I Know Now

The heat wave sauntered through town and burrowed itself into my imploding skin. The vanilla curtains were drawn with one sliver of light beaming through the crack in the middle. Other than the dust particles that meandered in that beam of light, and the trickle of the old plug-in rock fountain on the table next to my grandmother, the fanless living room was ash dark and stifled by stillness. I stared across the room at my backpack by the front door. I still hadn’t unpacked it for the day. But, I didn’t care. School was out for summer.

My drab blond bangs clung to my forehead, and I futzed with the tattered hair ties at the end of my braids. I occasionally peeled my bare calves from the pleather couch and walked to the freezer. Ice cubes on the top of my head was the game of the day. Gram sat in her faded tweed yellow chair, her royal posture unwavering. She refused my gesture of ice cube offerings. How she didn’t have a bead of sweat on her, I have no idea.

During one of my lackadaisical trips to the freezer with my sweaty feet sticking to the linoleum floor, Gram asked me to go to the attic to get her crystal candlestick. I didn’t ask why. I had stopped asking her “why” about things a long time ago. She never answered. So my curiosity evaporated, and I imagined her untold reasons keeping her company in the ways she wanted them to.

“It’s even hotter up there, Gram. I might melt.”

She raised her hands to her heart with sloth-like grace and closed her eyes.

“Ok. I’ll get it for you. I’ll bring an ice cube.”

The chill of the freezer cooled my face. I stuck my head into the empty space of it for a long second and hummed along with the hum of it. I soaked in the solace, and then grabbed an ice cube.

I ascended the creaky stairs in the suffocating heat and turned the wobbly wooden attic door knob. I leaned left to flip on the dim bulb that flickered from the low ceiling. The lightbulb and the teeny round window on the far side of the attic mutually imparted just enough light for me to scan the mess of things until I spotted the candlestick. On her good days, Gram would find her way to the attic by herself. I don’t know what she did up there. But the candlestick was always in a different spot when she asked me to get it for her.

I shuffled my already filthy bare feet through the dusty floor grit. The crystal candlestick in its stoic stature was perched on a bent metal table. I picked it up. Even in the dim light I could see through it, strewing both distortions and unhindered snapshots. I couldn’t see through Gram though.

I held the candlestick to my chest with both hands and looked down. A dust-covered crimson leather journal peered out from under a shabby bouquet of fake flowers. I placed the candlestick down and picked up the journal. The pages turned with the rigidity of a sword, and the crinkle sounds reminded me of a river’s flow on rocks. The cursive handwriting was perfect in its font-like form. “How did you know my favorite …” was all I read before slapping the journal closed.

In that pivotal pause, I closed my eyes. I reached behind me and stuck the journal into the soggy waste of my skirt, opened my eyes, grabbed the candlestick and tip-toed back to the door. I am not sure why I tip-toed. Gram knew where I was. I guess the sneakiness had already seeped into my conscience.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day’s heat was excruciating by early evening. My long golden braids flung side to side like hammocks in the wind as I dismounted my rusty red bicycle. I hastily leaned it against a parking meter and hopscotch-scurried a few steps across the hot sidewalk toward the old country store.

“No, no, no … wait! Don’t flip the sign yet!”

Mr. Cavers stood hunched over at the clattery glass door, his cane firmly planted, and one hand gripping the wooden wobbly door knob.

“Jessie, we’re closing. And you have no shoes on. Again.”

“Please! This time is dire.”

“Dire. Yesterday it was vital. The day before that, urgent. You’re a personified thesaurus, dear girl.”

Mr. Cavers’ ornery gray mustache tilted to one side, just like the plaid bowtie that adorned the top of his shirt. He took a step back and puffed out his chest revealing a soiled yellow apron. He tilted his head in the opposite direction of his mustache and bowtie and raised both bushy gray eyebrows. I stood in the fidelity of his presence. The newness in the familiarity was both dizzying and sure.

“I know now.”

His crystal blue eyes widened as if they’d snatched a hot day sunbeam. He attempted to speak, but time teetered amongst his cackle of feigned coughs.

“I, I … Hmmm. Jessie, you have thirty seconds. And I already closed the register so you’ll need to come back tomorrow to pay. TOMORROW. Is that clear?”

“Sure, sure, yes. I promise.”

I bolted through the door, both heels slipping on the freshly mopped floor, my hopscotch scurry now a spastic skating performance. I found my way past the dairy aisle toward the back of the store where I saw the handmade sign painted in red.

STAN’S SELF-SERVE CREEMEE STAND.

I slid up to the machine and heaved a sigh of relief. I grabbed three cones and pushed the correct button for each one.

“Jessie, you’re at 22 seconds!” Mr. Cavers blurted.

One cannot rush the art of a creemee’s cascade, but I was tenaciously compressing time with my will. And finally the masterpieces were complete. Their spiral intricacy was the distinction of royalty, like gold. Holding all three cones in both hands, I darted toward the front of the store, with a daintier flare this time, for a creemee splat on the floor would be crushing.

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“28 seconds. Pretty good.”

“What’s even better is this. But you already know that.”

I clumsily passed Mr. Cavers one of the cones as he grasped it with a rickety hand.

“Tomorrow, Mr. Cavers. See you tomorrow. Thank you, Mr. Cavers. Thank you!”

With one cone now in each hand, I resorted to a balletic hopscotch scurry down the sidewalk. With the savviness of an acrobat, I balanced my wrists on my handlebars and mounted my bicycle. I huffed in the heat of my launch and pushed the pedals hard all the way home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gram sat in her chair holding the crystal candlestick to her heart with both hands, her solemn face dripping with tears.

“Oh Gram, Gram. I’m here. Look. Look what I have.”

She looked up through a teary gaze, mouth gaping, and in that pause, a deep breath launched both words and a smile.

“They’re dripping.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Journal Entry ~ July 26, 1941

As the sun rose this morning, I snuck into my mother’s cherished cabinet and borrowed the crystal candlestick. As the sun set, I put on my new self-sewn yellow dress and I set up the picnic blanket in our secret garden spot by the river. The heat was unbearable today. There wasn’t a lick of breeze to soothe the day. That’s okay. I don’t like the wind. It conflicts with the rhythm of the river. I sat waiting, watching the prisms of light dancing in the crystal candlestick. He arrived in a pale blue short sleeve button down shirt with his plaid bowtie tilted as always, his two hands holding summer’s sweetest treat. “How did you know my favorite flavor is vanilla?” I teased him. “They’re dripping,” he said, as he folded to his knees and offered me my cone. By candlelight we ate creemees and kissed vanilla kisses. Stan Cavers, oh, I do love you so.

- Grace

I submitted this for the Summer Camp Challenge. Thanks for reading, and for considering a clicked heart, comment, Pledge and Tip if you so choose. See more of my writing and info about me here: Jessica Amber Barnum