Bones & All by Camille Deangelis Page B

as he passed. “How’s my Puss, eh?” Then she picked up the bags again and followed the cat into the kitchen. “He knows it’s time to eat. He can hear the clinking of the tins in the bag.” She laughed. “And what would you like for breakfast, dear? I have eggs, and bacon, and maybe even a hash brown or two.…”
    Perfect. This was so perfect. “That would be wonderful, thank you, Mrs. Harmon.” I stashed my rucksack behind an armchair and followed her into the kitchen with the rest of the groceries. Everything was just what I pictured a real home to have: photos of laughing children on the refrigerator, quilted calico place mats around the table, stained-glass suncatchers in the windows—a frog, a sailboat, a four-leaf clover. Above the light switch a painted angel carried a banner that read BLESS THIS HOUSE AND EVERYONE IN IT . We’d never had things like this anyplace we’d lived. The room smelled like cinnamon.
    After opening a few cabinets I figured out where the groceries should go. The fridge was pretty well stocked for one person, and I could see by the big glass jars of flour and sugar on the counter that Mrs. Harmon loved to bake. There was a cake, I couldn’t tell what kind, in a clear Tupperware box next to a bowl of apples and bananas.
    She shrugged out of her jacket and traded it for a red gingham apron hanging on a hook beside the refrigerator. “The electric can opener is the greatest invention of the twentieth century,” she said as she used it to open a tin of cat food. “When you get to be as old as I am you’ll see why.”
    Puss (was that really his name? It was like calling myself “Girl”) waited by a stainless steel bowl on the floor by the window, swishing his tail, as Mrs. Harmon came over and dished out the cat food with a fork. “Now for our breakfast.” She took out a frying pan and pointed to the sofa in the living room. “Make yourself at home, Maren. Can I get you something to drink? Orange juice?”
    â€œOrange juice would be great, thanks.” I sat down and ran my hand over a blue and red zigzag afghan draped over the back of the sofa. We’d never had throw blankets at home—if we got cold we’d just take the comforters off our beds. Throw blankets, like place mats or window ornaments, were not necessary.
    I turned to look at the pictures on the end table as Mrs. Harmon shook her new carton of orange juice, opened it, and filled a pair of glasses. Her wedding portrait was watercolored, so that her cheeks were pink like cotton candy and the garden around her and her husband glowed like the Emerald City. Sometimes people change so much you can’t see them in their younger selves, but Mrs. Harmon wasn’t that different. They looked like they could’ve been movie stars. The photograph had brown matting, and in gold script at the bottom I read:
    M R. AND M RS. D OUGLAS H ARMON
    J UNE 2, 1933
    â€œYour husband was very handsome,” I said as she handed me the glass.
    â€œThank you, dear. We were married fifty-two years.” She sighed. “Dear Dougie. I’ll be joining him soon enough.”
    â€œOh, don’t say that,” I said automatically.
    She shrugged and went back to the kitchen, lighting the burner and dropping a big dollop of butter into the frying pan. “Can you guess how old I am, Maren?”
    â€œI’m no good at guessing people’s ages.”
    â€œYou’ll get better at it as you get older. I’m eighty-eight and a half.”
    She was older than she looked. “I hope I’m like you when I’m eighty-eight and a half.”
    â€œWhy, thank you, dear! If there’s a nicer compliment I can’t think of it.” I looked around the room as Mrs. Harmon let the frozen hash browns cook with the bacon. We lapsed into an easy silence. I found it comforting, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.