Bones & All by Camille Deangelis Page A

were a proper outing. “Thank you ever so much.” She handed the tin back to me. “Can you read that for me, dear? These eyeglasses are useless, I really must get myself a new pair.”
    â€œFresh Pear Halves in White Grape Juice,” I told her.
    â€œOh good, that’s the kind I want.” She placed the tin in her cart. “Thank you.”
    I was about to wish her a nice day when she asked, “Are you on your own, dear?”
    I nodded.
    â€œDoing the food shopping for your mother? How nice.” I didn’t know how to answer that, and I guess that’s when she decided to adopt me. “I could use some help bringing my groceries home. I take the bus, you see, because I never learned how to drive. Have you gotten your license yet?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œMy husband always drove me wherever I needed to go.” As she spoke I looked over the contents of her cart: two red onions, kidney beans, a carton of eggs, orange juice, buttermilk, a package of bacon, four tins of cat food, and the pears. “Would you like some extra pocket money?” she asked. “Only if you don’t have too many of your own bags to carry and you aren’t too busy.”
    I would have helped her for nothing. “I’d be glad to.”
    â€œThat’s splendid. What’s your name, dear?”
    â€œMaren.”
    Her hand was cold, but her grip was firm. “Maren! What a lovely name. Mine is Lydia Harmon.”
    After she paid for her groceries we went outside and waited at the bus stop. It occurred to me that she might live near my grandparents, and I hoped she didn’t. Mrs. Harmon sat on the bench beside a mother with too many kids to keep track of. The children laughed and hit each other, kicking at stones, while the woman just sat smoking a cigarette and staring through the pavement. Mrs. Harmon, oblivious, smiled up at me and asked if I was hungry.
    When the bus came Mrs. Harmon paid my fare. As we pulled away from the curb I caught sight of an old brick building with EDGARTOWN PUBLIC LIBRARY etched in stone above the doorway. I watched a boy, nine or ten, hold the front door open for an old woman as she went in.
    To my relief, we seemed to be going in the opposite direction of my grandparents’ house. A block or two later I caught sight of someone else on the sidewalk—an older man, though not as old as Mrs. Harmon, in a red plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves who didn’t seem to be going anywhere or looking at anything. As the bus began to pass he gazed up at the windows, scanning the passengers’ faces as if he were looking for someone. When he saw me, he smiled as if I were the person he’d been searching for. In that instant I noticed that the top half of one ear was gone, slashed on a diagonal. It made him look like an alley cat. I turned in my seat as we passed. He was still looking at me, smiling faintly, and he lifted his hand as the bus turned a corner.
    â€œSee someone you know, dear?” asked Mrs. Harmon.
    â€œNo. Just somebody who seemed to know me.”
    â€œOh,” she replied. “Isn’t it funny when that happens?”
    Ten years ago Mrs. Harmon’s house would have been beautifully kept, but now the paint on the shutters was peeling slightly and the grass had grown high between the slats of the white picket fence. Still, it was a nice little house, white with cornflower-blue trim and a cheerful red door. The living room was bright and cozy—there were rows of records and hardback books in glass-fronted cases, and pictures of far-off places, the Grand Canyon and the Taj Mahal, and real sunflowers in a glass vase on an end table. I heard the clock on the mantelpiece before I saw it.
    A cat with a mane, like a tiny white lion, jumped off a cushioned stool in front of the fireplace and marched across the carpet toward the kitchen. Mrs. Harmon laid her grocery bags on a chair by the door and bent down to pet him