by Avery Kirk
“It’s super fine. No big deal.” What else could I say?
“Are you sure? I’d ask you to wait but it might take a while. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Absolutely. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Kevin gave me a quick hug and rushed into the bike shop to get on the computer.
I felt a little let down, but his girlfriend came first. I understood that perfectly—didn’t mean I wasn’t bummed about it. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself at that point. I didn’t feel like going home just yet—especially if Murray decided to stop over to visit with my grampa. I replayed the conversation with the fake homeowner once more in my head and got re-annoyed. I impulsively decided to drive back to the Bloomfield house to see if he’d show up again.
I parked in the road a ways down from the house and camped out for a while to see if the fake homeowner would show up. After forty minutes of nothing, I just went home.
Chapter 4: Dreams and Dinner
I was standing in the front of my old house where I’d lived with my parents. I stood there in the rain. It seemed to be sunny but a steady downpour was also going on. I was looking for a rainbow, but I couldn’t find one anywhere. As I looked in the sky, I realized that I was standing in a desert that had sand dunes as far as I could see, with palm trees every so often.
I looked closely at the glittery sand and concentrated on the perfect ripples and cliffs it made. I then caught sight of my body and realized that I was missing my right leg. I gasped loudly and more slowly than I would have expected. I made a slow and strange sound and dropped to the ground. I searched the sand for my leg, patting the sand as if I’d just misplaced it. I churned the sand in my hands and dug holes as quickly as I could, sifting the grains through my fingers as if my leg were so small that my fingers would catch it between them.
The sand was now much dirtier than it had been when I first saw it. Garbage was mixed with the sand everywhere, and I had to throw pieces of garbage to the side to try to find my leg.
I heard a sound that at once made me stop looking: something howling in the distance. Sand began to blow around wildly, and it was perfect again—no garbage. I had to cover my eyes to protect them from the sand.
I was standing on both legs now, looking for what had been howling. The sand stopped blowing. A white horse with black speckles approached on my right. It seemed to be coming toward me at a trot. It slowed to a walk before stopping within my reach. The animal stared at me, and I could feel its breath on my face. The sounds it made as it nuzzled my face made me feel happy. I felt as if it was my horse. I stared into its understanding brown eyes for a long time, studying its long eyelashes and the detail in the brown.
Without warning, the horse became a man. He was in a black suit, wearing a hat that was wide behind his head and flattened in the front—a flat cap. He smiled at me broadly with deep grooves in his face. He reached into his pocket to check a watch he had on a chain. The man reminded me of Harry. He popped the watch back into his pocket. I stepped back, realizing that I was standing too close. His eyes seemed to be the same as those of the horse, but I didn’t know the man.
He spoke, and his voice sounded the way an echo would, booming like an announcer on a loudspeaker. The effect startled me almost to waking, and I felt the pull back to reality, but I chose to try to stay asleep. After experiencing that feeling, I now knew I was dreaming. The man stayed and stared at me. He seemed to look around for a moment—maybe deciding if he wanted to try speaking again.
I wanted to ask what he’d said, but he seemed to know that I was going to try to talk, and he put his finger to his lips. Then he showed me his hands; he held them palms up the way you might see a magician show you his hands before he performs a trick. After that, he made fists with his hands and crossed his wrists in front of his face, making a stiff movement with this mid-air X. He repeated this movement several times. When I just stared at him, he seemed a little put off and looked around.
Pink glitter began to fill the air. I watched it for a moment, distracted. He made another attempt at a sign with his hands and stacked his fists with his index and middle fingers, making bunny ears on both fists. I shook my head a little too much to try to communicate that I didn’t understand. I felt the pull back to reality once more and stopped shaking my head. He looked around again and attempted to speak. Again, his voice boomed. I woke up.
I drove with Kevin to dinner at his parents’ house. It was about four o’clock when we got there. As we walked toward the house, his mother, Vita, came out, arms extended in anticipation of a hug. She wore an over-patterned, floor-length dress kind of thing that might have been a 1972 original garment. She was a good-sized woman, about five-foot-eight, thick figured and curvy. Her long, unkempt auburn hair with a slight wave fell around her shoulders, and green-and-white polka-dot reading glasses swung from a leather cord around her neck.
Vita was kind of what my mother used to refer to as bohemian. She was into feelings and energies and following her gut. But she was also a logical person. She had to be; she was a physics professor. She was a very interesting mix of a person, and I admired her.
Vita wrapped her arms around me and gave me a giant squeeze that made me giggle. I always felt like a kid when she hugged me. She let out a satisfied sound and said, “My God, girl, where is the rest of you?! Let me get some red meat on those bones of yours.”
“Hi, Vita,” I said with a shy smile. “You look fantastic.” And I meant it. The woman could wear anything and pull it off. Her dress—or whatever it was—was horrifying by itself, but she beamed in it. She had a certain confidence about her that was unmistakable. She grabbed my hand and looked at Kevin.
“Boy, you should bring this girl around more often! Thank you, love,” she said, looking at me and winking. “You just made my day.” She brought my hand up toward her chest and patted our hands with her free hand as we walked to the house. She led us into the front door and sat me at the table.
“Mark’s whipping up some hot dogs and eggs, and I’ve got some grass-fed ribeye on the grill. Don’t tell me you’re not eating meat—although, I might wonder, as tiny as you’ve gotten.”
She wasn’t waiting for a response. She leaned with an arm around Kevin and said “Gimme some sugar, baby.” He grabbed her face and kissed her cheek hard, and they both laughed. She smacked his hip with the back of her hand as he walked away to check on the food.
Kevin was the first son of three. His father, Mark, was a quiet man. I didn’t know him very well—at least not as well as I felt like I knew Vita. She was such a comforting person. She had a fantastic sense of humor and was also a tremendous cook. Her shrimp etouffée was heaven, although a couple years before, I didn’t have any idea what shrimp etouffée was. I can honestly say that I didn’t dislike a single thing about her.
The décor of the house might as well have been called cozy. It was coffee shop meets fancy restaurant in Aspen. The cabinets were a warm wood tone—probably maple. The dining table was chunky and substantial. Right next to the table was a huge stone fireplace that was at that moment popping and cracking with embers. The kitchen was gigantic with a rustic feel to it. It was messy, but not dirty.
Vita loved color and textures, and they were everywhere. Brick, corduroy, velvet, chenille. But coordinated well, and not overdone, a look that wasn’t easy to pull off. The kitchen was a golden shade of yellow, accented with citrus tones. A pretty big yellowish crystal stood in the corner; last time I was here, she’d told me it brought good energy. It must bring good energy. I always felt good here.
I spotted Kevin’s dad at the stove, leaning over a giant skillet with scrambled eggs and sliced hot dogs in it—stirring constantly. Mark wore a plaid, quilted shirt over his white T-shirt, old jeans, and black scuffed leather shoes. His brown hair was always perfectly combed.
“Hi, Mr. Banner,” I said as Vita walked away.
“Heyyyy,” he replied. Looking up from his pan and smiling, he quietly said,
“Now, dolly, you be sure and call me Mark. I’d sure be disappointed if you were any more formal than that.” He gave me a quick wink from behind his plastic-framed glasses. He had a mild Southern accent and sweetness that seemed genuine. I watched his right hand stirring patiently and constantly with his left in his jeans’ front pocket as if he had no other care in the world than to make his hot dogs and eggs to scrambled perfection.
Kevin walked over and gripped his dad’s shoulder affectionately. His dad fake-punched him in the stomach, followed by a couple of pats on his waist.
“How’s my boy?” he asked, beaming at Kevin.
“I’m good. How’s the project going?”
“Going great. Just got the hardware in the mail today,” his father replied with a smile.
“Well, let me know if you need any help,” Kevin said.
I thought back to the first time Kevin made me hot dogs and eggs one night when we’d been up late for some reason. He did that whole ‘open your mouth and close your eyes’—a true test of trust. I had no idea what was in the eggs, but they were really good. He must have known if he’d said ‘taste these scrambled eggs with hot dogs in them,’ I would have passed.
I did the same thing with him and my maple milk—just a little bit of real maple syrup in some warm milk. He didn’t like mine. How was I supposed to know he didn’t like warm milk, ever?
“Your mama wanted to try those uncured hot dogs tonight, but I managed to talk her out of it,” Mark said to Kevin. “She lets me win once in a while.” He smiled and went back to minding his eggs.
Kevin snickered and started putting the stack of rainbow-colored dishes on the table. I stood up, attempting to help. He placed a quick hand on my shoulder.
“Now hold on there, missy. You just have yourself a seat. You’re a guest here, you know,” he said quietly with a fake and very exaggerated Southern accent. I rolled my eyes and sat back down.
Vita walked over with a giant plate of charred meat and set it on the table. Then she stood behind me, moved my hair out of the way and covered my ears hard. She turned her head away and shouted, “BOYYYYYSSS!! Y’all come in here to eat! Best mind your manners because Mel is joining us—and you know what I’m talking about. I know y’all do.” She leaned down and put her face next to mine. “Sorry, honey, I didn’t think you’d be used to my regular shoutin’ voice. It booms.”
I smiled and squirmed a bit, sitting on my hands. I was normally very comfortable here, but for some reason still a little anxious about having dinner. I knew Vita fully understood my relationship with her son—in fact I felt as though I never had to explain it to her, she just understood so easily—but I felt that she might want it to be more. I think that’s why I forced myself to be a bit more guarded around her than I wanted to be. On top of that, I didn’t know how much Kevin had told her about the weird stuff happening to me. I felt nervous that it would be brought up during dinner.
The two younger boys came down from upstairs and Vita walked through the doorway with another plate of meat in one hand and grilled corn on the cob in the other. Kevin set a vat of mashed potatoes on the table and a huge light-green bowl of brown gravy next to it. Vita went over to the counter and grabbed a large pitcher of greenish juice. She poured a glass for each of us. It made kind of a glopping sound as it poured.
I must have had a disgusted expression on my face because Kevin leaned over and whispered, “It’s carrot broccoli apple juice. Raw. It’s not bad, really. I’ll strain yours if you want. Or if you don’t want any I can…” I was already shaking my head to let him know that he didn’t have to worry.
“Oh no, it’s totally fine. I’ll try it.” I’d never want to hurt his mother’s feelings.
We were all sitting except for Kevin’s parents. They were eyeing their twins, who had worn their ball caps to dinner. A lingering glance with their chin down, and the boys quickly put their hats on the floor under their chairs, combing their fingers through their hair.
Mark held the chair for Vita and softly said, “Go on, baby,” and she put her hand on his, circled the chair and sat down. We started passing the platters around.
The dinner plates were all different colors. It was almost as if matching plates would have been considered a negative. The flatware was heavy and plain, and the drinking glasses were cobalt-blue glass. From my seat, I had a view of the backyard with all its fall-colored trees and leaves on the grass plus end-of-season flowers near a bench carved out of a tree. A fire pit was sunken into the patio and a grill sat to the side. It was just about dusk.
“You know, it’s funny that you happened to come see us today, Mel. A letter came for you just yesterday,” Vita said, a stumped look on her face, as she got up to find it. I looked at Kevin, who didn’t seem bothered by the oddity in the least.
“That’s weird,” I said. I froze and let a forkful of mashed potatoes drop to my plate. I felt panic swell in my belly.
Kevin was shaking his head slightly. “I’m sure it’s just because you used my address once to ship your grandpa’s Christmas present so he wouldn’t see it. Remember? The one you knew was going to have the logo on the box? You didn’t want him to see it settin’ on the porch? It probably just got mixed up in one of those mailing lists for junk mail. The way they get people’s addresses is just a bunch of guessing. I’m sure it’s just junk mail.” He said this with a shrug and without any doubt in his voice. He jabbed at his food and pre-cut his steak as he continued. I relaxed a little.
“Pete spends a ton of money trying to get new customers for the bike shop using those lists. You have to pay to get the addresses then pay to print postcards and for postage. He’ll have a sale on kids’ bikes and send out mailers to houses with kids ages four to 12 or whatever. It’s just a crapshoot how the mailing list company knows if they really have kids. If they ever bought anything for a kid on the internet or through a catalog, they think it’s a kid household. I know this because one of Pete’s mailers came to my house.” He finished and popped a piece of steak in his mouth.
Everyone had been nodding while he spoke. Then Vita reappeared.
“I put it on the ledge by the front door, love,” she told me. “So you’ll see it when you head out.” I badly wanted to go grab it right then and tried not to show my feeling in my face. I thought the piece of mail would be another bizarre thing to happen. I thought maybe the guy posing as the homeowner was some weirdo who was stalking me.
“Is it junk mail?” I managed to ask Vita, hoping she wouldn’t sense the anxiety in my voice, although Kevin’s brothers looked over at me.
“Believe so,” she said, nodding. “Free quote for insurance something or other it says on the outside.”
I nodded back eagerly, smiling more widely than I should have for junk mail. I felt a little silly, but more relieved than anything.
Dinner was excellent, of course. We discussed the college plans for Kevin’s brothers, Ben and Jon, who happened to be fraternal twins and juniors in high school. They looked just like Kevin for the most part, minus his darker, wavy hair. Their hair was more of a woodsy brown and pin straight. The nine-year difference between Kevin and his brothers made me wonder if they were unplanned or not, but I’d never ask.
Kevin’s brothers intended to attend U of M—one for architecture and the other was undecided. Kevin suggested proctology, but his little brother wasn’t amused and flicked him with some raw juice from the tip of his straw.
We also talked about Kevin’s dad’s business named Extra Hands—Home and Personal Assistance Service. I never really knew what he did before then. Extra Hands was a service company. They had services ranging from landscaping to handyman work to nurse services. It had become a franchise about three years prior and was a huge success.
Throughout dinner, I casually watched the interaction between Vita and Mark. I noticed that they would touch each other at every opportunity. When Mark passed the green beans, he held the sunny yellow bowl in his left hand and touched Vita’s elbow wit
h his right hand. She took the beans and reached over to touch him on the knee.
The twins were sitting next to each other. Both were dressed in sweatshirts and jeans. Both sweatshirts were U of M—although different designs. Kevin made fun of them for matching. Then they punched each other, not having realized that they matched until he pointed it out. When they got wild, Vita or Mark gave them what the family referred to as ‘the hairy eyeball,’ a stern look. The boys stopped. Kevin didn’t get the hairy eyeball though. I think that was because he was now considered a guest since he’d moved out.
Ben stared at me a few times, and one of his brothers would elbow him or flick him with their fingers when they caught him doing it. I thought it was funny.
After dinner was over, and we all had some hot tea and conversation, I started clearing the table and getting ready to wash the dishes—but they wouldn’t have it. Even the twins protested. Kevin was happy because it meant that he was also excused from doing dishes.
It was just past eight o’clock and time to go. Mark helped me put my coat on, and we walked to the door. On the ledge by the front door, the letter that had come for me sat on the half-counter, tucked inside a book. As I saw it, a jolt of dread found its way to my belly, and I grabbed the letter to be sure it was nothing to worry about. It appeared to be plain old junk mail.
I didn’t realize at first, but the book was also for me. I looked at the cover and realized it was Vita’s cookbook that she’d published—the one Kevin had been promising me for a while. Inside the cover it read: “Don’t get stuck with the dishes, Mel! Much love, Vita xo.”
