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 didnāt 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.
Iād sit on his lap and trace that old scar with my finger. āZozo,ā I said, trying to say āZorro.ā 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 wouldnāt take me along. āYouāre not ready yet,ā Zozo said. āNext year, maybe. Weāll see.ā
āYouāre a girl,ā Law said, his voice popping all over the place because it was changing. He grinned at me as he opened the garage door. āYouād just get in my way.ā
āI hate it when you call me a girl!ā
āOkay, youāre a boy. Try to look like one. Okay?ā
He made it sound as though there was something wrong with being a girl. āHow can I get ready if I canāt even go?ā 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.
āYouāre too young, Katie,ā Zozo said. āYou arenāt even seven. Law didnāt start until he was ten.ā
āGirls grow up faster than boys.ā
He laughed. āWeāll see about it next year. Now give me a kiss.ā
āNo.ā
He shrugged and climbed in the car.
āWeāll bake something,ā Mom said, holding on to me so I wouldnāt run into the street after them. āFor the boys, for dinner.ā It was snowing outside, but not hard.
āI donāt want to bake anything!ā I wailed. āI want to go skiing!ā
āYou be a good girl,ā Zozo said, blowing a kiss at me with his right hand, āWeāll go see Snow White tomorrow.ā 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 grandfatherās 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 heād 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 heād miss and break a window. āHi, Grandfather,ā I said.
āKate darlinā!ā he said, recognizing my voice. Heās practically blind. āCome give me a hug.ā
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. āMom made cookies,ā I said, peeling off my backpack. āWant some?ā
āThat would be nice.ā
Heād changed since the accident, Mom said. Heād given up the law practice heād been in with my dad, and didnāt 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 heād rather be somewhere else and was just waiting for a taxi to take him thereābut he always brightened up around me.
āHowās your mother?ā he asked me.
āSheās fine.ā 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.
āSheās fine, is she?ā 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. āThose cookies smell good,ā he said, feeling around until he found a cookie. āMmm,ā he said, taking a bite. āDrag up a chair, young lady, and have one with me.ā
I found the weathered old wooden chair that liked to stab me with splinters, pushed it next to him, and sat down. āI donāt want to bake cookies when I get old,ā 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. āI hate working in the kitchen.ā
āWell, now. Thatās not very ladylike.ā
āI donāt even want to be a lady.ā
He smiled. āYou donāt, do you? What Iād like to know is this. What are your options?ā
āI mean, when people see me, I donāt want them to think, āIsnāt she a lovely lady!ā I want to work when I grow up and donāt ever want to get married or have some man take care of me. Iāll just skip the motherhood thing, too, because I donāt want babies!ā I started getting emotional. āMaybe if Mom had worked all her life and never married Zozo, then . . .ā
He leaned over and found my arm. āMy pretty one,ā 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. āWish I could hear you better, Kate,ā he said, ābut I see you well enough. Your grandmother didnāt like the kitchen either, but I made her stay in it.ā He shook his head as he thought about it. āShe wonāt let me forget it, either.ā
āBut sheās dead, Grandfather. How can she . . . ?ā
āCourse, things were different in 1922, the year we got married. Married women didnāt work in those days. A womanās place was in the home, but that arrangement just didnāt suit your grandmother. Sheād 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.ā He sucked on his pipe, but it had gone out. āShe was fearless, your grandmother, and this was when women werenāt supposed to be like that. But you didnāt want to make her mad.ā He laughed a little, remembering something as he searched in his pockets for matches. āHave you heard about the Ku Klux Klan yet in that school you go to?ā
āThe men who wore robes and masks and did awful things to Negroes and Jews and Catholics?ā
He nodded as he struck a match and got his pipe going. āOne night the Klan planted one of their burning crosses right out there on the lawn of this house,ā he said, pointing to the place with the stem of his pipe. āI wasnāt 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.ā
āWhy did they burn a cross on your lawn in the first place?ā I asked. āYou werenāt a Negro or a Jew or a Catholic. I donāt get it.ā
āI was running for the state senate, and gave speeches about the stranglehold the Klan had on the judges, and how Iād do everything in my power to beat them. We were Unitarians, your grandmother and me, and they said that was worse than beinā a Jew. They were awful people, and your grandmother Maggie hated them with her whole heart. As small as she wasāshe barely topped five feetāshe could make herself heard.ā
āBut you kept her in the kitchen?ā
āI did. After your father was born. She didnāt 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.ā He tapped his pipe. āOf course with all this new womenās liberation business, I donāt feel good about it now.ā
The phone rang. āThatās Mom,ā I said. āWant me to get it?ā
āIf you donāt mind.ā
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. āHope residence.ā
āHi, dear,ā Mom said. āHowās your grandfather?ā
That was a disguise. She just wanted to make sure Iād gotten to his house and hadnāt been flattened by a trolley bus. āHe died,ā I said. āHe fell out of his rocking chair and hit his head.ā
āKate, thatās not funny. How is he?ā
āMom, Iām okay. Iām all in one piece. Weāre talking about the Ku Klux Klan and how Grandmother Hope burned up pot roasts in the kitchen.ā
āO-kayā she said, slowly. āAsk him if heād like to come over for a pot roast tomorrow after church.ā
āGrandfather!ā I yelled.
āStop that. Go ask him nicely.ā
I put the phone down and went back out on the porch. āGrampa?ā He twisted his head and looked at me out of eyes that could see only blurs. āMom wants to know if youād come over tomorrow after church and have pot roast.ā
āYou tell her I canāt think of anything in this world I would rather do. Ask her what time.ā
I went back to the phone. āWhat time?ā I asked Mom.
āTell him Iāll pick him up at three. And Kate?ā
āWhat.ā
āYou donāt have to call when you leave. Just come home when youāre ready. I love you, dear.ā 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. āLet me have your hand, young lady,ā he said, reaching out with his.
I took the gnarled old thingāit was more than eighty years old, like the rest of himāand pressed it against my cheek.
āYour motherās still struggling with it, isnāt she?ā he said quietly.
āWith what?ā
āThe loss of your father and brother.ā He took a pull on his pipe. āMy son and my grandson. It takes time for a grown woman to just let it go, donāt you see. It takes time.ā
āIt takes kids a long time too,ā I said.
āHas to be hard for you, darlinā. How old are you?ā
He asked me that every time we were together. It was kind of a habit, I think, like the way some people will say āWhat?ā all the time, even if theyāve heard you. āTen,ā I told him.
āIs your mother still seeing that therapist woman?ā
āJust once a month,ā I said. āShe keeps telling my mom to move.ā
āNow just how is that any of her business?ā Grandfather wanted to know.
āShe 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.ā I looked at his old house and wondered if heād thought about moving after Grandmother Hope died.
āHow do you feel about it?ā he asked me.
āI like my house,ā I said. āI like being around Zozo and Law. At first it was hard and I cried all the time, but itās different now.ā He waited quietly for me to go on. āI still cry when I think about them, but I smile too. Itās just different. I donāt want to leave my friends, either. Mike Doyle?ā
āA fine boy. Irish, but then so is your mother.ā
āHis mom drinks a lot, Grandfather. His dad is never around. He kind of needs me.ā
āWell now. You just be careful about who you start taking care of.ā
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.
āWhoās here?ā Grandfather asked.
āA woman, Grandfather. Do you have a girlfriend?ā
āHmph!ā But he smiled as she marched toward us. āWhat does she look like? A pretty young thing, or old and fat?ā
āIāll tell you later,ā I whispered.
āJudge Hope?ā the woman demanded, climbing the steps. She was big and tough-looking. āRemember me?ā
Grandfather pushed himself out of his chair. āNot yet.ā
āYour son was my lawyer, but I talked to you as well. You made my husband pay child support. Itās Lydia Bartram.ā She stood directly in front of him and glared into his face. āSurely you remember me now.ā
ā...