and social issues can become a mite heated. Scottish temperaments in the room altogether.” Olive exhaled.
Gitanjali’s gold bracelets tinkled. “I say the politics not belong in same room as roses and the zinnias.”
“Dangerous nights, they are,” Olive said.
“I’m in,” I said.
“You’re in what?” Olive said.
“I mean, I’d like to come.”
“Tuesday night is invitation,” Gitanjali said, smiling, her dark eyes shining. “It will be delight. No throwing.” Her brows came together. “Probably no throwing.”
“With a pinch of excitement and minor violence and small temper tantrums,” Olive said, playing with the dizzy white cat. “Don’t you mind it now.”
I wondered at my easy acceptance to the St. Ambrose Ladies’ Garden, Gobbles, and Gabbling Group. Was that the correct name?
I avoid people. I don’t like them much. I don’t like groups of women, either, whose conversations can be too fast and too confusing, sometimes shallow and mundane. Not enough science or math, conversations that don’t allow for emotions, which is, I know, partly why I’m attracted to both subjects. But what to say when I can’t relate to the subject?
But this was gardening. I had longed for someone to discuss it with.
Maybe I longed for people to talk to about anything?
No.
That could not be true. Could it?
“Thank you, Gitanjali and Olive. I’ll be there.”
We chitchatted, they drove off, and Silver Cat wrapped herself around my legs. I picked her up and stared into her eyes. “I miss my cats. They are the best company of all, but you’re acceptable, too.”
I thought of Toran.
“Toran is more than acceptable.”
Silver Cat leaped out of my arms and killed another mouse.
“You’re an adept killer.”
She dropped the dead mouse out of her mouth and meowed. I meowed back.
I put my garden gloves back on and started hauling out junk. Broken lamps, couch cushions (now mice homes), piles of moldy clothing and blankets, a wad of rubber bands, a massive collection of beer bottles, and the entire contents of the refrigerator, which I was sure was growing things that had never been seen before, including something red that resembled an electrified blood clot and something deep gray that appeared to move on its own.
Yuck and yuck. I like biology but not refrigerator biology.
I didn’t see it at first. It was covered with food wrappers, a bicycle tire, a truck bumper, and a medium-sized cage. But once I cleared that off, my parents’ dining room table appeared, built by my granddad.
“Oh.” I ran my hand over it. “Oh.” I wanted to hug it. “Oh.”
We had eaten here. My father and mother and I. I had rolled bread with my mother and grandma, made jams and jellies, cut out Christmas sugar cookies, and made black buns with currants. I had helped my father make salmon noisettes with watercress and tomatoes. I had helped my mother make honey cake. We sang Scottish songs here. My grandma made her Scottish Second Sight predictions. I couldn’t believe the table was still here.
I heard my granddad’s booming laugh ringing in my head . . . my father’s Scottish stories and legends . . . the bagpipes he used to play . . . my mother singing American rock songs and quoting Gloria Steinem.
I looked underneath it. Yes, there they were.
My granddad and grandma’s names, my father and mother’s names, my and Bridget’s names. One rainy afternoon, Bridget and I had made a tent over the table with sheets and blankets and had played with a kids’ laboratory my parents had bought me. We decided to sign the table as Scientist Bridget and Scientist Charlotte inside a red heart.
I ran my finger over our names, and my eyes became misty. Ah, poor Bridget. I sat cross-legged under the table. Poor Bridget. What nightmares came clawing for her later . . .
“What else is here?” I asked Silver Cat before I lost my emotional control. I found our armoire, which was now crooked, in one of the three
Gitanjali’s gold bracelets tinkled. “I say the politics not belong in same room as roses and the zinnias.”
“Dangerous nights, they are,” Olive said.
“I’m in,” I said.
“You’re in what?” Olive said.
“I mean, I’d like to come.”
“Tuesday night is invitation,” Gitanjali said, smiling, her dark eyes shining. “It will be delight. No throwing.” Her brows came together. “Probably no throwing.”
“With a pinch of excitement and minor violence and small temper tantrums,” Olive said, playing with the dizzy white cat. “Don’t you mind it now.”
I wondered at my easy acceptance to the St. Ambrose Ladies’ Garden, Gobbles, and Gabbling Group. Was that the correct name?
I avoid people. I don’t like them much. I don’t like groups of women, either, whose conversations can be too fast and too confusing, sometimes shallow and mundane. Not enough science or math, conversations that don’t allow for emotions, which is, I know, partly why I’m attracted to both subjects. But what to say when I can’t relate to the subject?
But this was gardening. I had longed for someone to discuss it with.
Maybe I longed for people to talk to about anything?
No.
That could not be true. Could it?
“Thank you, Gitanjali and Olive. I’ll be there.”
We chitchatted, they drove off, and Silver Cat wrapped herself around my legs. I picked her up and stared into her eyes. “I miss my cats. They are the best company of all, but you’re acceptable, too.”
I thought of Toran.
“Toran is more than acceptable.”
Silver Cat leaped out of my arms and killed another mouse.
“You’re an adept killer.”
She dropped the dead mouse out of her mouth and meowed. I meowed back.
I put my garden gloves back on and started hauling out junk. Broken lamps, couch cushions (now mice homes), piles of moldy clothing and blankets, a wad of rubber bands, a massive collection of beer bottles, and the entire contents of the refrigerator, which I was sure was growing things that had never been seen before, including something red that resembled an electrified blood clot and something deep gray that appeared to move on its own.
Yuck and yuck. I like biology but not refrigerator biology.
I didn’t see it at first. It was covered with food wrappers, a bicycle tire, a truck bumper, and a medium-sized cage. But once I cleared that off, my parents’ dining room table appeared, built by my granddad.
“Oh.” I ran my hand over it. “Oh.” I wanted to hug it. “Oh.”
We had eaten here. My father and mother and I. I had rolled bread with my mother and grandma, made jams and jellies, cut out Christmas sugar cookies, and made black buns with currants. I had helped my father make salmon noisettes with watercress and tomatoes. I had helped my mother make honey cake. We sang Scottish songs here. My grandma made her Scottish Second Sight predictions. I couldn’t believe the table was still here.
I heard my granddad’s booming laugh ringing in my head . . . my father’s Scottish stories and legends . . . the bagpipes he used to play . . . my mother singing American rock songs and quoting Gloria Steinem.
I looked underneath it. Yes, there they were.
My granddad and grandma’s names, my father and mother’s names, my and Bridget’s names. One rainy afternoon, Bridget and I had made a tent over the table with sheets and blankets and had played with a kids’ laboratory my parents had bought me. We decided to sign the table as Scientist Bridget and Scientist Charlotte inside a red heart.
I ran my finger over our names, and my eyes became misty. Ah, poor Bridget. I sat cross-legged under the table. Poor Bridget. What nightmares came clawing for her later . . .
“What else is here?” I asked Silver Cat before I lost my emotional control. I found our armoire, which was now crooked, in one of the three
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