Tin Lily by Joann Swanson

for trying to be on our own. I think about the phone ringing the night he came with his bullets. Sometimes I forget my not answering the phone is why he pounded on the door, came in, took Mom.
    “It was my fault,” I say.
    Hank stops stroking Cheetah’s head and looks at me. “What?”
    “What you did. It was my fault. Because I didn't answer the phone.”
    His head tilts to the side. He studies me and I study him. Finally, his eyes roll like he’s listening to something. I’m wondering if Hank’s hearing bees too when he says, “Not quite time yet.” His hands are on his knees and I notice little flecks of paint—a spot of red, a lot of white, some silver.
    “Not time for what?” I ask even though I don’t think I want to know.
    His eyes roll to mine again. Hurt to rage. Blink. Rage to hurt. “You know that bastard talks to me more now than when he was alive?” Hank says this like he’s asking what I think of the gray clouds outside. Casual-like, Hank tells me he’s hearing Grandpa Henry’s voice.
    Hank gets up and walks over to the door. His head is bowed, his lips moving and not moving. “When it’s time, we’ll go to my father’s house. We’ll go back to where it started and finish it. That should make the old bastard happy.” He turns to me and smiles in a sad, decided way. His sad, decided smile makes me jump a little inside, makes a bee start knocking around inside my head. “When it’s time I’ll come back for you. You have fun with Margie ‘til then, okay? She was a good sister when we were growing up. Good and kind.” He gives me a look like he wants to say more, then his eyes cloud over and go flat with no light. “Good and kind until she left. Like your mother. Like you.” He nods at me once. “You go ahead and tell Margie about our little chat if you want. Then she can come along with us when it’s time.” He opens the door. “See ya soon, Beans.”
    The shop owner comes out of her office, muttering under her breath. She smiles at me and at Cheetah asleep in my lap. “Doing okay?”
    I nod, but keep staring at her. The question is big in me, pushing to get out.
    “You sure?” she asks, her voice all laughter and light.
    “Did you hear the door?” I point to the bell that jingles when someone comes in for all their new and used book needs.
    She looks around. “I didn’t, but I was on the phone. Was someone bothering you? Sometimes we get unusual folk in here.”
    I shake my head right away and focus on Cheetah. “No, it’s okay. I just thought I heard the bell, but then I didn’t see anyone.”
    “Ah. Happens now and then if the wind kicks up,” she says. “Or…” She grins at me, grins big and her eyes sparkle. “Sometimes there’s a ghost likes to wander these dusty cases. What do you think about that?”
    A ghost. “I think you’re right,” I say.
    I put Cheetah back on his perch and stand up, brushing orange and white fur off my clothes. Fine, silky hairs float in the sunshine streaming through the front windows.
    “Are you okay?” The store lady’s come over without me noticing and is standing a few feet away.
    I look into the woman’s kind eyes and hope she doesn’t see how empty I am. “Cheetah is a great cat.”
    She reaches into the window and pats the orange tabby on the head. He’s too busy getting ready for a snooze to notice her. “He’s a special boy. Been here, oh ’bout, five years now.”
    “He lives in the store?”
    “Along with three others.” She cocks a thumb over her shoulder toward the books piled up on tables and in bookcases. “All sleeping the afternoon away if today’s no different than any other. Think they’d snooze right through an earthquake if it was up to them.” She laughs and shakes her head. Her hair tumbles around her, a silver waterfall shining in the overhead lights. Her face is transformed by her smile and I remember Mom again, how her smile was like that—all light and happiness before Hank started