Sun & Spoon by Kevin Henkes Page B

“As if part of her were still here.”
    Spoon’s throat tightened.
    â€œOne night,” said Pa, “just a couple of nights ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I went to the dining room to play solitaire, only to find Gram’s cards missing from the breakfront. I looked everywhere, even though I was certain I had put them back in the breakfront the last time I had used them.”
    Pa’s voice was serene, as was his manner. “Then, last night,” Pa continued, “I checked the drawer again—for the hundredth time. And”—Pa looked down at Spoon and smiled—“the cards were there. They were back. Either I’m crazy,” said Pa, “or it was a sign. A sign from Gram.”
    Pa hugged himself. “I hesitated telling anyone, but I really wanted to . . .”
    â€œOh,” Spoon whispered.
    â€œTo let someone know . . .”
    Silence.
    â€œWhat do you think?” said Pa.
    Spoon opened his mouth, and what came out was a thin, quivery noise that sounded like mmm.
    â€œI know you loved her a lot, too,” said Pa.
    They were near the entrance to the cemetery, near the massive stone wall and elaborate arched gate. Whenever Spoon rode by on his bike, he thought that if there were such a thing as heaven, this is what it would look like when you arrived. The mysteriousness and solemnity of the place were palpable. And so was Spoon’s sadness, although he tried to hide it.
    â€œI know it’s a lot to think about,” said Pa.
    It occurred to Spoon how different his life might be right now if he had slipped the cards under the couch or tucked them behind the toaster in the kitchen.
    â€œWe don’t have to talk about it,” said Pa. “I’m happy.”
    There had been times in Spoon’s life when he had been unaccountably sad or fleetingly sad, but this was different. This sadness was overwhelming and specific, and unlike his sadness over Gram’s death, was caused by his own actions. For Pa’s sake, Spoon desperately hoped that, as in a movie, some miracle would take place and Gram’s image would materialize in the clouds or in the leaves on the trees, or that every tombstone they passed on their way out of the cemetery would magically read MARTHA.
    Pa began to hum, something low and lovely.
    Spoon closed his eyes so tightly for a few seconds, he saw orange neon spots behind his eyelids. “I did it,” he said. “It was me. I took the cards and then I put them back.”
    He spoke slowly, with reluctance. As best he could, Spoon told Pa everything about Gram’s cards.
    They were out of the cemetery, onto the city sidewalk, when Spoon finished speaking. His eyes were pink; his cheeks were flushed.
    Pa set his mouth and turned from him. “Oh,” he said softly, nodding. “I see.”
    A siren blared close by.
    And then Pa said, “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He tousled Spoon’s hair, and laughed. The laugh was gentle and sweet and meant to ease. “At least I know I’m not crazy.”

14
    N EITHER S POON NOR Pa said another word until they reached Pa’s house. “Come in,” said Pa. “There’s something I’d like to give you.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Spoon repeated in a small voice while Pa fumbled with his key ring.
    â€œNo need to apologize,” Pa told Spoon. And then he muttered, “Stupid keys,” looking somewhat stricken. His breath came in short huffs.
    Casting his gaze downward, Spoon knew that the keys weren’t the problem.
    Pa finally found the house key and opened the door.
    The something was a photograph. It was creased. Black and white. Small. Square.
    â€œShe must be about your age in that picture,” said Pa. “That’s why I thought you’d like it. It’s probably funny to imagine your grandmother as a young girl.”
    Spoon was too preoccupied to consider this.
    In the