the fear that suddenly coated my tongue. He’d probably feel a whole lot better if he knew John wasn’t a duppy, I thought, chewing on my bottom lip. I had to admit it was pretty strange that Eugene had chosen the name John, and that John might look similar to what Bird would be at John’s age if Bird had lived. But still.
And maybe Grandpa was tired of not being asked how he was doing, or if he was sleepy or bored or restless, or if he wanted to play dominoes. Or maybe I could ask him what kind of person Granny was, I thought. She died when I was really young, just a couple years old, and I didn’t remember her at all.
All these thoughts nibbled at me, didn’t leave me alone. If I decided to go into his room, he might get upset that I asked a question or two, or he’d just ignore me, as usual. Or maybe he’d close the door in my face. That’d be all right, I supposed.
I had never been someone who would actually begin a conversation with Grandpa. But then again, I’d never been someone who would throw rocks at friends or demand that Dad tell me things either.
My lips twisted up. I heard the screen door slam as Dad headed outside and into his car; it was his turn to cook tonight and he was probably getting groceries. Mom was still at work. It was just Grandpa and me.
Again: thud-thud-thud.
I sucked in my breath, gave my stuffed rabbit a quic
k, tight hug, and got to my feet. The little white oscillating fan hummed back and forth, and I swallowed hard as I left my room and stood in front of Grandpa’s door.
Maybe he could tell I was standing on the other side.
I made myself knock and fought a sudden desire to run away. Then I opened the door and stepped inside his room.
Grandpa was lying on top of his bed and wearing old-style headphones, which connected to an older-style portable tape player. Listening to music. His arm was draped over the nightstand by his bed. He had been pounding out the rhythms with his fist. That’s what the noise had been.
His eyes flew open and he stared at me in shock. He pushed a big button on his tape player and yanked off his headphones, throwing his legs to the floor to sit on the edge of his bed.
All the questions I was going to ask had vanished. My mouth was suddenly rusted shut.
He stared at me, his eyebrows crunching together in surprise. Like, How could you just let yourself in?
“Hi,” I said. I scratched my wrist.
He frowned, and the skin pulled deep around the corners of his mouth.
“How are you?”
Now, there are certain times in life where “Hi, how are you?” is probably not the best thing to say. Like if someone’s bleeding to death. Or if someone’s stuck in an elevator. Or, perhaps, if you just barged in on your grandpa and realized that he didn’t want you to talk to him, but there you are, in his space, breathing his air and his grandpa smells and asking questions that really don’t say what you wanted to say, anyway.
Or something like that.
“What are you listening to?” I asked, my scalp tingling.
Grandpa stood up, slowly. For a moment, I could swear I saw the skin around his eyes and mouth soften.
“John’s not a duppy.” The words just shot out, like they had a life of their own.
The softness must have been my imagination. Grandpa shook his head violently and glared at me, like, What do you know? Then he clapped twice, perfectly hitting that angry, loud spot between his hands.
I tried to make myself as tall as possible. “John’s my friend,” I said.
Grandpa suddenly took quick, cold steps toward me and grabbed my arm. He looked right into my face, his eyes wide and dark, and pulled me farther into his room.
I gave a strange yelp and yanked my arm back, my breath ragged. “He’s my friend,” I repeated, louder.
Then I turned and ran.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE next day, the clouds split open and rain poured down. It was one of those all-day kinds of rains, the kind that sinks into everything, good and deep. I couldn’t mow the lawn like I was supposed to on account of the rain, and I didn’t want to be stuck inside thinking about Grandpa on the other side of my wall, so I slipped on my shoes and headed outside.
I had decided not to say anything to my parents about how Grandpa had grabbed me. They’d probably scold me for going into his room. And they would be right: What was I thinking? Grandpa clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with me. He never had.
I felt better as I walked down our long, gravel driveway and deeper into the countryside and the soft fall of rain. The raindrops were warm and nice and fat, the kind that splatter when they hit your skin. Dad says that rain walks water your soul, just like the rain waters the plants and the rivers. Although Mom shakes her head when he says that, she always has towels by the kitchen door for me when I return.
It’s something special to go to the cliff when it rains. My circle of stones sits there, quiet and patient and dark-dripping, and the boulder, like an ancient friend, watches the clouds crossing the horizon. Sometimes, if you look hard enough and long enough, you can watch the grasses turn from brittle brown to green, right in front of your eyes. And my buried pebbles—well, it’s just nice to think that they’re being watered too and that they’re turning into dirt again, drop by drop.
As I made my way along the wet road, toward the cliff, my mind wandered back to John. Eugene. Maybe, just maybe, by giving himself another name, John was attracting the attention of a duppy and didn’t realize it. Just like Grandpa attracted a duppy for Bird. Just like there was maybe a duppy in our house. My pulse started racing thinking about all that.
I bent down to pick up some pieces of gravel from the road so I could bury those worries at the cliff when I spied a deer path cutting through the grasses. It was a faint, fresh path that the deer made last night. Before I knew it, I was trudging along, excited. Maybe I would see a deer nest, I thought. Finding sleeping animals brings good luck. That’s what Dad says. It wouldn’t take more than a moment or two, and right now a little luck wouldn’t hurt.
The long grasses were bent slightly where the deer had walked, and I stepped on the slippery path as carefully and quietly as I could, my eyes open and ears straining as if I were a deer myself. Rain dripped from the sky and turned the horizon into a soft, gray mist. The path turned a curve before widening, revealing a small pond.
My breath caught when I saw Grandpa.
He was sitting by the pond in the full fall of the rain, using a mossy tree trunk for his bench. His head hung heavily in his hands, his back slumped and sorrowful.
My insides twisted inside me. I thought he was in his room. But by the looks of how his clothes clung to him, he’d been out here for a while. And he looked so openly sad, the way people do when they think they’re alone. Like he’d been coming this way for a long, long time.
Hot shame swept over me. John was right: We just always thought he stayed in his room. And that he liked it. But obviously we didn’t know Grandpa that well at all. He didn’t look like the Grandpa I knew either, the Grandpa who throws rice and storms about the house and frowns awful and deep. How could he have all these knots of anger and sadness inside him?
I don’t know how long I stood there staring at him, as if he were a painting, or a dream. A red-winged blackbird shrilled at me in a nearby bush, jolting me out of my daze. As silently as possible, I backtracked to the road.
I stayed outside for a long time collecting cattails in the ditches, until the twisting sensation inside me relaxed and the darkening sky started thundering on the horizon. Only then did I walk home with my squishing shoes, feeling quieter, my soul watered and growing. Grandpa’s shoes were by the front entrance, but his bedroom door was closed; I wondered when he’d gotten back and if he felt better. The floor was dry, so he’d either returned a while ago or mopped up well. I was curious what he was doing in his room. Sleeping, or maybe listening to more music.
When I got to my bedroom, I was startled to find headphones and Grandpa’s cassette tape player with a cassette inside it. On my bed.
For me.
It was reggae music, but to me it was a portal into another world. Slow rhythms popped heavy like heartbeats and settled into my blood. I listened to the whole first side of that unmarked cassette straight through. This is what Grandpa listens to, I thought as I lay on my bed, my feet bopping back and forth.
It was amazing.
And he shared it with me. I didn’t get it. One moment he was smoldering with anger, the next he was sad and lonely by the pond, and the next he was letting me listen to his music. I never really thought of Grandpa as someone who had feelings—with him being all silent, I just thought his heart was silent too. But I guess I was wrong.
As I was sitting on my bed, I held Grandpa’s old cassette tape player on my lap, and it felt like an invisible door was being slowly carved into our shared wall. And that made me feel pretty special.
I listened to the cassette as long as I could before I realized I was late to see Mrs. Rodriguez. I ran to my bike and wheeled over to her house, which was a ways down the road, in town. It was one of my days to visit her and pick up a tub of her salsa, which she always has waiting for me in the refrigerator. On the afternoons that I go, I think I’m supposed to keep her company, but I don’t really know what to do. Even though she’s old, she can take care of herself
just fine. The dishes in her cupboard shake when she walks by, her footsteps are so solid.
Those same solid footsteps sounded when I rang her doorbell. The door opened, and a cool breeze from her air conditioner tickled my skin. Mrs. Rodriguez smiled broadly when she saw me, and her long, gray-streaked hair was pulled back nice and neat from her face. She was pretty, for an old lady.
Mrs. Rodriguez clucked and kissed me on the cheek, then pulled me into her house, an oasis from the summer heat. She was already heading to the kitchen, where the salsa was waiting. Sometimes she adds arrachera or chicken mole if she has any extra.
The smells in her house made me hungry, as usual. Her molcajete sat on the kitchen counter, its rough stone edges still wet with bits of tomato and onions and garlic, which had just been pounded by hand into salsa. I was salivating. I couldn’t help it. The only time Mom uses our molcajete is to prop open the screen door.
Mrs. Rodriguez was still chatting at me in Spanish like a squirrel as she bustled about, grabbing plastic bags for me to carry the food home. I smiled blankly at her, trying to push down my discomfort. I mean, she knows I don’t understand a word she’s saying. Maybe she’s hoping that if she talks at me long enough, one day the switch in my brain will flip on and I’ll respond with smooth, perfect Spanish. Or maybe she’s lonely and she needs to talk to someone.
Mrs. Rodriguez piled up the plastic tubs of food with a flourish, almost like a magician: Today it was cactus salad, tinga, and salsa. I nodded appreciatively as the tubs disappeared into the doubled plastic bags, which she then handed to me.
“Gracias, Señora Rodriguez,” I said, with an overly wide smile that I hoped distracted her from my awful pronunciation.
She gave me her usual hug, tight and soft. Then she turned to the staircase and bellowed. I jumped back a little, surprised. Mrs. Rodriguez held my hand. Stay here.
A young woman stepped down the stairs, her hair long and flowing and beautiful. The curve of her nose was exactly the same as Mrs. Rodriguez’s.
“Miriam!” I cried out, and ran into her arms.
Miriam was Mrs. Rodriguez’s granddaughter and had gone to college last year. She used to babysit me all the time; after she left, my parents decided I was old enough to stay at home by myself. I missed Miriam something fierce, with the way we’d make sopes and gorditas out of Play-Doh and pretend to eat them or serve them to each other.
