The Goat Children

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The French food Celia’s mother made.”

  “Ah, yes. Celia.” She braced her hand against the wall and crouched, winding her finger through a dust bunny.

  Footsteps sounded outside. A woman with a clipboard strolled down the sidewalk, turning at the pathway. Her face broke out in a smile.

  “Good morning,” the woman called.

  “Oma, someone’s here.”

  My grandmother straightened from the crouch with a groan, the dust bunny in her hand. Instead of acknowledging the guest, she walked to the kitchen.

  “Oma, there’s a lady here,” I said.

  She paused. “You don’t have to yell. I can hear you just fine.”

  “Someone’s here.” I pointed at the door.

  The woman lifted her fingers in a wave. “Hello, can I just have a moment of your time?” The stranger wiggled her clipboard.

  “What are you talking about? There’s no one there,” Oma snapped.

  “But…but there’s a lady right there.” I pulled Oma over. “See?”

  Oma rolled her eyes. “There was a glare off the screen. What do you want?” The last sentence she directed at the stranger.

  “Hi, my name is Lauren. I’m selling Avon products.” She unclipped a catalogue.

  Oma turned to me. “Why’s he just standing there? Why doesn’t he say anything?”

  The woman, Lauren, blinked, parting her bright red lips.

  I said, “She’s from Avon. She’s selling make-up.”

  “What?” Oma asked.

  “Do you have a regular Avon seller?” Lauren spoke with fake exuberance.

  “She’s selling make-up,” I raised my voice. “She wants to give you a catalogue.”

  “Feel free to look through it at your convenience, and I have my number written here.” Lauren pointed to words scrawled in Sharpie on the front of the catalogue. “I would love to become your Avon sales representative.”

  Since Oma didn’t answer, I explained, “We don’t want any, but thanks anyway. We’ll take a look.” I unlocked the screen door and opened it.

  “Aren’t you going to invite him in? A polite gentleman would come in,” Oma stated.

  I took the catalogue. “Thanks, Lauren.”

  “Him!” Oma pointed at Lauren. “He’s a handsome gentleman.”

  Lauren’s blush showed through her foundation and fake tan. She looked nothing like a man with her face covered in cosmetics, and wearing a white summer blouse and black pencil skirt. Her hair might have been pulled back in a ponytail, but her huge bosom made up for that.

  “Oma, her name’s Lauren. She isn’t a guy.”

  “Of course this is a man.” Oma waved the dust bunny at Lauren. “Don’t make me think I can’t see. You’re mean, you know that. You are a mean little girl.”

  “Sorry about this.” I shut the door and followed Oma into the kitchen. “Her name was Lauren.”

  Oma threw the dust bunny into the garbage and shook her head. “What happened to my little Keziah?”

  “I’m still your little Keziah!”

  “Yeah. Right.” Her expression blank, Oma wandered into her bedroom.

  I figured the anger over Lauren would fade eventually, so I walked into the living room. Mama had set the card table in the corner of the room for my laptop. I flipped it open, turning it on.

  As I checked my Facebook page, Oma called from the bedroom. Images of Oma fallen to the floor filled my mind, and I ran.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Now look at that.” Oma sat on the edge of the bed, nodding out the window. “Isn’t that a nice young man? Why don’t you go out and talk to him?”

  Michael? I leaned over the bed to see who she meant. A little boy stood on the sidewalk, picking at his shoe.

  “You want me to go talk to him?” My heart thudded extra hard to learn it wasn’t Michael. “Why do you want me to go talk to him?”

  “You need a boyfriend.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. He looks just your type. Go out and talk to him.”

  “No way. He’s like ten years old. I’m almost eighteen.”

  “No, he’s your age. Go talk to him.”

  He must have heard us through the open bedroom window, for he looked at the house.

  “I don’t see why not. Don’t become antisocial,” Oma said.

  “I’m not antisocial,” I exclaimed.

  “You don’t already have a boyfriend, do you?”

  “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Then go talk to him.”

  He finished picking at his sandal and continued down the street.

  I racked my brain for an excuse to leave the bedroom. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “That costs a quarter,” Oma yelled.

  In less than an hour, Oma called again. “Get in here!”

  I dashed in, gasping. “What is it?”

  “Look at that nice young man.” Oma pointed out the window. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

  I ground my teeth. The same boy from before now had a basketball, bouncing it on his way. “Now, you listen here, I want you to go talk to him. That’s what you need, a nice boyfriend.”

  He moved without haste, concentrating on bouncing the basketball. How comical it would be if he missed and it rolled down the street. He probably lives around here. Now I’m going to have to see him walking by a lot.

  “Okay, that’s a great idea. Let me go ask him out.” I ran to the door, waiting until I heard Oma follow before going outside.

  “Hey,” I called.

  He paused, still bouncing the ball. I glanced over my shoulder, spotting Oma in the doorway.

  I sauntered over to him. “Hey,” I repeated loud enough for Oma to hear.

  “Um, hi.” He stopped bouncing the ball and held it under his arm.

  I lowered my voice so Oma couldn’t hear. “Have you seen a brown cat?”

  “No, sorry.” He shrugged. “I hate cats.”

  “He said no,” I yelled to the house. “The answer is no.” To him, I said, “Okay, thanks. Have a nice day.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He rolled his eyes, continuing up the street. A car pulled into the apartment building next door. I turned to face it, folding my arms. Maybe it would be Michael, that jerk. Why I wanted to see him, I didn’t know, but it irritated me when it was the elderly woman who lived downstairs.

  “Hallo, Rebecca,” she called. “Nice day, isn’t it? Say hi to your grandma for me. Is your mom around?”

  “No, my mom went home.” Where was my home now? Back in New York City, or here?

  “Okay. Good to have ya here with us, Rebecca.” The woman might have winked, but I couldn’t be sure.

  ****

  I am eleven years old and want to see the new Disney movie. Dad is away on business, and Mama doesn’t want to take baby Phebe. Usually, Mama, Oma, and I go to the movies together, but now we have Phebe.

  Oma takes me to the movies alone. The theater is in the mall, so we arrive early to have dinner in the food court. We eat bean burritos. Afterwards, Oma still buys popcorn and sodas.

  We sit in one of the middle rows, on the aisle, and laugh throughout the movie. Later, we go shopping, and Oma buys me a new pair of shoes.

  I show them to Phebe when I get home. “When you’re older, you can come with us, too. Then, Oma will buy you some shoes, and we’ll eat lots of popcorn. You couldn’t come this time because you’re a baby, and you’d cry a lot.”

  “Someday. ” Mama doesn’t look up from grading papers at her desk.

  I carry Phebe out to the backyard and describe the movie to her, so we don’t bother Mama.

  Oma never cares if I’m loud, but sometimes too much noise gives Mama a headache.

  Chapter 7

  Oma shook me awake on Labor Day morning. “We’re going out to breakfast. Get up.”

  I groaned, sitting up on my elbows to see the clock. The red bubble l
etters announced it was eight-thirty in the morning.

  “But, Oma…”

  “When you were little, we always went out to breakfast on Memorial Day. We always went to Ann’s.”

  It’s Labor Day, not Memorial Day.

  “Ann’s? Who the—” I caught myself on the swear word, “heck is Ann?”

  “Come on, get up.” Oma stumbled around my sneakers to get to the picture window and grab the curtain cord. She pulled it, the plastic hangers squealing against the curtain rod. Light poured into the room, making me blink. My nose felt stuffy, itching, and I snuffled. Stupid, dusty living room.

  “When you were little,” Oma grabbed the edge of the card table for balance, “we would always go out to eat at Ann’s. Your mother never went. It was just you and me.” She stepped over the sneakers again. “So get up. It’s time for breakfast.”

  “This isn’t Memorial Day. It’s Labor Day.”

  “What?” Oma paused in the doorway.

  “You said we have to go out for breakfast because it’s Memorial Day.”

  “Yes?”

  “Oma, this is Labor Day.”

  “So?”

  “So why are we going out to eat?”

  “Because it’s Memorial Day. What’s taking you so long? Get up.”

  I kicked off the blankets and snuffled again. Allergies suck. Being allergic to everything didn’t make bearing Oma’s dementia any easier. I never had to worry about being allergic to plants when I lived in the city.

  I unzipped my suitcase and sorted through it for clothes. Wish I had something to put them in. A closet would be great, but even a trunk would suffice.

  The T-shirt from Greece that Dad had brought back went fine with a red and black striped skirt. With the clothes in my arms, I set off for the bathroom. All too fast, I had learned not to undress in the living room. Oma was apt to walk in at any moment with a mundane question, like the temperature. The thermometer could only be seen through the picture window, and no matter how many times Oma looked at it per day, she never remembered.

  Oma puttered in the bathroom. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes. It was going to be torture having to get up at seven for school the next day. Classes started at eight o’clock sharp. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten up before ten in the morning more than one day in a row.

  I wish there was someone here to teach me so I could continue home schooling.

  Oma left the bathroom, combing her thin hair. “You’re not ready yet?”

  “I need the bathroom.”

  Oma muttered under her breath when I emerged.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Help me get money together.” Oma waved a purse. It wasn’t her normal purse, which was white, but a brown Louis Vuitton knock-off I’d given her for Christmas a few years back.

  “But that’s not your purse.”

  “Who else’s purse would this be?”

  “No, I mean that’s not the purse you normally use.”

  Oma snorted. “You don’t take your normal purse with you when you go out to breakfast. Now help me find some money to put in.”

  She stormed into the bedroom, so I followed. Oma’s regular purse sat at the foot of the bed, unzipped and gaping open. Envelopes of money poked out.

  “How much do I need?” she asked.

  I licked my lips. We need to pay at a friend’s house? Would Ann even expect money since this isn’t Memorial Day?

  I felt like smacking my forehead. Ann’s was the restaurant down the street near the firehouse. Surely, breakfast there was cheaper than in the city, but then again, I rarely went out to eat in the city.

  “A twenty?”

  “Here.” Oma pulled an envelope out of her purse and fished a fifty-dollar bill from it. “This will work.”

  “Oma, that’s a fifty.”

  “Fine.” Oma pulled out two twenties and a ten, stuffing them and the fifty into her knock-off purse. She zipped it shut. “Okay, let’s go. We’re wasting daylight.”

  Stepping outside, I had a strong feeling there would be a lot of daylight left, even if we did dawdle. A squirrel ran across the yard with a walnut clasped in its jaw. It bolted up the tree while Oma locked her front door and pocketed the key in her jacket. We headed down the street, Oma clutching her purse, and her arm looped through mine so she wouldn’t fall on the uneven, cracked sidewalk.

  “This is a Goat Children kind of day.”

  “What?” I kicked an empty soda can.

  “The Goat Children. I never told you about the Goat Children?”

  “No.”

  “They live up there.” Oma swept her hand towards the sky. “They watch over us.”

  “Like angels?”

  “They’re not like angels,” Oma whispered. “They come when you are so alone you can’t fight.”

  “That’s a good time to come, I guess.”

  “Yes, a good time.” A glaze spread over Oma’s eyes. “They know because it is obvious. It is so obvious that you have to wonder how you didn’t know before. Yet, later on, you wonder how you learned at all.”

  That made zero sense. “What?”

  “It is just how it is with the Goat Children.”

  “That’s a cute fairy tale.” I have no idea what you’re babbling about. Haze clouded my memory, images of the homeless man on the subway.

  A gruff voice teased me. “…Beware of the goats.”

  “There aren’t any fairies in it.”

  “So what are they? Ancient warriors?”

  Oma chuckled. “You make it sound silly. No, they’re not so old. Sometimes, when one of the Goat Children wants to retire, she must find someone else to take her place.”

  “Always a girl?”

  “Of course. A Pegasus will only accept a girl. A pure girl,” Oma emphasized.

  Of course there would be a Pegasus with a Goat Child. Maybe we should throw in some leprechauns and pixies, make it an all-out myth party.

  “I was a Goat Child,” Oma said. “Your mother should have been one, but she’s too flighty. Not pure enough.”

  “Right.”

  “You could be a Goat Child.”

  Aren’t baby goats called kids? This whole thing makes no sense. “Sure. Maybe someday.”

  “Someone must first retire, but even when you do retire, you can always go back. Your Pegasus waits.”

  “It would be kind of cool to have a Pegasus. Watch out for that.” A tree root caused the sidewalk to heave at the corner. “Was your friend Celia a Goat Child?”

  “Celia? No, she died.” Oma touched her throat. “She never got to be one.”

  ****

  Ann’s sported a floral theme, with pink pansies on the curtains, plastic roses decorating the tables, daisy print on the tablecloths, and menus shaped like giant tulips.

  The waitress led us to the table in front of the window. While Oma searched through her purse for her glasses, I studied the other customers. An elderly man sat at one table, reading a newspaper, and three elderly women occupied another table. A sheepish man and a peevish woman drank coffee without looking at each other.

  “My glasses. Where are they?”

  I glanced at Oma. “I don’t know. What part of the purse did you put them in?”

  “How should I know?” Oma flung the purse at me. “I can’t find them. You look.”

  I unzipped each of the compartments, but only found the money. “I don’t think you brought them.”

  “Then how am I supposed to read the menu?”

  Wow, I am the best caregiver in the world. I didn’t make sure she brought along her glasses.

  “Here, I’ll read it to you.” I opened my menu. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “I guess I’m not the only forgetful one around here, am I?”

  The waitress raised her eyebrows at the noise. I tried to shrink behind the menu as my cheeks flamed. Every morning, Oma had a dish of blueberri
es, a glass of orange juice, and cereal.

  “You want eggs?” I asked. That seemed like an out-to-breakfast meal.

  “Yes.”

  “One egg over medium?” Mom always had those in the morning.

  “No, two eggs. I always eat two eggs.”

  “Okay. Two eggs, then.”

  The waitress approached the table, her heels clicking against the tile floor. “What can I get for you today?” She wore khaki pants and a floral top. Did everything have to be floral at Ann’s?

  “She’ll have two eggs, both over medium.”

  “What kind of toast?” the waitress asked. “Wheat, white, rye, or raisin?”

  “Oma, what kind of toast do you want?”

  Oma stared out the window.

  “She’ll have wheat.”

  “I hate wheat,” Oma snapped.

  “Okay, white.” I officially hate going out into public with you. All you do is embarrass me. “Orange juice, too.”

  “No, apple.” Oma groaned. “What happened to my little Keziah?”

  The waitress fidgeted. “Do you guys need a few more minutes?”

  “No, I’ll have the veggie omelet. There isn’t any meat in that is there?”

  “No.” The waitress laughed. “That’s why it’s called the veggie omelet. What’ll you have to drink?”

  “Hot chocolate, please.” I handed the menus over and the waitress strutted off. She must think we escaped from the loony bin.

  “We’re going to the parade tonight,” Oma said.

  “Huh?”

  “They always have a parade on Memorial Day. I always go with Muriel, but this year, she’ll just have to go alone. I’m going with you.”

  “Okay.” Muriel?

  As if reading my mind, Oma elaborated. “Muriel Dwyer. The neighbor.”

  Right, the one who always called me Rebecca. “She could come with us.”

  “Of course not. I’m going with you. She can just find someone else to go with.”

  That sounded mean. “Won’t she feel bad?”

  “That’s not my problem. She’s a thief. She takes things from the garage, says she’s only borrowing them, but then she never gives them back. When I ask her for them, she says they are hers. The nerve.”

  “That’s not right.”