Chasing Jupiter

by Rachel Coker

  Grandpop was standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for me with a hat jammed onto his head. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Well, have you come to take me or not?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  I tried not to wince. That red tie. It was streaked with chocolate and peanut butter and who knows what else. And yet it remained stubbornly tied around his wrinkled neck like a sailor’s knot. Or a hangman’s noose.

  “Yep. Are you ready?”

  Grandpop Barley frowned. “Let me grab my sweater.”

  I stood in the doorway and looked over his shoulder as he grabbed a faded gray cardigan. “It’s eighty degrees outside.”

  “So?” His brow furrowed. “I’ve known people to catch cold in that kind of weather! I’m too old to catch a cold. It’ll be the death of me!”

  “Okay, okay, calm down.” I helped him pull on the sweater and fasten the little brass buttons. I’m more concerned about overheating at the moment. “Let’s grab Cliff and go.”

  People stared at us while we walked by. Their watching eyes followed us, accompanied by whispers and stifled giggles.

  My skin bristled. I was aware of the public opinion of Grandpop Barley and Cliff, but I didn’t agree with it. Granted, they were both a little odd, but was that really such a big deal? Was it really so strange to see a seventy-year-old man hobbling along with an eagle-topped cane and a peanut butter–smeared tie alongside a little boy clutching a Spanish soldier figurine and rambling on about Hemingway?

  I puffed out my cheeks and sighed. Oh, why deny it? Goodness gracious, we were a walking weirdo parade. And I was the ringleader.

  Grandpop Barley halted to a stop in the middle of the street. Garumph. I nearly collided into the back of him. I frowned and reached forward to grab his wrist. “Come on, before a car comes or something.”

  He shook his head and pointed to the mailbox that read Mrs. Ima Nice. I stifled a moan. What did he want with Mrs. Nice?

  “Ima was an old friend of mine.” A thread of longing appeared in his voice. “Do you think we could …”

  “George?” A raspy voice called. “George Barley?”

  My head shot up. Mrs. Nice was sitting on the porch, squinting at us. She brightened when we turned, smiling at Grandpop Barley. “Why, it’s me! Ima Kilpatrick.”

  “Ima!” A faint smile appeared on Grandpop Barley’s face. He pulled off his hat and held it to his chest, his eyes glowing. Every senile, peanut-buttery, crotchety old part of him seemed to disappear. Grandpop Barley temporarily lost his Grandpop-Barley-ness. Instead, he just looked like a regular man standing at the edge of the driveway and smiling up at Mrs. Nice. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

  Cliff glanced at me, bewildered. I shrugged, unsure what to make of the situation. How do you explain insanely sudden sanity?

  But Grandpop Barley obviously intended on seeing Ima Nice. He began hobbling toward the house with a quickened step. “Well, how are you? How are you doing?”

  Mrs. Nice smoothed down the hair around her gray bun and folded her hands in her lap. “Please sit.”

  Grandpop Barley settled in one of the empty rocking chairs, clutching his hat. His eyes caressed Mrs. Nice with startling fondness. “How have you been, Ima?”

  Her face blushed a youthful shade of pink. “Oh, I’ve been getting along okay. I’ve been raising chickens.” She nodded at us. “Your grandkids come over for egg collection every Tuesday morning. Well, almost every Tuesday.” She shot me a look.

  “After eight,” Cliff piped up.

  Grandpop Barley nodded. “Yes, I’ve had some of the eggs. They were very good.”

  As if you could taste them smothered in peanut butter. I wrinkled my nose.

  The sound of the creaking rockers filled the porch. The air was sticky and sweet, enveloping us in silence.

  Mrs. Nice and Grandpop Barley smiled at each other like schoolchildren, glancing down bashfully every few seconds. Cliff and I also eyed each other. We sat on the steps, watching them in confusion. Cliff, who didn’t seem to understand people all that well, was making faces and acting irritated. I didn’t blame him. At the moment, I was starting to question what I knew about people too.

  “Well,” Grandpop Barley said after a while. “We’d better get home. We’re having supper soon.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Nice’s voice sounded resigned. She reached out and touched him with a leathery, pale hand, squeezing his arm. “Well, it was a pleasure to see you again, George.”

  “You too.” Grandpop Barley’s eyes softened. Then he stood and lifted his hat to his brow.

  I scurried to my feet, pulling Cliff up with me. “Good to see you, Mrs. Nice.” I nodded my head respectfully. Cliff bounded down the steps.

  Grandpop Barley looked over his shoulder as he walked down the driveway, smiling to himself. “Fine woman,” he murmured, fingering his moustache.

  I glanced at him. “Did you know her when you were younger? Were you friends or sweethearts or something?”

  He didn’t answer me, likely lost again in his own little world of peanut butter and neckties. But his step was lighter, and his face softer for the rest of the day.

  I lay very still on my bed and stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. It was early morning, and everything always felt really nice in the early morning. You kind of forgot whatever you were mad about the day before, and you were only concerned about all the wonderful things that could happen that day. At least that’s how it always seemed to me.

  Millions of thoughts rushed through my mind—some happy, some sad, some fearful. But also hopeful ones, like the kind you have when the rain is almost over and the sun is peeking out.

  Something told me the sun was going to be peeking out soon on my family. Even after weeks of rain, the sun can’t stay away forever.

  The bedroom door opened, and Juli stuck her head in. “Hey.” She closed the door behind her and threw her bag onto the bed. She smiled, a rare thing. “What are you up to?”

  I squinted at her, vaguely suspicious. “Just thinking.” Was she out all night? Did she just get back, or has she been here for hours and woke up before me?

  “Huh.” Juli kicked back and rested her head on her pillow. She stared up at the ceiling too, with the same thoughtful expression. It struck me that we were still sometimes alike.

  I rolled over onto my stomach so I could see her. “You know, sometimes I just lie around and think through all the things I’m unsure of. Like whether love is real or imaginary. Whether chickens can tell what you’re saying. Whether or not you can fall in love at first sight or know that there’s a God or heaven or someone out there for you somewhere.” I smirked. “Just your basic teenage thoughts.”

  Juli pursed her lips. “I think there’s a divine happiness out there that brings about peace to the opened mind.”

  I blinked. “Oh.” Where did that come from? And what does it even mean? Is that Juli’s way of trying to be mature and progressive, or does she actually believe that? My mind felt strained, trying to understand the meaning of “divine happiness.” It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard in church. But then again, Juli didn’t exactly have a Sunday-morning kind of philosophy on life.

  Juli rolled over onto her stomach as well and propped herself up with her elbows. “Ziggy knows lots of smart things like that. He talks about finding our inner self and becoming enlightened. You should try talking to him sometime. I bet you’d be really impressed.”

  I thought about Ziggy with his long blond hair and thick dark eyebrows, and who always smelled like gasoline and beer. A shudder ran through me. “That’s okay.”

  An injured look flashed across Juli’s face, and I remembered that she thought he was more like family to her than we were these days. “Ziggy’s a great guy. All of you are just too closed-minded to give him a chance.” She rolled her eyes and turned her back to me, curling into a ball.

  I stared at her back for several more seconds before looking back at the ceiling in silence.

&
nbsp; Divine happiness. Inner peace. Enlightenment. I rolled my eyes. What a bunch of hippie talk.

  Chapter 9

  I knocked on Mrs. Greene’s door with a firm hand the second time I visited her. She opened the door and smiled. “How lovely of you to drop by, Scarlett,” she joked.

  Johnny Cash was playing in the background, his deep, trembling voice filling the house. She must have remembered what I said about Juli and Johnny Cash. That felt thoughtful and sweet in a way. I grabbed an apron from the kitchen and tied it around my waist.

  Mrs. Greene was wearing a pale blue shift dress that matched her eyes. A sparkling rhinestone pin glistened in her hair. It was probably too dressy for everyday wear, but I didn’t get the impression she cared. “I was thinking about making sweet potato casserole today. And maybe pork chops. What do you think?”

  I nodded. “What about dessert?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “Banana cream pie?”

  I raised my eyebrows. Basic, but it will work. “Sure, I guess.” I set to work peeling sweet potatoes, and soon thin shavings floated toward the counter. At least until the metal knife nicked my hand. Ouch. I sucked my finger before holding it out. No blood.

  Mrs. Greene glanced at me. “So what is your family doing for Independence Day, Scarlett?”

  I shrugged. “When is it? Next Friday? I’m not really sure.”

  “Well, if you were interested, we’re hosting a celebration in our backyard, down by the creek. There’s going to be fried chicken and fireworks and baseball.”

  “Sounds fun.” I finished peeling the last sweet potato and set it on the counter. “I’ll tell Mama.”

  Mrs. Greene scooped the sweet potatoes into her apron and carried them across the kitchen to the cutting board. A flash of metal caught my eye as she pulled out the big knife and began to chop. “I was going to tell you about it anyway. I was hoping to enlist your services. You see, we’re expecting about twenty people or so, and I just can’t think of anything to make for dessert. Do you think you could make me three peach pies? I’d pay you for them, of course.”

  My back straightened. Three peach pies! That’s six dollars! “Sure! I’d love to … I mean, I’ll talk to Cliff but I’m sure we … Oh, and won’t Frank be …” The words jumbled in my mouth. I pressed my lips together and smiled. And this wouldn’t even be a Saturday. “Yes. Definitely. We’ll go to the orchard to pick up more peaches.”

  Mrs. Greene chuckled. “Good.”

  “Um.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t mean to pry, but I was just wondering …” I cleared my throat. “Are the Leggetts invited to the party?”

  A smile tugged at Mrs. Greene’s cherry-red lips. “As long as they don’t bring Mildred along in the form of fried chicken.” She wiped her hands on her apron and began digging in a drawer. Her voice was hard to hear over the banging of pots and pans. “Have you seen my little chicken lately, Scarlett?”

  “I saw her Tuesday. She looked very good, but she was a bit cranky at Frank for forgetting to put out her corn before he left.” I made a face. “I don’t know how he remembers what to feed each animal at five every morning. I don’t think I’d remember which foot to put in which shoe on at that hour.”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  My eyes shot up, shock flooding my body. “Of course I like him. He’s sacrificed a lot for me and Cliff. I’m very grateful to him.”

  Mrs. Greene pulled out a large white pan. “Here it is. The perfect size for sweet potato casserole.” She placed in on the counter and bit her lip. “Scarlett, look in that cabinet over there and see if you can find a medium-sized frying pan for the pork chops.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I knelt on the floor and opened the cabinet. Rows of silver pans were piled on top of each other. Great. I began pulling out giant frying pans and tiny baking dishes, searching for the perfect size.

  “You know, sixteen is a funny age. I fell in love when I was sixteen, remember?”

  I nodded. “After being sick.” Aha. I pulled out a six-inch frying pan and held it up proudly then pulled myself to my feet.

  Mrs. Greene glanced at me and went back to chopping. “I just want to make sure you’re perfectly aware of …” She sighed. “Remember to distance yourself from getting too attached to any boy that isn’t serious about you. When you’re only sixteen years old, you still have so much growing up to do.”

  “Mrs. Greene.” I turned and shot her my best I have no idea what you’re talking about look. “Frank is my friend. Nothing more.” The cabinet door shut with a bang at my feet. “Besides, Frank is in love with Juli.”

  She nodded and looked away. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not your mother. And I’m not sixteen either.” She tapped her lip thoughtfully, looking out the window. Soft light filtered through the lacy curtains, making her face glow. “It was an interesting season in life. You’re not a child; you’re not a woman. You’re just sort of stuck.” She glanced at me. “You know what I mean?”

  Unsure about what she wanted me to say, I just shrugged.

  Mrs. Greene seemed satisfied enough with my noncommittal answer. She looked down at her recipe then pulled out a mixing bowl and grabbed some brown sugar, flour, and butter—ingredients for the casserole topping. “Have you ever read Peter Pan?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t read much. Cliff likes to hear For Whom the Bell Tolls, but I’ve got to say, after the third reading, I got pretty sick of it.”

  “Well, I’ve got a copy of Peter and Wendy, if you’d like to borrow it. It’s my absolute favorite book.” Mrs. Greene stared at the recipe again for a second. “Read it to Cliff. He’d enjoy it.”

  I hesitated. I hated reading, hated books, and hated reading books. But I hated For Whom the Bell Tolls more. If she says Cliff would like it, I’m sure he would. “Is it Spanish?”

  “Nope. It takes place in London.”

  That sealed the deal. Maybe Cliff will become interested in England, and I can read him books in normal English. “Okay, I’ll borrow it.”

  “Good.” She turned back toward the oven, and I looked to see if she had pecans I could add to make the topping even better.

  As I looked through the pantry, a question I’d had lingering in my mind tugged at me. Ask her. Just do it. She won’t think you’re dumb.

  “Mrs. Greene …” I hesitated, then spit it out. “What do you know about divine happiness?”

  A frown creased her forehead. “I don’t think I know anything about it. What do you mean by ‘divine happiness’?”

  I grabbed a jar of pecans then sat on one of her barstools, folding my arms on the counter. “Juli says that there’s a spiritual force out there that brings peace to you, if you keep your mind open.”

  “Huh.” Mrs. Greene sat across from me and tapped a finger on her chin. “Well, then maybe I do know something about divine happiness, but in a slightly different way.”

  She handed me the butter and motioned toward the stove. I grabbed a small pan and began melting the stick down.

  “You see, Scarlett, I believe there is only one way to divine happiness, and that is through peace with God. But this peace cannot be made through keeping an open mind or even trying to live in peace and harmony.” Her mouth twisted in a thoughtful frown. “The way mankind was created, the way he operates, is always going to be unpeaceful. No matter how much he seeks peace, he’ll never find it on his own.”

  I cut in. “I don’t understand. If someone wants peace and calm, why can’t he have it?”

  Mrs. Greene frowned and glanced at me. She set down the sweet potatoes and got very still. “What is it you want, Scarlett?”

  My shoulders slumped. “I want peace. Peace from bickering and arguments and stress.” I took a breath. It was awkward to talk about. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Greene knew anything about what we went through, day in and day out. With Grandpop Barley and Cliff and Juli and all the money problems. My voice was quiet. “I want to be ab
le to be a family again.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Greene put down her knife and looked at me. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. The answer to the divine peace you’re looking for won’t solve all your problems or make things more peaceful in your family.”

  Something hot flashed in my chest. “Then why search for it at all? Why do people look for God if he can’t help us at all?”

  She shook her head, and her eyes softened. “I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Scarlett. I never said God wouldn’t help you at all. I just said he wouldn’t help you in the way you want. The beauty of salvation and God’s grace isn’t in him solving all of our problems instantly, like a magic genie. Its beauty comes in the assurance that he has a greater plan for you.”

  I calmed the questions bubbling up in my throat and tried to listen to her as I began mixing the topping together. My head felt thick trying to process the information.

  “When I was sixteen, I realized I needed God, not to get rid of the turmoil in my life, but to eliminate the turmoil in my heart.” She rested a hand on her chest. “Because the real problem was me. The problem was that no matter how hard I tried to do right, I did wrong. I couldn’t make myself good. It was a feeling of complete hopelessness.”

  Her words tugged at my heart. I bit my lip. “So what did you do?”

  “Well, the more Tim read to me from the Bible, I realized there was a way out. I …” She paused, a tremor in her voice. “I realized that there was nothing I could do but trust in Christ. And it has brought me such peace, Scarlett. Not the absence of trouble or heartache, but the strength to endure it. And the assurance that nothing will take him away from me. It’s amazing, really.”

  “Huh.” I stared at my hands on the counter. It sounded so good. But Juli’s words had sounded good too. How was I supposed to know which was right and which was wrong?

  I can’t deal with this right now. I pushed away from the counter and forced a bright smile on my face. “Well, let’s get this casserole put together and in the oven. We’ve got lots of meals to fix!”