Crayons and Angels

by Rita Kano

  Nash’s quick glance at Shirley’s left hand ring finger didn’t escape her.

  “I’m real sorry to hear that, Miss Shirley. Real sorry. No children, then?”

  “Never married, Mr. Britt.”

  “Are you an old maid?” asked Lizzie with a halt in the chewing of a mouthful of biscuit.

  Three heads popped up at the same time.

  “Lizzie Lovett. You did not just say that.” Lizzie’s mama snatched up the salt shaker and tossed a dash over each of Lizzie’s shoulders. “You want to put a hex on yourself?”

  “What’s a hex, Mama? Where’s the ketchup. I like ketchup on my meatloaf.”

  “Never you mind what’s a hex and we’re out of the ketchup. Tend to your eatin’,” Arlene dabbed her mouth with a napkin, “and your manners.”

  “But, Mama, we ain’t out of ketchup. It’s right in the Kelvinator door where it always is. I’ll go get it.”

  “Lizzie, stay in that chair. We have company.”

  “No harm done,” said Shirley to Arlene. “I take no offense. And Lizzie, Old Maid is just a card game I used to play as a child.”

  Arlene smirked.

  Nash rolled his eyes over Arlene and went back to eating, as did Shirley.

  Lizzie and her younger sister, Sue Bell, ate with a reverence usually found only in front row church pews on Easter Sunday; starched up stiff and shiny proper. Well behaved, most people would call it. Shirley recognized it as a sign that something had deeply wounded this family and the inside of outside appearances wasn’t far from bleeding through.

  “Arlene,” Nash said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I know with the snowfall and it being almost Christmas time again, you’re havin’ a harder time than usual with Tommy’s passing, but…”

  Joe slammed his fork down and glanced over at his wife Arlene, who had yet to look up and acknowledge her papa. “She don’t want to hear it, Nash. Can’t you see that?”

  Nash looked from Arlene to Joe. “Can’t you see that I’m not going to take being blamed for an accident? That’s all it was… an accident. If your wife’s gotta blame someone, let her blame God. He’s used to it. I ain’t standin’ for it no more. You got that? Do you hear me, Arlene?”

  The private, personal turn in the conversation surprised Shirley for only a moment. Apparently, Nash intended taking advantage of her presence to attempt mending the wound she suspected had seriously damaged this family. Unfortunately, before the healing comes the ripping off of Band-Aids and the sting of fresh alcohol. Shirley kept her eyes focused down on her meal. When Nash’s challenge to Arlene hung in the air with no reply, the calm at the table roused her curiosity and Shirley looked from one member of the family to the other.

  Arlene sliced off a bite of meatloaf with her fork. For all appearances, she hadn’t heard a word Nash or Joe said.

  Lizzie’s eyes hopped from one face to another and back again, like she was trying to figure things out or maybe hoping something wouldn’t happen that she’d seen happen too many times before.

  Sue Bell had yet to say a single word and seemed blissfully unaware of the drama going on around her.

  When Lizzie’s figuring out reached a conclusion, she broke the silence.

  “Grandpa,” she said above slow paced eating noises, “when Tommy fell and hit his head on that rock under the snow, did he go straight up to heaven or did he have to wait for an angel to come and get him?”

  “I don’t want to hear any talk about Tommy.” Arlene’s fork clunked down on her plate. “It was just two Christmas’s ago. I don’t want to hear no more talk about my poor, precious son from any of you.”

  “That’s what you always say, Mama. That’s what you say to those church ladies that wear white gloves and the preacher and everybody, but it seems like forever to me since Tommy went away.” Lizzie’s short packed breaths dammed up a reservoir of tears. “I love Tommy. Why can’t I talk about him?”

  Lizzie’s observations and expression of love enticed no reply. It seemed no one wanted to take responsibility for the concerns spilling out of Lizzie’s heart. Even Nash stayed lost in the thoughts leading his own purposes.

  “Nobody laughs anymore,” Lizzie mumbled, “except grandpa. And he don’t laugh when he’s here.” Lizzie cast her eyes over the table and then turned her face up at her grandpa. “They ain’t lookin’, Grandpa. Am I being bad? I try not lookin’ but it’s too hard. Mama and Deddy make it look easy, but it ain’t. ” Lizzie shook her head.

  “I know it ain’t, honey bun. But, don’t you worry about it none.” Nash winked at Lizzie and then acknowledged Shirley with a nod that gave her the impression everything was moving along exactly as a wise old grandpa planned.

  Lizzie, who behaved so reverently earlier, began to fidget and squirm. Obviously, she didn’t like the kind of quiet hanging over the supper table any more than Shirley did. It felt itchy, on the verge of breaking into a full out scratch. And not that alone, this particular kind of quiet made the ordinary feel creepy. The light from the ceiling fixture shone down too bright and yellow. Shirley’s stomach felt jumpy. Forks clinked on plates so loudly her ears hurt. And worst of all, she could hear herself chewing and swallowing every morsel of food.

  Lizzie shoved a green bean in her mouth and grinned at her grandpa.

  Nash returned an amused squint, like he had overheard his granddaughter’s thoughts. He then glanced at Arlene and Joe. From one to the other, back and forth, watching and waiting. Shirley watched too, and waited for the family wound to bleed through.

  Seeing this, Lizzie scooted way down in her chair, hunched her shoulders and peeked around from up under her eyebrows, preparing, it seemed, for something unpleasant to happen.

  Staring didn’t bother Shirley. In fact she considered herself quite an expert at it. When anyone stared at her, she gave it back until they spurt out a laugh or got that burst of spark in their eyes like they’d seen an icky, fuzzy jumping spider. Then they’d blink a few times and turn away.

  In the middle of this one-sided staring match, Sue Bell asked for more mashed potatoes. Arlene dished a helping out for her, without even lifting her head.

  Sue Bell had spoken for the first time. Shirley noticed her choice of words and manners suited a much older child. She also noticed that Arlene reacted instantly to Sue Bell’s request, in great contrast to anything Lizzie said, unless it required a reprimand. When Lizzie asked for more green beans, Shirley handed the bowl to her.

  Because Sue Bell didn’t have much to say and Lizzie not only talked a lot, but asked a lot of questions, it appeared the Lovett’s were the sort of parents who liked children to be seen and not heard. A rule Lizzie, by nature, couldn’t obey.

  Grandpa Nash reached over and scruffed up Sue Bell’s thick, short cut, black hair. “That’s my little tadpole,” he said. “Seein’ a child with a healthy appetite does my heart good.” He winked at Lizzie. “That goes for you too, dill pickle.”

  “It’s sweet pickle, Grandpa. You know what? I remember when you had black hair,” said Lizzie.

  “What do you mean you remember when? It ought not to be that hard to remember. I don’t recall it bein’ so long ago.”

  “But it’s all white now, Grandpa. Look there.” Lizzie held out the shiny end of a butter knife to catch her grandpa’s reflection. “See. It’s as white as that snow that just melted.”

  “Well, would you look at that? Yes, sir. Yes, sir it is. I guess me and that snow has a lot in common.” Nash replied with a bit of melancholy and abruptly changed the subject. “Lizzie, do you remember your Aunt Sandy?”

  “I remember what you told me. She died a long time ago and she loved sweet potatoes, eating raw tomatoes and crunching on ice. Didn’t matter if it was winter time or summer time, she was always crunching on ice. Ain’t that right, Grandpa?”

  “That’s right,” said Nash with a vigorous bob of his head.

  “Papa, what on earth possesses you to tell that child such things? That’s a horrib
le description of Sandy.” Arlene severed another bite of meatloaf with her fork. “She wasn’t always doing anything. What kind of thing is that to tell a child?”

  “Every word is true and you know it.”

  Arlene shoved the meatloaf into her mouth and shut down again.

  “Ain’t it true, Arlene?” said Nash.

  “True ain’t always right,” said Joe, gesturing with his table knife.

  “Didn’t mean no insult, Joe,” said Nash. “But there ain’t reason to be as sensitive as a plucked chicken, either. Certain things do stand out in one’s mind about Sandy. You know, like those big earbobs she was so fond of wearing when she went out on a date. You remember those? They covered her whole ear. I remember a pair that was gold with blue flowers. Looked like they was growing right out of her ear holes. You remember that?”

  Lizzie cracked up over the image created by her grandpa.

  “I remember,” said Arlene sending a hard glance toward Lizzie. “I know it sounds funny, Lizzie, but they were pretty. It was the style then. Sandy was very stylish for a girl raised in the backwoods.”

  “What ever happened to those ear bobs, anyway?” Nash asked Arlene. “You got them tucked away in a box somewhere?”

  “They might be,” she answered. “What does it matter?”

  “Nothin’, I guess. Just wonderin’.”

  “Aunt Sandy would’ve been sad that the cold snap killed all the tomatoes,” said Lizzie.

  “Yes, she would’ve, sugar baby. She would’ve at that. But you know what she would’ve done to make up for it?”

  “No. What would Aunt Sandy have done?”

  “She would’ve made up a big bowl of snow cream. That’s what she would’ve done, for sure.”

  “What’s snow cream?” asked Lizzie.

  “Well, you take a big bowl, pack it with fresh snow, toss in some sugar and vanilla and…”

  “And it’s something you don’t need to know,” interrupted Lizzie’s mama. “Don’t go tellin’ her stuff like that, Papa. Snow cream. Nastiness. Nothing but nastiness. That’s what it is.”

  Nash changed direction. “One thing’s for sure. This back to warm spell ain’t goin’ to last much longer.”

  “Now how would you know that?” asked Arlene. “Did a frog croak facing north or did the doodle bugs under the barn shelters pull a leaf down their holes?”

  Lizzie’s face splayed itself like a welcome mat for her mama’s rare splash of humor.

  “That was not meant to be funny,” Arlene snapped.

  “That’s right, Lizzie,” said Nash. “Your mama meant to be mean. And I’d sure like to know why. Would you like to tell us why, Arlene?”

  Lizzie waited for her mama’s answer.

  Arlene looked down at her plate without a reply to Nash’s question and accusation.

  “Looks like your mama ain’t plannin’ to tell us why she enjoys chewing on meanness ‘til it’s leather tough and tasteless. But for anybody else wondering how I know what the weather’s about to do,” continued Nash, “the Farmer’s Almanac says so.”

  “The Farmer’s Almanac ain’t gospel,” said Joe. “But the weather’s bound to turn cold soon. By the middle of January, I expect.”

  “Gonna be a lot sooner than that,” said Nash. “Two more weeks of this is about all we got. And I’m not talkin’ just cold. They’re predictin’ the biggest snow ever been seen in these parts. That one we just got was only a warnin’. By Christmas day we could be buried under a foot or two.”

  Arlene cut her eyes at Nash and fastened her lips around a train of thoughts steadily building up steam.

  “Miss Shirley,” said Lizzie, “you’ve almost cleaned your plate. You want some more mashed potatoes? Don’t be shy. That’s what the church ladies say on covered dish Sundays. Don’t be shy. There’s plenty of everything. Ain’t that right Grandpa?”

  “That’s right, honey bun. Nobody at this table’s going hungry.”

  “Thank you, Lizzie,” said Shirley. “Everything is delicious, thanks to your mama, but I’m completely stuffed.”

  “Lizzie, you’ve shamed the rest of us with our neglect,” said Nash. “Please accept our apology, Miss Shirley.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology,” answered Shirley. Nash had no way of knowing how truly Shirley spoke. A little neglect balanced against the generosity of Nash’s trust amounted to nothing.

  Nash turned in his chair, glancing about the room. “Lizzie girl, where are all the Christmas decorations? You’ve usually got the windows painted with snowflakes and angels made out of that paste you stir up with white washing powder.”

  Lizzie shrugged her shoulders and bounced a glance off her mama.

  “It’s too soon. Christmas is weeks away,” said Arlene.

  “Too soon? Never was before,” said Nash. “I say whenever the child wants to do it, that’s the right time.”

  Lizzie jumped in and opened her can of pent up eagerness. “Can I, Mama? I want to. I really, really want to. I’m going to draw a big, white star this time. Can I, Mama? It ain’t bed time yet. I can do it after supper.”

  “It’s not the right time for me,” answered Arlene. “And I’ll say when it is. Who can get into the spirit of the season when it’s warm enough outside to go barefooted?”

  “I can,” said Lizzie bouncing on the seat of her chair.

  “Me too,” said Sue Bell, reproducing her sister’s animated excitement.

  “Well, there you have it,” said Nash with an outward sweep of his hands.

  “I said no,” Arlene’s words kicked like a mule. “It’s too soon and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Arlene Lee.” Nash enunciated her name with a dash of vinegar. “If your mama was alive…”

  “But she ain’t,” said Arlene, stabbing her fork into a green bean.

  “Like I was saying… if your mama was alive,” continued Nash, “she’d have holly and pine boughs on the mantel over the fireplace and mistletoe hangin’ over the front door, so everybody passin’ through would get a big, warm kiss. And not only that…”

  Arlene slammed her fork down on the table, leaned back, twisted her arms across her chest and glared at her husband.

  “Oh, my Lord, look what you’ve done,” said Joe. “Stop it right now.” Joe’s deep voice drawled thicker than most. “That’s enough from both of you. I don’t especially like my food seasoned with piss.”

  Arlene’s eyes flared white.

  Joe sucked in a breath and shook his head.

  “Sure, Joe,” said Grandpa Nash. “We’ll be happy to change the subject. Won’t we, Arlene? Besides, there’s something I’ve been meaning to…” Nash looked at Lizzie and Sue Bell who had finished their supper and were sitting quietly with their attention riveted on every word coming out of their grandpa’s mouth. “Well, on second thought I’ll keep it ‘til later.”

  “If you’ve got something to say … say it. Why do you have to make a spectacle out of everything, Papa? You’ve been meanin’ to say what?” said Arlene.

  “It’s nothin’ really.” From the map of his expression, Nash had taken Arlene’s stab directly in the heart. He offset it with a playful scrunched up face aimed at his two granddaughters. When they started making faces at each other, he continued. “It’s about tadpole. Something I’ve noticed. But never mind now,” he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Probably nothing anyway. It can wait. I’ll talk to you about it later… when we’re alone.”

  “See what I mean? Why not now?” asked Arlene.

  “Yeah, Grandpa,” said Sue Bell, who had been keeping track of the conversation after all, “why not now?”

  “You’re absolutely right, pumpkin face. Why not now?” said Nash. “So, okay, I’m gonna tell you… and I want you all to listen and listen real good. I’ve noticed how fast Sue Bell is growin’ up and I don’t like it one little bit. Why you think I nicknamed you tadpole, anyway?”

  “Because I’m tiny,” said Sue Bell.

  “Tha
t’s right,” said Nash with a hearty nod. “And I want you to stay that way. You hear me? We’ve got enough grown-ups around here. Ain’t we?”

  “Yeah,” said Lizzie, before Sue Bell could answer.

  “Yeah,” echoed Sue Bell, “too many grown-ups.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Nash exhaled. “Just put a stop to it. Stop getting bigger. Wish it were that way. Truly wish it were.”

  And then he said it.

  “But, time’s a funny thing. It don’t know how to stay put.”

  “Sounds like you read the article in the Purity Post about the Redding diary,” noted Shirley.

  “The Redding diary? No. Can’t say I have. Should I?”

  “No, I just thought when you said… It’s just that there was a little piece about time not staying put in Monday’s paper. It said something about time slipping away like dust. And what you said brought it back to mind. That’s all.”

  “What does it mean, Grandpa? What does it mean? How can time be dust?” asked Lizzie.

  Sue Bell tilted her head and peered up at her grandpa with an air of exceptional curiosity.

  “It means things are always changin’ even when you can’t see them changin’. Things just keep on slipping away. Like it or not.”

  Lizzie directed her eyes around the table, first at her mama and then her daddy, then Sue Bell and back to her grandpa. “Are things changin’ right now?” she asked.

  “They are,” said Nash. “Right now things are changin’.”

  “Lizzie, honey,” said Joe, “it ain’t nothin’ for you to worry your sweet head about.”

  “I’m not worried, Deddy,” said Lizzie.

  “I’m worried,” said Sue Bell.

  “What do you mean, baby,” asked Arlene.

  “I’m worried about time disappearin’.”

  “Baby, time ain’t disappearin’. What your grandpa said… it’s just a way of talkin’. It don’t mean a thing. There’s nothin’ to worry about,” assured Arlene.

  “But Mama…” Sue Bell started.

  Arlene interrupted. “There ain’t no buts about this. And especially no but Grandpa says. You listen to me… not your Grandpa. Is that clear?”