spilled.
“Well, the first thing we're doing,” said Mom with the certainty that always made Jared want to live elsewhere, because when she talked like that, there was no way out, “is getting started on prosthetic hands for you, Andre. I'm calling Yale–New Haven Hospital in the morning.”
This would be her new passion. Like when she started the adult day care; she'd spent a million hours getting that going. Now she was going to spend a million hours getting metal claws stuck to Andre's stumps. The only thing worse than sitting at dinner across from a guy with no hands was going to be sitting at dinner across from a guy with hooks.
Alake just sat there, in Mopsy's old fleece bathrobe with the yellow duckies appliquéd to the pockets. She must have been starving, but she didn't eat. And although Celestine fed Andre, she didn't seem to consider feeding Alake.
Mopsy got back to her questions. “Mattu, were you a child soldier?”
The rice fell off Mattu's fork. “I was
not
a child soldier. It is not a good thing to say of anybody. The child soldiers were more vicious than grown soldiers ever were.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. Perhaps they did not have enough time with their mother and father or aunts and uncles or grandparents to learn about goodness. But do not ask more, I beg you. I am here to look ahead.”
Shouldn't he say “we are here”? thought Jared.
“Celestine, has Alake been to school?” Mopsy asked.
“I went to mission school for six years,” said Celestine, “and Andre attended for nine.”
Interesting, thought Jared. She didn't answer Mopsy's question, and that wasn't what Kirk Crick said about how many years they went to school.
What's the matter with me? he asked himself. Am I actually trying to catch them out on something?
Since nobody else seemed to have noticed Alake's empty plate, Jared filled it with the same food Celestine had chosen for herself and Andre: rice and chicken. Then he picked up Alake's fork and tried to put it in her hand, but her hands remained in her lap.
Mopsy spoke with her mouth full. “Mattu, what's in your boxes, anyway?”
“The ashes of my grandparents.”
Jared's mother gasped. “Your parents, Celestine? Or yours, Andre?”
There was such a long pause that everybody stopped eating. It seemed like a simple question.
“My parents,” said Andre at last.
“How did they die?” demanded Mopsy.
“The rice gets cold,” said Celestine. “And also the chicken.”
They're not going to discuss the past, thought Jared. They don't even seem to
know
the past.
Mopsy finally noticed Alake. About time, because Jared wasn't taking her on. It was enough to have Mattu and a pair of dead grandparents in his room.
“Don't you like rice, Alake?” said Mopsy. “I can fix you something else. How about ice cream? When I'm upset, I like a big bowl of ice cream. I leave it out for a while, so it gets soft and friendly.”
This was the kind of remark that made Jared want to leave for college a year early. Why did Mopsy always have to sound like a three-year-old? Why was she not struggling to become worth something? Every single marking period, her teachers would write “young for her age” on her report card, and every single time, she failed to improve.
“Mint chocolate chip?” suggested Mopsy. “Mocha swirl?”
Alake was silent.
With an insight Jared had not expected his sister to have, Mopsy said, “Why don't Alake and I eat in the other room?” She picked up Alake's plate, took her hand and led her into the little TV room off the opposite side of the kitchen. It contained a small sofa and theirold television, and it was used only when people wanted to watch different shows at the same time but didn't want to go to their bedroom because then they'd be too far from the snacks.
The doorbell rang.
Celestine flung her chair back. Andre leaped to his feet, as if he planned to run somewhere. Mattu's huge eyes got huger.
“It's okay,” said Jared's
“Well, the first thing we're doing,” said Mom with the certainty that always made Jared want to live elsewhere, because when she talked like that, there was no way out, “is getting started on prosthetic hands for you, Andre. I'm calling Yale–New Haven Hospital in the morning.”
This would be her new passion. Like when she started the adult day care; she'd spent a million hours getting that going. Now she was going to spend a million hours getting metal claws stuck to Andre's stumps. The only thing worse than sitting at dinner across from a guy with no hands was going to be sitting at dinner across from a guy with hooks.
Alake just sat there, in Mopsy's old fleece bathrobe with the yellow duckies appliquéd to the pockets. She must have been starving, but she didn't eat. And although Celestine fed Andre, she didn't seem to consider feeding Alake.
Mopsy got back to her questions. “Mattu, were you a child soldier?”
The rice fell off Mattu's fork. “I was
not
a child soldier. It is not a good thing to say of anybody. The child soldiers were more vicious than grown soldiers ever were.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. Perhaps they did not have enough time with their mother and father or aunts and uncles or grandparents to learn about goodness. But do not ask more, I beg you. I am here to look ahead.”
Shouldn't he say “we are here”? thought Jared.
“Celestine, has Alake been to school?” Mopsy asked.
“I went to mission school for six years,” said Celestine, “and Andre attended for nine.”
Interesting, thought Jared. She didn't answer Mopsy's question, and that wasn't what Kirk Crick said about how many years they went to school.
What's the matter with me? he asked himself. Am I actually trying to catch them out on something?
Since nobody else seemed to have noticed Alake's empty plate, Jared filled it with the same food Celestine had chosen for herself and Andre: rice and chicken. Then he picked up Alake's fork and tried to put it in her hand, but her hands remained in her lap.
Mopsy spoke with her mouth full. “Mattu, what's in your boxes, anyway?”
“The ashes of my grandparents.”
Jared's mother gasped. “Your parents, Celestine? Or yours, Andre?”
There was such a long pause that everybody stopped eating. It seemed like a simple question.
“My parents,” said Andre at last.
“How did they die?” demanded Mopsy.
“The rice gets cold,” said Celestine. “And also the chicken.”
They're not going to discuss the past, thought Jared. They don't even seem to
know
the past.
Mopsy finally noticed Alake. About time, because Jared wasn't taking her on. It was enough to have Mattu and a pair of dead grandparents in his room.
“Don't you like rice, Alake?” said Mopsy. “I can fix you something else. How about ice cream? When I'm upset, I like a big bowl of ice cream. I leave it out for a while, so it gets soft and friendly.”
This was the kind of remark that made Jared want to leave for college a year early. Why did Mopsy always have to sound like a three-year-old? Why was she not struggling to become worth something? Every single marking period, her teachers would write “young for her age” on her report card, and every single time, she failed to improve.
“Mint chocolate chip?” suggested Mopsy. “Mocha swirl?”
Alake was silent.
With an insight Jared had not expected his sister to have, Mopsy said, “Why don't Alake and I eat in the other room?” She picked up Alake's plate, took her hand and led her into the little TV room off the opposite side of the kitchen. It contained a small sofa and theirold television, and it was used only when people wanted to watch different shows at the same time but didn't want to go to their bedroom because then they'd be too far from the snacks.
The doorbell rang.
Celestine flung her chair back. Andre leaped to his feet, as if he planned to run somewhere. Mattu's huge eyes got huger.
“It's okay,” said Jared's
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