seems to communicate well enough and with barely a hesitation, Bar strides over and takes each of the brother’s hands in turn. As I leave I can hear them talking in low voices, Matthias and Harry’s voices sympathetic and understanding, Bar’s shaky but with renewed strength.
I go to my room and put away my wrinkled clothes and then remember I have to use Gladys’ phone to let know Jim know that I’m okay and not hacked to death by an ax. I sigh. I really, really wanted a bath tonight. My hair still has a crispy, caramel residue on the ends and I feel grimy and dirty from my shift at the soup kitchen. Plus, my nightgown is clean and smells nice, like fabric softener, and all I want to do is don it and listen to my compact disk player. Oh well. I slip my shoes back on, where I had kicked them off only seconds earlier and trudge back out of my house and across the street.
I see the cat curled up under a tree and since I’m feeling cheery enough about my driving skills I stop and give him a scratch beneath his neck. If I had wrecked the car, I might have blamed it on my furry voyeur.
Gladys’ house is nicer than ours; actually, it’s the only nice house on the block. You can tell just by looking that it is owned by a little old lady who has lived here forever. It is sea foam green in color, with shiny white shutters, wind chimes hang from the porch (which does not sag, by the way), lacey white curtains that you can glimpse through clean windows, a handicap ramp that is fenced with a handrail, and a sweet looking porch swing that is upholstered in water proof, flowered oilcloth. There is a ceramic gnome in her flower patch and even Gladys’ mailbox is shiner and spiffier than the rest of the streets mailboxes; standing straight instead of leaning off to the side the way ours does, and painted pink. I knock on the door and later rather than sooner, it opens. Gladys’ small face peeks through the crack in the door.
“Oh, it’s you, dear!” she says, in delight. “You’re just in time for a nice cool glass of lemonade!” Gladys opens the door wide and shoos me in. Her hair is a soft white, so white it has a tinge of blue, and is curled all around her head like a poodle. She is very little, small to begin with and now bent over with age and crippling osteoporosis and I always feel like a bit of a giant standing next to her. Her eyes sparkle merrily up at me.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, Gladys, but I was hoping I could use your telephone?”
“Of course, dear, help yourself. I’m just going to pour that lemonade and see if I can find some other refreshments for us.” With that, she exits with surprising nimble speed.
I settle myself into a flowered chaise and reach for the phone. I know the soup kitchen’s number by heart, as it is the only establishment I have ever called in my whole life other than the coffee shop or Emme, and it is picked up on the first ring. Poor Jim, I did have him worried.
“It’s me, Sonnet,” I say cheerfully. “Nothing to worry about, I’m all in one piece and Matthias and Harry are befriending Bar as we speak. Seems they go way back.”
“Alright, then,” Jim’s boisterous voice sounds relieved. “Thank you for working today, and remember you don’t have to keep him. I’m sure he’s figured out how to take care of himself by now.”
I’m sure he has, I think. More than you know. Aloud, I promise to stay in touch about the situation and we hang up. Gladys has returned with two tall glasses of pink lemonade, a box of crackers and what she insists is cheese in a can. Although I think the powdered lemonade is rather nasty, I do have a fondness for crackers and I find the spray cheese the most fabulous thing I’ve had all this decade and so I stay on the flowered chaise and listen to Gladys talk for a full hour. She is after all, one of my only friends and though she may be from an era gone by according to most, I know this tiny wisp of a grandmother is far more modern than I will ever be. She