“I didn’t mean to stare. My thoughts were wandering.”
“Do you find us obnoxious?” Judy asked.
Now Homer was wide-awake and attentive. “Judy, how can you ask such a thing?”
This was too plaintive. Her gaze darted over his face. “You seemed off in the clouds, Grandpa, probably thinking about your new girlfriend.”
“It doesn’t mean I find you obnoxious.”
Jack poured his cereal into Homer’s lap and, when Homer jumped up, started wailing as if his grandfather meant to attack him. In a moment, while Homer knelt on the floor, a rag in his hand and an icy feeling in his crotch from the milk, Cecile came in with no particular look of concern, quieting Jack and organizing another bowl of cereal. She pushed Jack’s chair very close to the edge of the table, which seemed to make his movements less random. Jack just stared into his bowl, unsure what to do with it. Homer got up indecisively. Cecile said, “Your new friend is working the crowd.” Jack waved his spoon jubilantly and then looked around to gauge its effect.
“Let’s spruce them up and take them to the sale,” she said, “a little poignancy to drive up prices.”
A wet washcloth and extraordinary efficiency in lifting limbs or whole bodies into the apertures of their clothes had the two children spiffy in very short order, though it left them dazed. With Homer in the lead, Cecile herded the children from behind. Homer immediately mingled with amiable body language among the skeptics looking at the merchandise. Suddenly, Cecile cried, “Oh, no!” and whirled on Madeleine.
“What happened to the bottles?”
“A man came for them, a man in a wheelchair. He said they were his.” Madeleine suddenly looked her age, with something comic about the makeup she’d applied so carefully.
“Did he pay for them?”
“He said they were his.”
“Lady, I gotta tell you: this is a sale. You know, where objects are exchanged for money?”
“Yes, of course, I do know that.”
“Who do you suppose got them?” Homer asked rather lamely.
Madeleine said, “He was in a wheelchair. I can’t believe they didn’t belong to him. In fact, I thought he said they were his.”
“That cripple happens to be my husband. If you’re around here long enough, you’ll learn not to put anything past him.” Cecile looked at the scattered offerings of her yard sale as though seeing them for the first time. She said, “I’m breaking down. Take Jack and Judy to see the kittens. You can go with him, lady.”
“Her name is Madeleine.” Homer started to back toward the outside door, guiding Madeleine by the elbow, the rigidity of which let him know that she was getting angry. “Where are the kittens?”
“Judy, honey, please show Grandpa and his lady friend the kittens. Now, Judy, okay? Her name is Madeleine.”
When Homer looked back from the house, he saw that Cecile’s interrogation of the customers must have been somewhat accusatory: they were fleeing.
Once in the house, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, as though he had a pleasant surprise in store. Judy’s evaluating squint indicated his failure to convince. “Who would like to show me the kittens?” No answer. “Where are the kittens? ” Let’s try not making it a question. “I’ve been wondering how many kittens there are.”
“There are two,” said Judy, with authority.
“But I suppose Mrs. Hall and I can’t see them. That’s the feeling I’m getting from you, Judy.”
After a moment. “You can see them. Follow me.”
Towering behind Judy and Jack across the living room, in the unaltered light, past the gut-wrenching china cabinet, through the kitchen, into the pantry, and out to the garage, Homer tried to emanate modest obedience for fear Judy would change her mind, but she strode along, an algebra teacher of the future, until they reached a storage closet, where she pointed to a latch she couldn’t reach. Madeleine, who seemed to have lost all confidence, trailed behind, utterly lost. Jack tried to crowd in front of Judy but she moved him aside so that Homer could open the door. When he did, he felt around the inside wall for a light switch until Judy told him, “Reach up and pull the string.” He did as he was told and the resulting low wattage barely illuminated a room filled with discarded household goods: rugs, bath mats, cleaning rags, and worn-out towels. These formed a kind of rough nest next to which Judy sat, holding Jack’s hand to keep track of him. She looked up at Homer and said, “They’re in there.” Then she looked over at Madeleine and said, “You’re allowed to look.”
Homer had to get on all fours to make an adequate inspection, and when he peered around he quickly found a gray kitten with vivid black stripes and black ears. He cupped his hand over it and felt the little motor start as it lifted its head against his palm. “Here’s one,” said Homer, and Judy was at his side at once. He smiled up at Madeleine, hoping to draw her in, but her face projected only some indeterminate fear. His knees hurt and he was concerned that in getting back up he would stagger.
“Where’s the orange one?” Judy demanded.
“What orange one?”
Homer lifted the gray kitten to make way for Judy’s inspection and felt the needle claws pricking his palm. Judy crawled around, lifting wads of fabric and old towels, which cast shadows up the wall, all the way to the back of the closet, where she stopped suddenly. “Here he is!” she cried. “He’s dead!”
Judy was seated with her back to him for a long time, long enough for him to see her shuddering with silent weeping. He crawled over and pulled her into his arms, at which point the sobs became audible, and Jack, without any idea of why he was upset, joined in to make it deafening. Homer drew Jack to his side, and soon the quiet was broken only by Judy’s snuffling. Homer felt mucus run onto the hand that gripped her tight, and he looked up at Madeleine with an expression of helplessness. When Judy began to calm down, he spoke very quietly about how the kitten was in heaven and how we all hope to go there someday; thinking to close his argument, he said, “Kittens are like all creatures, including us, Judy. They don’t live forever, and neither do we.”
The effect of this was to amplify Judy’s anguish. “I know that,” she said, indignant in her grief, “but I thought we all went at the same time!” Strangely, Madeleine nodded in agreement.
Homer could think of nothing to say. He would have had to care about the kitten to have been inspired to the right remark; Judy seemed to see through his dissembling. Besides, nothing was up to Judy’s profound statement, which hung in the air. “I wish we did,” he said, “it would be so much better. I don’t know why we don’t all go at the same time but we don’t, and we have to accept that.” That’s that, he thought, take it or leave it. Besides, something troubled him about Madeleine’s nod of agreement.
To make things worse, Madeleine’s eyes began to fill, and Homer wondered if it was over that brute Harry Hall and his size-thirteen oxblood saddle shoes, ungainly even in death. Homer could almost hear his booming voice: Come on in, Homer. You like gin? I’ve cornered the market!
Judy no longer cried, but she was very somber and far away. “Someone is responsible,” she said.
“God!” barked Homer with exasperation. “God is responsible!” This yard sale was about to kill him. “Madeleine, is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” he inquired coolly. She was touching each of the children unobtrusively. She didn’t know how to comfort them. He didn’t know how to comfort her.