I just had time to get the last clippie out of my hair before there came two quick knocks at my door, then one, then two more.
"Let me in queeck, Varooshka; they are on to us! Ve must atomize the feelm!"
It was of course that nitwit Otis. I shudder to think what would have happened had he pulled that at Mr. Firestone's door by mistake. I opened as far as the chain would let me and seen it was just a wooden stage sword painted silver. He was wearing some patched-up baggy pants and the fly not even zipped. "Sorry," I says, "I gave all my rags to the mission," and made like to slam it before I said, O I am sorry. They laughed at that.
"Happy Birthday," Devlin says, hugging me. "You remember Otis Kone?"
I took Otis's hand. "Sure." I give it a good squeeze, too. "Sure I remember Otis Kone. Otis comes up from California every summer to try and get my goat." To which Otis says, "It's not your goat I'm after, Granny," wiggling his eyebrows, then made to reach for me. I spronged his fat little fingers with a clippie, harder'n I meant. He howled and duckfooted around the hall like Groucho. I told him to get his pointed head in out of the hall before somebody called the Humane Society. He slunk past so low I had to laugh in spite of myself. He is a clown. I was about to apologize for ragging him when the third fellow glided into sight.
"Grandma, this is my longtime friend M'kehla," Devlin says, "and his son Toby."
"Mrs…?" he asks. I tell him it's Whittier and he bows and says, "It's Montgomery Keller-Brown, Mrs. Whittier. The name M'kehla was… what would you say, Dev? a phase?" Then he smiles back at me and holds out his hand. "Everyone has told me about Great-Grandma. I'm very honored."
He was even grander than through the field glasses: tall, straight-backed, and features like the grain in a polished wood, a rare hardwood, from some far-off land (though I could tell by his voice he was as country southern as I was). Most of all, though, with a set to his deep dark gaze like I never saw on another earthly being. I found myself fiddling at my collar buttons and mumbling howdy like a little girl.
"And this man-child," he says, "is called October." I let go the hand, feeling relieved, and looked to the little feller. About five years old and cute as a bug, squinting bright up at me from behind his daddy's robe. I lean down at him. "Was that when you was born, honey? October?" He don't move a hair. I'm used to how little kids first take how I look, but his daddy says, "Answer Mrs. Whittier, October." I say, "It's all right. October don't know if this ugly old woman is a good witch who's going to give him one of her taffy-babies or a bad witch gonna eat him up," and stuck my false teeth out at him. That usually gets them. He eases out of the shrouds of his daddy's robe. He didn't smile but he opened his eyes wide enough so I suddenly seen what it was made them so strangely bright.
"Toby is the name I like best," he says.
"Okay, Toby, let's get some candy before that Otis consumes it all."
We all come in and I got refreshments. The men chattered about my apartment and low-income housing before they got around to what they had come about, the Worship Fair. I let little Toby look through the field glasses while my grandson showed me a little program of what was going to be happening. I said it looked like it was going to be a real nice affair. Otis dug down into one of his big pockets and come up with a handbill of his own that said ARE YOU PREPARED? with a picture of him in a priest's outfit. He was looking up at the sky through the tube out of a roll of toilet tissue, his mouth saying in big black letters "THE CHICKENWIRE PARACHUTE IS COMING," I knew it was just more of Otis's nonsense but I folded it up, put it in my overnight bag, and told him I was always prepared. And that I notice he is, too, and reach down like to zip up his baggy old pants. He turns his back to do it himself, ears red as peppers. Somebody's got to teach these city kids, I tell Mr. Keller-Brown, and he laughs. My grandson hefts at my bag and says, "Unh, who do you usually get to carry your purse?" I told him, "Don't razz a woman about her essentials," and if he didn't think he was stout enough to handle it I bet little Toby could. The little boy put the glasses right down and came and started to lug at the purse. I says, "Aint we the good little helper, though?"
Mr. Keller-Brown smiles and says, "We work on being the good helper, don't we, Tobe?" and the little fellow nodded back.
"Yes, Daddy."
I couldn't help but gush a little bit. "What a change from most of the little kids you see being let go hog wild these days, what a gratifying change."
The main elevator was still being used to clear out the collection of metal they found when they opened poor Mr. Fry's apartment, so we had some wait for the other one. I said I hoped we didn't miss the Brass family. Devlin says we got plenty of time. He said did I know that Mr. Keller-Brown was part of a gospel singing group himself? I says, Oh? What are you called? Because I might have heard them on KHVN. Mr. Keller-Brown says they were called the Birds of Prayer but he doubted I'd heard them, not on AM.
The elevator arrived with Mrs. Kennicut from 19 and the two Birwell sisters. I told them good afternoon as I was escorted on by a big black Arab. You could have knocked their eyes off with a broomstick. Otis gave them each one of his handbills, too. Nobody says a thing. We went down a few floors, where a maintenance man pushed on carrying a big pry bar much to Mrs. Kennicut's very apparent relief. He don't say anything either, but he hefts his pinch bar to his shoulder like a club. So nothing will do but Otis take out his sword and hold it on his shoulder, too.
We slid on down, packed tight and tense. I thought Boy, is this gonna cause a stink around me for months to come – when, from below, I felt this little hand slip up into mine and heard a little voice say, "It's crowdy, Grandma. Pick me up." And I lifted him up, and held him on my hip the rest of the ride down, and carried him right on out through that lobby, black curls, brown skin, blue eyes, and all.
I seen some rigs around Eugene – remodeled trailers and elegant hippie buses and whatnot – but I never saw anything on wheels the beat of this outfit of Mr. Keller-Brown's. Class-y, I told Mr. Keller-Brown, and was it ever. From the five purple birds on the side right down to a little chrome cross hood ornament. Then, inside: I swear it was like the living room of a traveling palace: tapestries, a tile floor, even a little stone fireplace! All I could do was gape.
"I just helped minimally," he explained. "My wife is the one that put it together."
I told him he must have quite some wife. Otis puts in that Montgomery Keller-Brown did indeed have quite some wife, plus his wife had quite some father, who had quite some bank account… which might have helped minimally as well. I watched to see how Mr. Keller-Brown was going to take this. It must be touchy enough for a Negro man to be married to a white girl, then if she's rich to boot… But he just laughed and led me toward the rear of the rig.