Page 31 of It’s Me They Follow
LATER THAT MORNING
T hings had changed a lot since the last time The Shopkeeper had visited their grandmother’s house, but most things remained the same.
While Elle came back and forth often to visit, The Shopkeeper hadn’t been back since their grandfather had passed away.
Twenty years prior, she’d been so angry at him for leaving that she’d vowed never to pull back into the driveway of his antebellum home ever again, yet here she was.
The haint-blue house of her childhood had turned a dreary gray, and like their white picket fence and outdoor swing, everything looked aged. Even the weeping willow that she’d written under as a child was now bent over as though it were in pain.
She wondered again what ME had meant when he’d written, To find ME, go HOME. She fondled his letter in her pocket. Touched its grooves, knowing he had touched them too, and just the thought of him, the scent of him, sent electric flutters up and down her spine.
And then she caught ME peeking from behind the weeping willow. He August Wilson–grinned as he waved and bopped toward her.
She’d kiss him this time, she promised herself as she adjusted her clothes and packed up her book bag. She’d kiss him—shock waves, sleeping spells, celibacy, and all; anyone who came all this way for her deserved a kiss, even if it left her passed out and asleep.
Elle would kill her for giving out their address, but technically she hadn’t given it to ME.
It was in every copy of Conversations with Harriett if anyone looked closely.
But The Shopkeeper knew that ME was the type to read closely.
She was gathering her things to get out of the car when she nearly tripped over a family of fluffy bunnies that hopped in front of her feet.
The tiniest one was so small, it looked like a mouse with a puff for a tale.
It turned and winked at her, then tiptoed away.
She winked back and was about to follow it when she caught herself.
Why would a bunny be winking at me? she asked herself.
She turned around to find ME, but again, ME had gone away.
The Shopkeeper’s long and heartbroken stare was ignored by Elle, who rolled out of the car and waddled toward the front door with pain and relief in her eyes.
The sky was turning from night to day, and her plan was working.
Her belly had dropped, or as their grandmother used to say, her plug was released, so she knew she had just a few more minutes to get into the house and get things set up.
The creaking screen door was hanging off the top hinge.
Elle pulled it open and knocked the secret family door knock, dedededudedudududu .
It took longer than usual for their grandmother to answer.
The Shopkeeper imagined their grandmother inside, alone and dead, and having to deliver the baby on this dusty porch, and then she shook the image out of her overactive mind.
Her sister did the secret knock again, a bit louder this time.
“Maybe her hearing is going,” The Shopkeeper whispered, kicking dry leaves off the porch just in case.
“It’s not my hearing,” their grandmother fussed from inside the house. “It’s my knees.”
The less their grandmother could see over the years, the more she could hear, but her knees were another story. Those eighty-nine-year-old knees had been stiffening for as long as The Shopkeeper could remember.
While they waited, The Shopkeeper smiled at the thought of their grandmother all dressed up and ME inside, visiting her childhood home.
Having mint tea as though the two were old friends.
She thought for a second that he’d conspired with her family to finally get her back Down South.
She was in a family of storytellers. But that was just her mind playing tricks on her.
ME was not behind a weeping willow. He was not at the kitchen table.
He was not going to show up with calendulas for her sister’s kiddie-pool birth.
ME was somewhere being a monk in training, whatever that meant.
One thing was for sure: He was not coming over for tea and honey with their grandmother while Elle birthed a sweet baby boy in a blow-up pool.
“I deserve sweetness,” she said to herself in a whisper to ease the anxiety.
“Yes, you do,” their grandmother agreed as she opened the door in her faded red headscarf and flower-print robe.
Her eyes were a cloudier blue, and for the first time, The Shopkeeper realized their grandmother, the boldest woman she’d ever met, could be something other than strong.
She’d never seen their grandmother standing with the assistance of a cane.
No matter how intricately carved or beaded, it was a cane.
Their grandmother had used to be a loud woman, a thick-thighed woman, fast and busty, with a quick wit and quotations.
But now she was shorter and thinner and balder than ever before—shorter and thinner and balder, plus she had no teeth.
She was still loud, though—maybe louder.
Their grandmother’s scarf was on, but barely on.
It was uneven, so it showed hints of her shiny bald head.
“It’s about damn time.” Their grandmother straightened her scarf and puffed on the pipe that she balanced on her lower lip.
“If you took any longer, I’d be gone.” The pungent smell of their grandmother’s homegrown reefer filled the air.
The elder woman hugged her younger granddaughter first, and then she started rubbing the big-dropped belly like it was a lucky charm.
“Old folks used to say that every baby is a story we send to a time we will not see.
“I dreamed of fishes,” their grandmother confirmed as she placed a crawfish necklace around her granddaughter’s neck. “For protection.” Their grandmother cackled and coughed and cackled again. “Welcome home, my sweethearts.”
Their grandmother stood back. Got quiet.
Got still. Balanced herself against the wall and stared at her oldest granddaughter.
She knew better than to hug The Shopkeeper.
She didn’t even come close. She looked her older granddaughter up and down instead and said, “Ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays.
” Ironic, since she can’t see , thought The Shopkeeper.
“You smell sweet, though,” their grandmother continued.
“Like sugar and spices, incense and deer hide, wet soil and”—she took a deep breath in—“Egyptian musk.” The Shopkeeper grinned at their grandmother’s precision as she added, “You smell sweet, like a writer.” She winked.
Their grandmother had always had a way with words.
The Shopkeeper had forgotten but quickly remembered that when they were small, while their grandfather served on the men’s choir and usher board, took Communion, and attended church every Sunday, his wife—their grandmother—was at home cursing like a sailor, puffing a pipe, reciting poetry, and growing reefer in her own sanctuary, in the acres of her backyard.
“Oh shit.” Their grandmother took her pipe out of her mouth and covered her gums. “Better put my teeth back in fore I scare the bejeezus outta somebody.” She shuffled away as fast as she could, which wasn’t fast at all and definitely not as fast as it used to be.
The Shopkeeper stood in the foyer, looking around at the house in shock as their grandmother turned the corner.
Her heart was broken, but it was she who had stayed away.
Their house had once been pristine. The most beautiful one for miles.
She remembered their grandfather scrubbing the baseboards, shining the windows, mowing the lawn.
He’d cared for the house in a way that bordered on obsession.
But now the house, left to their grandmother and old age, was in an unconscionable state of disrepair.
Old, feeble, and blind, their grandmother knew the mess in her house by heart and navigated it faster than The Shopkeeper ever could.
But their grandmother had been abandoned.
The Shopkeeper didn’t know where to begin.
As she stood there, surrounded by memories, The Shopkeeper saw a blue marker roll by and remembered when she’d first learned to write.
At five years old, she’d found an electric blue marker in their grandfather’s bottom drawer.
She was always snooping and looking for something to explore.
She hid the blue marker in her back pocket for a full day, waiting for the right time to use it.
That night, she couldn’t sleep because she had a dolphin tale that she needed to tell their grandfather before it was too late.
About the mermaids and the dolphins and the spirit people at the bottom of the ocean.
When she could not hold the story in any longer, she wrote it in huge letters and pictures on the wall by her bed.
When their grandfather came into the room the next morning to wake the girls up for school, she was still writing.
He silently backed out of the room, not sure what to do.
While he wanted to nurture her creativity, he knew their grandmother would not embrace creativity in this form.
He went to find soapy water and rags. He tried to convince his granddaughter to scrub it off, but she tantrummed at losing her first story before she could finish it.
Her grandfather warned her not to wake Elle, but she didn’t listen.
He told The Shopkeeper that she’d never hear the end of it if their grandmother found out what she’d done.
As he predicted, Elle woke up and, as always, shouted, “I’m tellin’!
” as she ran to tell their grandmother right away what had been done.