Abby’s stare fixed on Grandma. A deadbolt. Locked. ‘Why don’t you be nice to your granddaughter?’
Grandma sucked in a wheeze. ‘Why don’t you be nice to Grandma? Eh? Why the hell did you haul us to Florida for Christmas in the goddamn snow?’ She plodded to the sliding door and heaved it open. A blast of fresh air washed through the room, dancing tinsel on their plastic tree. Grandma scraped in some more air. ‘Sunshine State, my ass! Can you believe it? Three inches, and the pool’s got a cover on it.’
Tingling like a tin angel, Young Young Miss Lamp stepped close to the door, putting her toes on the mini-golf grass of the balcony. One, two snowflakes hit her forehead and rosy cheeks, three, melting in a drip down her nose. ‘Ahh,’ Young Young Miss Lamp sighed as the snow fell. ‘It’s nice.’ She stuck out her tongue to catch a flake.
Chilly Grandma spoke. ‘Get in here, young lady, and put that tongue back in your mouth. You’re not a dog!’
Young Young Miss Lamp held the door frame for leverage and stuck her tongue further out, confident the chocolate Lab back home did exactly the same for snowflakes. Mindful of Grandma’s words, she came back in for a second or two, fingers kept just so.
Abby flinched, squinting at Grandma. ‘Why don’t you turn that frown around, old lady? And shut the door!’
So Grandma did.
In a whoosh Young Young Miss Lamp’s heart rose to her throat as the heavy steel frame of the sliding glass door pinned one of her tiny fingers to the wall. Her face went white as a golf ball.
Snowflakes hurt to catch, she thought.
§
Rin-Tin-Tin.
Paper Boy picked a clump of peach lipstick from his hair, scraping it away on the corner of a brick wall. The bricks smelled like rain. His boots tapped down the street toward the river, the street slowly tenderized by raindrops as big as nickels. His boots creased his toes because he forgot to pick up his socks after breaking his good straight tooth. By the time he spotted the river, the snappy byline on his forehead read LO.
Under the grey arch of the bridge, Paper Boy picked up an empty tin beside a flat rock, big and round as a table. The water stung his wrists as he scooped up fresh ripples into his tin. He drank the water down to a familiar stomach ache, then searched for his Demerol to relax the cramped muscles around his brittle sternum. Pewter-tipped-walking-stick brittle.
Not in his jacket.
Not in his pants.
Upset by the smell of peach, he writhed and wrenched the zipper of his jacket to a snag. A magpie scoured the opposite bank, picking at the shiny stones. The zipper didn’t give. The bottle opener that had freed the floss from his hands and feet dug well into his thigh but opened his jacket better than a zipper.
Paper Boy managed to rip the jacket down to his waist. His cold skin weaved in the breeze.
Chicken skin.
Lying down on the rocks, he wiggled and flopped the jacket to his knees, past his boots and off. The rain stopped. The laces of his boots came undone in a slip.
One. Two.
Tired pants rested on the table while he traipsed into the river.
It was as warm as June.
Paper Boy seethed in the river. A squeak and a sigh and the arch of the bridge above undulated in sheets of gold leaf. The crown of the sun shed its pink. He soaked his skin without rolling over onto his dirty stomach.
The water pulled him clean.
With raisins for fingertips, Paper Boy dried himself in the early sun. His elbows protruded dangerously, struggling up to coat-hanger shoulders. A dentist could fix my broken tooth, he thought, opening his eyes to sunbeams and his drinking tin. The bottle opener he left beside his pants had disappeared. So had his shredded jacket.
A familiar stomach ache.
On the opposite bank, the magpie still picked at shiny pebbles. Paper Boy saw letters on the big rock table. His raisins felt the freshly etched stone, smoothing chalky dust in syncopation with his heartbeat.
A wing flap.
Puffs of dust went away with his breath, revealing an arrow’s point. The letters read THIS WAY. On the opposite bank grew a patch of spindle trees.
In blue underwear, Paper Boy cut across the bubbling cold river. Beyond the glimmer of wet pebbles and stones, a single dirt path wound up the slope. Tall grass and bulrushes lined the way.
Paper Boy’s cheeks brushed against the trees. Robin red. On the tallest spindle tree of all, on a bold and sturdy branch, hung a jacket – well-tailored, in navy blue.
§
Breathing Is Good for You.
In Room 32, Miss Lamp’s finger is a clean, cold beet. The lights in the bathroom, off. The faucet doesn’t turn all the way to the right, so it hisses to her close ear. Warm porcelain. It’s best to let her finger breathe. This technique is a favourite of Abby’s. Mother knows best.
Miss Lamp recalls leaving the Florida snow in that rust-brown Ford Pinto, her mother at the wheel and Grandma smelling up the back seat, heading north along the grooved white concrete of Interstate 75.
A large orange bug with dragon wings popped on the windshield. A smear of red and yellow. Young Young Miss Lamp dabbed her dented finger on her purple Toughskin jeans. She had scooped up some Florida beach into her pocket before they left. A convenient band-aid.
Abby pressed knuckles to the wheel. ‘Let it breathe, dear, let the finger breathe for a while – at least until we get home. And don’t touch!’
‘Why, Mom?’
‘The air allows your finger to heal more quickly, dear. You want your finger to heal, don’t you?’
Young Young Miss Lamp wasn’t sure her finger could breathe. The breeze coming from the air vents was as cold as snow and her finger breathed goosebumps all up her arms.
Grandma snored to the squeak of windshield wipers.
In and out. In and out.
So Miss Lamp lets her wound breathe. Same finger.
As the sun flattens to orange, she waits for her tomato soup and grilled cheese, waits for a bold, crisp dill pickle wet in her mouth. It isn’t Saturday, and she doesn’t have her guitar, so she can indulge.
Miss Lamp doesn’t care for grilled cheese without a dill pickle.
§
The Dog’s Breakfast.
Young Young Miss Lamp’s finger pressed Abby to tears. Band-aids filled up with iron, too soaked to swallow. When the ugly words were packed and zipped away for the drive back home from Florida, the nail on her index finger turned purple and fell off. It itched.
Abby cried after the nail fell off. They sat together on the squeaky porch swing while it decided to peel free. ‘It’s not itchy anymore, Mom.’ The purple nail curved upward. A tiny dried-up leaf of a jade plant.
‘Your grandma cares about you, dear.’ Abby placed the nail gently in her pocket. ‘I’m sorry I dented your finger. Does it hurt still?’
‘No.’ Young Young Miss Lamp was an exceptional liar and gave it a rub. ‘But it feels funny on top, and I bet I’ll have a scar.’
The porch swing kicked back as Abby went inside. Her daughter jumped at the smack of the wooden screen door. High up in the willow