When I’d crossed off the last, I turned. “Mrs. Judy, are we ready?”
“They’re rarin’ to go,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how much the residents are looking forward to this.”
Behind Mrs. Judy was a smiling column of nurse’s aides. Young and old, mostly female with a smattering of males, all were dressed in cheerfully colored scrubs. In less time than it takes to tell, each aide collared two children and trotted off with them to environs unseen, the PTA moms trailing behind.
“Well, that’s that.” Mrs. Judy dusted off her clean hands. “Got anything else you want me to do?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Judy and I turned, for I wasn’t the one who’d answered. It was the diminutive Auntie May, aka May Werner, aka the terror of Rynwood, Wisconsin. At ninety-one years old her memory of every embarrassing incident in anyone else’s life was sharp and clear. Maybe she couldn’t always come up with the name of her latest whippersnapper of a doctor, but she could recall in great detail the lukewarm chicken dinner she’d been served at the Ladies Auxiliary luncheon in 1952.
One of her favorite things in life was to catch people lying. The possibility of hearing Auntie May’s cackle of delight and ensuing “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” had kept falsehoods in the entire town to a minimum for decades.
I didn’t want to think about what would happen to Rynwood when there wasn’t an Auntie May around, so instead I thought about her bright purple wheelchair. Every warm day, she convinced an aide to push her the two blocks downtown. After cookies at the Antique Mall, her favorite stop was, for better or for worse, the bookstore.
“I need a kid to do a story,” Auntie May pronounced, thumping the arm of her wheelchair.
Judy and I exchanged glances. Both of us had been pleased last month when Auntie May had opted out of the story program. “Don’t need no one to tell my story,” she’d snapped. “I can tell my own. Say, did I ever tell you about the time I caught little Mackie Vogel skinny-dipping?”
I’d backed away, stammering excuses. The image of our staid and portly school superintendent swimming in the buff wasn’t one I wanted burned into my brain.
“Kid.” Auntie May was pounding. “Story. What part don’t you two understand?”
“May,” Mrs. Judy said, “the residents are already matched with students. We don’t have any children left.”
“What about him?” Auntie May stabbed a gnarled finger in Oliver’s direction.
“He’s here to keep me company,” I said. Oliver was doing his best to be invisible, but Auntie May was nothing if not persistent.
“I need a kid,” she said, “and he’s a kid. Yours, isn’t he?” She skewered me with a look. “Thought so. What’s his name? Bring him over here.”
Mrs. Judy angled herself between the wheelchair and Oliver. “Now, May—”
“Kid,” Auntie May commanded. “Come here.”
My son slid off his chair and slouched across the room. I tried to catch his eye—I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t let the old bat eat him—but he was too busy studying the floor to see my encouraging look.
He reached the side of the purple wheelchair. Since I’d never seen Auntie May standing up, I had no idea how tall she was, but if her birdlike frame was any indication, she’d never reached five feet tall. My son was on the small side himself, and the top of his head was just above the top of hers. He looked slightly down into her eyes.
“Hi,” he said. His voice shook only the slightest bit and I wanted to cheer his courage. “My name’s Oliver,” he said. “What’s yours?”
And then he smiled.
When Oliver gives out his real smile, it’s a thing of beauty. First, the ends of his mouth curl up, giving a hint of what’s in store. Then those ends move higher and higher, the curve of his mouth deepens, his lips part slightly, and, finally, his whole face shines with goodness and purity and light.
Auntie May sucked in
“They’re rarin’ to go,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how much the residents are looking forward to this.”
Behind Mrs. Judy was a smiling column of nurse’s aides. Young and old, mostly female with a smattering of males, all were dressed in cheerfully colored scrubs. In less time than it takes to tell, each aide collared two children and trotted off with them to environs unseen, the PTA moms trailing behind.
“Well, that’s that.” Mrs. Judy dusted off her clean hands. “Got anything else you want me to do?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Judy and I turned, for I wasn’t the one who’d answered. It was the diminutive Auntie May, aka May Werner, aka the terror of Rynwood, Wisconsin. At ninety-one years old her memory of every embarrassing incident in anyone else’s life was sharp and clear. Maybe she couldn’t always come up with the name of her latest whippersnapper of a doctor, but she could recall in great detail the lukewarm chicken dinner she’d been served at the Ladies Auxiliary luncheon in 1952.
One of her favorite things in life was to catch people lying. The possibility of hearing Auntie May’s cackle of delight and ensuing “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” had kept falsehoods in the entire town to a minimum for decades.
I didn’t want to think about what would happen to Rynwood when there wasn’t an Auntie May around, so instead I thought about her bright purple wheelchair. Every warm day, she convinced an aide to push her the two blocks downtown. After cookies at the Antique Mall, her favorite stop was, for better or for worse, the bookstore.
“I need a kid to do a story,” Auntie May pronounced, thumping the arm of her wheelchair.
Judy and I exchanged glances. Both of us had been pleased last month when Auntie May had opted out of the story program. “Don’t need no one to tell my story,” she’d snapped. “I can tell my own. Say, did I ever tell you about the time I caught little Mackie Vogel skinny-dipping?”
I’d backed away, stammering excuses. The image of our staid and portly school superintendent swimming in the buff wasn’t one I wanted burned into my brain.
“Kid.” Auntie May was pounding. “Story. What part don’t you two understand?”
“May,” Mrs. Judy said, “the residents are already matched with students. We don’t have any children left.”
“What about him?” Auntie May stabbed a gnarled finger in Oliver’s direction.
“He’s here to keep me company,” I said. Oliver was doing his best to be invisible, but Auntie May was nothing if not persistent.
“I need a kid,” she said, “and he’s a kid. Yours, isn’t he?” She skewered me with a look. “Thought so. What’s his name? Bring him over here.”
Mrs. Judy angled herself between the wheelchair and Oliver. “Now, May—”
“Kid,” Auntie May commanded. “Come here.”
My son slid off his chair and slouched across the room. I tried to catch his eye—I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t let the old bat eat him—but he was too busy studying the floor to see my encouraging look.
He reached the side of the purple wheelchair. Since I’d never seen Auntie May standing up, I had no idea how tall she was, but if her birdlike frame was any indication, she’d never reached five feet tall. My son was on the small side himself, and the top of his head was just above the top of hers. He looked slightly down into her eyes.
“Hi,” he said. His voice shook only the slightest bit and I wanted to cheer his courage. “My name’s Oliver,” he said. “What’s yours?”
And then he smiled.
When Oliver gives out his real smile, it’s a thing of beauty. First, the ends of his mouth curl up, giving a hint of what’s in store. Then those ends move higher and higher, the curve of his mouth deepens, his lips part slightly, and, finally, his whole face shines with goodness and purity and light.
Auntie May sucked in
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