The Rose Thieves by Heidi Jon Schmidt Page B

love with words. The couch was too short, so Amir got stranded atop her as he tried to reach into her jeans, then bumped his head on Elayne’s doily-covered end table. Wasn’t this the way of all life? The sight of him, mute, helpless, full of want, filled Kate’s heart to overflowing.
    â€œI love you,” she said, and held him so tightly he couldn’t move at all.
    Over the insects she heard a car approach.
    â€œAmir, a car,” she said.
    â€œI too,” he said, laughing uncomfortably before the translation formed. “A car!” he said, and leapt to his feet, swearing in Turkish.
    They were zipped and sitting by the time Pop knocked. As Amir went to the door, he turned up the TV.
    â€œYour mother sent me,” Pop apologized. Hardly a threat, but when he held his hand out to Amir, Amir flinched. Pop looked at his own hand and withdrew it.
    â€œI’m pleased to meet you,” he said. “Come on, Kate.”
    â€œAmerican television,” Amir explained.
    *   *   *
    â€œDon’t they shake hands over there?” Pop asked when they got home. “I think he thought I was going to hit him.” Moths were collecting at the yellow porch light over his head.
    â€œI don’t know,” Kate said, “we never shook hands.”
    â€œI suppose I should speak to you, Kate,” Pop said, “but I don’t know what to say.” She listened to the aimless sound of the brook behind him, waiting for him to go on, but that was all.
    â€œWe were only watching TV,” she said.
    â€œI’d never doubt you, Kate,” Pop said. “You know that.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I do.” He pushed the door open for her, turned the light off, and sat back on the swing.
    A page turned. Ma was reading, and the light from her half-closed door fell the length of the hall. Kate walked through it to the bathroom. Shame and self-pity flashed over her, in alternate waves, and she rinsed her face over and over until she could see it in the mirror rosy and courageous again. When she stood up, dripping, Ma was behind her.
    â€œYou don’t come in to say good night, now,” she said.
    â€œI thought you were asleep.”
    â€œKatie Vanderwald,” Ma said, full of scorn. “Katie the Proud lies again. And just like her grandmother, so cool.”
    â€œPlease,” Kate said, so disdainful she startled even herself. Some new authority had blazed up in her in the last few hours, maybe the last few minutes. She turned to shine it straight in Ma’s eyes.
    Ma smacked her, a blind strike that knocked her against the shower, which gave a resounding, metallic thunder-roll but cushioned the blow.
    â€œMy God, Ma!” Kate said. Ma didn’t even believe in spanking!
    â€œDon’t look at me like that,” Ma said. “That didn’t hurt you. Get downstairs and do the dishes, you … you…” Kate started down. “Slut,” her mother finished under her breath at the top of the stairs.
    There were no dishes, of course. Ma always did them. Children were not household slaves, she said—they should be out soaking up sun and fresh air, dreaming and storing their strength for later on. Laugh, don’t do the dishes! Kate sat at the piano in the dark, pretending to organize her music, until Audie came down and folded her in her protective arms.
    Ma was two steps behind her. “Don’t you make an ogre out of me!” she cried, swooping at them, batlike, slapping the tops of their bent heads, until Pop came in from the porch, rubbing his eyes.
    â€œMy God, are you hitting them?” he asked, and she told him not to dare be reasonable with her and sent them to bed, saying not to wake Chucky and for God’s sake not to turn this into a scene.
    So up they all went, except Pop, who stayed on the porch until time for the early train.
    *   *   *
    â€œNo, like