Chapter One
Winter 1965
I STARTED CALLING MY DAD ZOZO when I was just a little kid, because of this fascinating scar on his face. He got it in the war at the same time a bomb or something blew off his left arm, but his arm didnât interest me as much as his scar. It started under his left eye near his nose and angled in a straight line to his cheekbone. Then in another straight line it went from his cheekbone to the space between the bottom of his nose and the top of his lip. From there it drooped a little, curving around the top of his mouth to somewhere in the middle of his left cheek.
Iâd sit on his lap and trace that old scar with my finger. âZozo,â I said, trying to say âZorro.â He smiled. I called him Zozo after that, because I liked his smile.
But the Saturday after Christmas of 1965, Zozo and Law went skiing. Law was my older brother. I wanted to go with them, but they wouldnât take me along. âYouâre not ready yet,â Zozo said. âNext year, maybe. Weâll see.â
âYouâre a girl,â Law said, his voice popping all over the place because it was changing. He grinned at me as he opened the garage door. âYouâd just get in my way.â
âI hate it when you call me a girl!â
âOkay, youâre a boy. Try to look like one. Okay?â
He made it sound as though there was something wrong with being a girl. âHow can I get ready if I canât even go?â I asked Zozo, watching him put the skis in the rack on top of the old station wagon we had then. His left arm was just a little stub that hung from his shoulder, so he had only his right arm to work with. But he could use it really well and in two seconds, the skis were in the rack, all latched down tight, and they were ready to go.
âYouâre too young, Katie,â Zozo said. âYou arenât even seven. Law didnât start until he was ten.â
âGirls grow up faster than boys.â
He laughed. âWeâll see about it next year. Now give me a kiss.â
âNo.â
He shrugged and climbed in the car.
âWeâll bake something,â Mom said, holding on to me so I wouldnât run into the street after them. âFor the boys, for dinner.â It was snowing outside, but not hard.
âI donât want to bake anything!â I wailed. âI want to go skiing!â
âYou be a good girl,â Zozo said, blowing a kiss at me with his right hand, âWeâll go see Snow White tomorrow.â He backed the car onto the driveway and waited for Law to pull the door down. Law stuck his tongue out at me as the door was closing.
I never saw either one of them again. Coming home that night, they swerved to avoid hitting a car that was skidding on the ice. Their car slid off the road and pitched over a cliff.
They were killed.
Chapter Two
Spring 1969
I GLIDED MY BIKE TO A STOP in the driveway of my grandfatherâs house. There were patches of snow on his lawn, but the streets were dry, and it was warm enough outside for the old man to have his front door open. He lived in the same house heâd lived in forever, and I could see his old face peering over the brick wall that guarded the wraparound porch. I used to hide behind that wall when Law threw snowballs at me, hoping heâd miss and break a window. âHi, Grandfather,â I said.
âKate darlinâ!â he said, recognizing my voice. Heâs practically blind. âCome give me a hug.â
I leaned my bike against the lilac bush by the porch, where buds on the branches were changing into little tiny green leaves. I skipped up the steps and went over to where he sat, kind of like a lump, in an old wooden rocking chair with a low back. Getting behind him, I wrapped my arms around his chest and nuzzled my face in the white hair around his head, then kissed him on his bald spot. âMom made cookies,â I said, peeling off my backpack. âWant some?â
âThat would be nice.â
Heâd changed since the accident, Mom said. Heâd given up the law practice heâd been in with my dad, and didnât care about things the way he used to, things that would get him excited and angry, like politics and civil rights and the war in Vietnam. Most of the time he looked like heâd rather be somewhere else and was just waiting for a taxi to take him thereâbut he always brightened up around me.
âHowâs your mother?â he asked me.
âSheâs fine.â Why bother him with the truth? It had been three years, but she barely let me out of her sight. The telephone would ring any minute now, and it would be Mom, making sure I was still alive.
âSheâs fine, is she?â he asked as I pulled the cookies out. There was a table near his chair where he kept his pipe, and I spread them out on a paper towel. âThose cookies smell good,â he said, feeling around until he found a cookie. âMmm,â he said, taking a bite. âDrag up a chair, young lady, and have one with me.â
I found the weathered old wooden chair that liked to stab me with splinters, pushed it next to him, and sat down. âI donât want to bake cookies when I get old,â I told him, picking one up and biting off a piece. Even though it was delicious, I knew that being a good cook was not what I wanted out of life. âI hate working in the kitchen.â
âWell, now. Thatâs not very ladylike.â
âI donât even want to be a lady.â
He smiled. âYou donât, do you? What Iâd like to know is this. What are your options?â
âI mean, when people see me, I donât want them to think, âIsnât she a lovely lady!â I want to work when I grow up and donât ever want to get married or have some man take care of me. Iâll just skip the motherhood thing, too, because I donât want babies!â I started getting emotional. âMaybe if Mom had worked all her life and never married Zozo, then . . .â
He leaned over and found my arm. âMy pretty one,â he said, finding my hand. Pipe smoke surrounded him like a cloud, and I loved the smell. I loved the look of his gnarled old hand, too, like the branch of a tree. âWish I could hear you better, Kate,â he said, âbut I see you well enough. Your grandmother didnât like the kitchen either, but I made her stay in it.â He shook his head as he thought about it. âShe wonât let me forget it, either.â
âBut sheâs dead, Grandfather. How can she . . . ?â
âCourse, things were different in 1922, the year we got married. Married women didnât work in those days. A womanâs place was in the home, but that arrangement just didnât suit your grandmother. Sheâd burn up a perfectly good pot roast and blame it on the oven and insist I take her out to dinner. I think she did it on purpose some of the time so she could get out of the house.â He sucked on his pipe, but it had gone out. âShe was fearless, your grandmother, and this was when women werenât supposed to be like that. But you didnât want to make her mad.â He laughed a little, remembering something as he searched in his pockets for matches. âHave you heard about the Ku Klux Klan yet in that school you go to?â
âThe men who wore robes and masks and did awful things to Negroes and Jews and Catholics?â
He nodded as he struck a match and got his pipe going. âOne night the Klan planted one of their burning crosses right out there on the lawn of this house,â he said, pointing to the place with the stem of his pipe. âI wasnât home, but she was, and when that cross flared up, she tore out of the house with a kitchen knife in her hand and chased five men into their cars and threw the knife at them. They had those silly robes on, and Don Bowman, across the street, was all ready to come to her rescue with a gun, but when he saw how scared they was of a small woman with fire in her eyes, he just laughed.â
âWhy did they burn a cross on your lawn in the first place?â I asked. âYou werenât a Negro or a Jew or a Catholic. I donât get it.â
âI was running for the state senate, and gave speeches about the stranglehold the Klan had on the judges, and how Iâd do everything in my power to beat them. We were Unitarians, your grandmother and me, and they said that was worse than beinâ a Jew. They were awful people, and your grandmother Maggie hated them with her whole heart. As small as she wasâshe barely topped five feetâshe could make herself heard.â
âBut you kept her in the kitchen?â
âI did. After your father was born. She didnât like it a bit, but the truth is, in some peculiar way that seemed normal in those days, she thought that was where she belonged.â He tapped his pipe. âOf course with all this new womenâs liberation business, I donât feel good about it now.â
The phone rang. âThatâs Mom,â I said. âWant me to get it?â
âIf you donât mind.â
I ran into the house. The telephone was on a great old mahogany table in the foyer, underneath the steps that led up to the second floor. I yanked it out of its cradle, ready to start a fight. âHope residence.â
âHi, dear,â Mom said. âHowâs your grandfather?â
That was a disguise. She just wanted to make sure Iâd gotten to his house and hadnât been flattened by a trolley bus. âHe died,â I said. âHe fell out of his rocking chair and hit his head.â
âKate, thatâs not funny. How is he?â
âMom, Iâm okay. Iâm all in one piece. Weâre talking about the Ku Klux Klan and how Grandmother Hope burned up pot roasts in the kitchen.â
âO-kayâ she said, slowly. âAsk him if heâd like to come over for a pot roast tomorrow after church.â
âGrandfather!â I yelled.
âStop that. Go ask him nicely.â
I put the phone down and went back out on the porch. âGrampa?â He twisted his head and looked at me out of eyes that could see only blurs. âMom wants to know if youâd come over tomorrow after church and have pot roast.â
âYou tell her I canât think of anything in this world I would rather do. Ask her what time.â
I went back to the phone. âWhat time?â I asked Mom.
âTell him Iâll pick him up at three. And Kate?â
âWhat.â
âYou donât have to call when you leave. Just come home when youâre ready. I love you, dear.â She hung up quickly, before I could say anything.
Grandfather was sitting up straighter, and his pipe was going full blast when I sat down next to him. âLet me have your hand, young lady,â he said, reaching out with his.
I took the gnarled old thingâit was more than eighty years old, like the rest of himâand pressed it against my cheek.
âYour motherâs still struggling with it, isnât she?â he said quietly.
âWith what?â
âThe loss of your father and brother.â He took a pull on his pipe. âMy son and my grandson. It takes time for a grown woman to just let it go, donât you see. It takes time.â
âIt takes kids a long time too,â I said.
âHas to be hard for you, darlinâ. How old are you?â
He asked me that every time we were together. It was kind of a habit, I think, like the way some people will say âWhat?â all the time, even if theyâve heard you. âTen,â I told him.
âIs your mother still seeing that therapist woman?â
âJust once a month,â I said. âShe keeps telling my mom to move.â
âNow just how is that any of her business?â Grandfather wanted to know.
âShe thinks Mom and I need a fresh start in life, and that the house will always remind us of Zozo and Law and keep us planted in the past.â I looked at his old house and wondered if heâd thought about moving after Grandmother Hope died.
âHow do you feel about it?â he asked me.
âI like my house,â I said. âI like being around Zozo and Law. At first it was hard and I cried all the time, but itâs different now.â He waited quietly for me to go on. âI still cry when I think about them, but I smile too. Itâs just different. I donât want to leave my friends, either. Mike Doyle?â
âA fine boy. Irish, but then so is your mother.â
âHis mom drinks a lot, Grandfather. His dad is never around. He kind of needs me.â
âWell now. You just be careful about who you start taking care of.â
A beat-up green car pulled up next to the curb. An old woman struggled to get out, then emerged and slammed her door shut.
âWhoâs here?â Grandfather asked.
âA woman, Grandfather. Do you have a girlfriend?â
âHmph!â But he smiled as she marched toward us. âWhat does she look like? A pretty young thing, or old and fat?â
âIâll tell you later,â I whispered.
âJudge Hope?â the woman demanded, climbing the steps. She was big and tough-looking. âRemember me?â
Grandfather pushed himself out of his chair. âNot yet.â
âYour son was my lawyer, but I talked to you as well. You made my husband pay child support. Itâs Lydia Bartram.â She stood directly in front of him and glared into his face. âSurely you remember me now.â
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