I turned Franklin’s name over in my mind. It seemed familiar. “Did you write a kids’ book about a boy called Thaniel set after a nuclear war and he’s got a ferret and a three-legged dog and he was in school in England when the bombs went off and he’s trying to get home to Tennessee where his parents live?”
“I did,” Franklin said, pleased.
Everyone looked at me.
“That was a good book!” I said.
“A child genius,” Franklin said, “destined for great things.”
“I liked the dog especially, though it was kinda sad how it ended with—”
“Don’t tell how it ends! I want to read it!” Bessie said, as Fred called us to the kitchen table.
Supper was glazed ham, mashed potatoes, string beans, angel biscuits, and apple cobbler. I was relieved not to have to say much while we ate. Helen and Bessie talked a blue streak about a show of Helen’s paintings at some museum, Bessie’s quilting, and Fred’s flower gardens. Helen talked about the similarity in the things they did. She said she’d never seen quilts like Bessie’s, with such extraordinary colors and “juxtapositions.” A quilt that Bessie had given her hung on the wall of her painting studio and inspired her every day. She wanted to organize a show for Bessie’s quilts in New York City. Bessie tut-tutted and said that quilting came as naturally to her as breathing. The designs came straight from her heart, a gift from her angels, and Helen ought to put her quilt on the bed where it belonged. Still, I could tell she was happy that Helen thought her quilt was more than a bedspread. Fred wouldn’t even entertain Helen’s suggestion that his flowers were high art. He insisted he did it because he loved Bessie, for that reason and no other.
“We all have our different reasons,” Helen said. “Mine are probably entirely self-serving, but I’d die if I couldn’t paint.”
“Die?” I said, curious. I wondered if I’d die if I couldn’t read or write in my journal.
“I mean my spirit would die, everything good about me. I’m grossly unhappy and mean as a mongoose if I don’t get to paint in solitude every day.”
While she was talking, Franklin had hung nine spoons from his face: four from his cheeks, two more from his eyebrows, and one each from his nose, mouth, and chin. He was working on ten when Helen finally noticed. She burst into a musical laugh, like tinkling glass, and as she did, the spoons fell to the table and clattered onto the floor. We all laughed. Everyone but Henry.
He sat stiffly at one end of the table, frowning or fidgeting occasionally but not saying anything. Once or twice Helen glanced in his direction, then exchanged eye-rolls with Bessie. I tried to ignore him, glad we had company so I didn’t have to hear about bows and arrows and Hargrove Peters, though I knew I’d hear plenty about them later.
After the dishes were cleared, Henry took Helen and Franklin out to his studio to show them his newest work. I excused myself and headed upstairs.
As they walked out back, I heard Helen pleading my case. “Don’t punish her on Thanksgiving, Henry. For my sake? Please.” But their voices faded and I couldn’t hear what Henry told her. Weird thing was, I really wanted to know what he said.
I stretched out on my bed, my room bright with moonlight. I stewed about the day and waited for Henry’s lecture. Soon I heard Fred and Bessie’s truck motor down the drive. Half an hour later, Franklin and Helen giggled like children as they climbed the stairs to Henry’s room. I sat up, ready to argue, explain, defend myself. But Henry’s welder started up out back, and he never came inside.
The next day, humans were everywhere.
The strange man and woman had stayed the night, upstairs. The helper and his mate drove up after sunrise only to drive off and come back with the gimpy old man from the steepled house down the road. The racket they made echoed in the crawlspace. They stomped and rushed around overhead, dragging and rattling things, laughing and carrying on. The cat moved to the porch. But out they came: for firewood, to roam the yard, to traipse in and out of the man’s shop.
The cat fled to the yard, crossed the streambed to nap under a rhododendron. But soon one of them lumbered there, planted his wide backside on a boulder, and blew clouds of smoke that made the cat wheeze. Humans were spreading at a staggering rate, planting their fat haunches everywhere.
He went farther into the woods. But there, midafternoon, the tantalizing smell found him. It curled under his nose, wrapped around his neck like an invisible collar, knotted under his chin, and led him back to the house on a succulent leash.
It was definitely poultry, but no ordinary kind. This was wild bird, roasted and mouthwatering. The scent drew him to the yard, the house, the porch, to the plate of steaming meat. He dove in, wolfing down every juicy shred until his stomach was tight, his walk a waddle. He blessed the girl and all humankind.
A sudden hacking cough drew his attention to the drive, to a car parked some distance from the house. Smoke curled from a window. Were they all on fire? The car door creaked, then opened full, freeing a great cloud of smoke. The visitor stepped out of it, hesitant, eyeing the cat’s empty dish.
Hey kitty, he said.
The girl came out then, laughing at the cat’s plate licked clean.
Fred thought I gave you too much, she said to the cat. No puking now, you hear?
The car door slammed. The girl looked up, saw the visitor, and froze. He straightened and then slumped, nervy and timid both.
The girl growled, What are you doing here?
13
Harlan Jeffers. Eeyore in the flesh. Last person on earth I ever thought I’d see again.
He shivered and fisted the neck of his coat in one
