could think to say.
She took a long breath. My face was starting to warm.
“Now go and do what I’ve asked you.”
I got up on what felt like someone else’s legs, and walked directly to the telephone stand. I pulled open the drawer and thumbed through the telephone book. In a moment, I had found Small World Paints in downtown North Branch. I turned around, at that point, to watch for Nana, but she was no longer in the living room. The door to her room was closed again, and presumably she was behind it. I exhaled and almost choked on my breath. I was holding it all in. I flipped to the pages of the residential section. I located the W ’s. Whisler. Whitaker. Whitby. And finally . . .
WHITCOMB Janice & Ronald 3200 Ovid Ave
I copied the information onto a note card and walked briskly out of the dome into the nip of the afternoon. I marched across our property, moving toward a large storage shed about a hundred yards down the hill. This was the building that had once housed Nana’s three-wheel eco-car. It was a curiously small auto, and we had used it to buy groceries in the winter. But now, in the wake of the car’s irreparable breakdown, the storage shed housed my Schwinn Voyager bicycle. My only gift from Nana on my twelfth birthday. I often wondered if she’d only purchased it for me so I could run her errands. It had come equipped with large handlebar-mounted baskets for groceries, and a seat pocket for money. I brought it down from its hooks and checked the tires. I adjusted my seat and mirrors. Then I grabbed my mustard-colored helmet off its peg, and I opened the doors of the shed. I tried to hold back tears.
I launched myself out of the shed and was off, shooting over the dead leaves and clingy brush of the hill. My tires bounced over the uneven slope and my teeth clicked together. I pedaled harder, cranking the chain over its gear, and eventually I hopped the curb onto the sharp decline of Hillsboro Drive. I gripped the handlebars and pedaled away as fast as I possibly could. The wind burned my eyes, and I let them water. I felt the hot streams glance down my cheeks. I watched the blurry road disappear under my tires.
IT TOOK ME A HALF HOUR TO ARRIVE AT SMALL WORLD Paints. The store was packed with merchandise, but I was able to locate the fast-drying spray paint in white. I calmly selected two canisters and walked under the humming fluorescent lights of the store to the shiny counter. A squat balding man was awaiting me. I handed him the paint. He rolled it around in his palm. He looked at my face, raw from crying.
“You aren’t planning on getting up to any kind of vandalism with this Krylon paint, are you?” he asked me.
“No,” I said, “I just have to alter some road signs for my grandmother.”
He looked me over again before hesitantly ringing me up for the paint. He handed me my change, slowly. Then he watched me as I stepped outside and loaded the canisters into my handlebar-mounted basket. I looked around the small square of downtown North Branch. I’d been told it was supposed to be modeled after Dutch architecture. The buildings were brick, tall and narrow, with decorative awnings. It was a bit disorienting. Even the streets were cobbled instead of paved. I looked up and down the road, and eventually my eyes landed on the corner shop across the way and came to an abrupt halt.
“The Record Collector,” read a large sign.
From across the street, I could see the front glass covered in bright wall-sized posters of large men with gold teeth, and women clad in small neon shorts. The performers had one-word names and serious faces. A T-shirt hanging up nearby showed a man in a goat mask brandishing a chain saw. I guided my bike up to the front and put my hand against glass. It throbbed under my palm. I opened the door.
I stood for a moment in the entryway, holding my breath, taking in the environs. It was ill-lit inside, and it smelled like the stinky incense
She took a long breath. My face was starting to warm.
“Now go and do what I’ve asked you.”
I got up on what felt like someone else’s legs, and walked directly to the telephone stand. I pulled open the drawer and thumbed through the telephone book. In a moment, I had found Small World Paints in downtown North Branch. I turned around, at that point, to watch for Nana, but she was no longer in the living room. The door to her room was closed again, and presumably she was behind it. I exhaled and almost choked on my breath. I was holding it all in. I flipped to the pages of the residential section. I located the W ’s. Whisler. Whitaker. Whitby. And finally . . .
WHITCOMB Janice & Ronald 3200 Ovid Ave
I copied the information onto a note card and walked briskly out of the dome into the nip of the afternoon. I marched across our property, moving toward a large storage shed about a hundred yards down the hill. This was the building that had once housed Nana’s three-wheel eco-car. It was a curiously small auto, and we had used it to buy groceries in the winter. But now, in the wake of the car’s irreparable breakdown, the storage shed housed my Schwinn Voyager bicycle. My only gift from Nana on my twelfth birthday. I often wondered if she’d only purchased it for me so I could run her errands. It had come equipped with large handlebar-mounted baskets for groceries, and a seat pocket for money. I brought it down from its hooks and checked the tires. I adjusted my seat and mirrors. Then I grabbed my mustard-colored helmet off its peg, and I opened the doors of the shed. I tried to hold back tears.
I launched myself out of the shed and was off, shooting over the dead leaves and clingy brush of the hill. My tires bounced over the uneven slope and my teeth clicked together. I pedaled harder, cranking the chain over its gear, and eventually I hopped the curb onto the sharp decline of Hillsboro Drive. I gripped the handlebars and pedaled away as fast as I possibly could. The wind burned my eyes, and I let them water. I felt the hot streams glance down my cheeks. I watched the blurry road disappear under my tires.
IT TOOK ME A HALF HOUR TO ARRIVE AT SMALL WORLD Paints. The store was packed with merchandise, but I was able to locate the fast-drying spray paint in white. I calmly selected two canisters and walked under the humming fluorescent lights of the store to the shiny counter. A squat balding man was awaiting me. I handed him the paint. He rolled it around in his palm. He looked at my face, raw from crying.
“You aren’t planning on getting up to any kind of vandalism with this Krylon paint, are you?” he asked me.
“No,” I said, “I just have to alter some road signs for my grandmother.”
He looked me over again before hesitantly ringing me up for the paint. He handed me my change, slowly. Then he watched me as I stepped outside and loaded the canisters into my handlebar-mounted basket. I looked around the small square of downtown North Branch. I’d been told it was supposed to be modeled after Dutch architecture. The buildings were brick, tall and narrow, with decorative awnings. It was a bit disorienting. Even the streets were cobbled instead of paved. I looked up and down the road, and eventually my eyes landed on the corner shop across the way and came to an abrupt halt.
“The Record Collector,” read a large sign.
From across the street, I could see the front glass covered in bright wall-sized posters of large men with gold teeth, and women clad in small neon shorts. The performers had one-word names and serious faces. A T-shirt hanging up nearby showed a man in a goat mask brandishing a chain saw. I guided my bike up to the front and put my hand against glass. It throbbed under my palm. I opened the door.
I stood for a moment in the entryway, holding my breath, taking in the environs. It was ill-lit inside, and it smelled like the stinky incense
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