Chapter 61
When Persephone asked me if she could have one of her friends over for a playdate, I’ll admit I didn’t jump at the opportunity.
“It’s bad enough having one small child to look after,” I told her, “two of you will put me in an overdue grave!”
The child had laughed heartily and now I find myself entertaining her and her little friend Delly. Delly! Ridiculous name. Nugget, judging by her incessant barking, is just as unhappy about it as I am.
“Grandma? Grandma? GRANDMA?”
It takes four attempts for me to realize that Delly is addressing me.
“Did you just call me Grandma?” I ask, appalled.
Delly raises a defiant eyebrow. What of it?
Bold as brass, Aunt Cess would have said.
“She’s not your grandma!” Persephone says, howling with laughter. “She’s not even my grandma!”
“Then who is she?”
“She is a fool,” I say, “for agreeing to have you two for afternoon tea.”
Another round of giggles.
It pains me to say it, but Delly is a dear little girl, with thick black hair in pigtails with red ribbons and an absolute belief in herself that I haven’t seen even in grown white men.
I’ve spent the entire afternoon watching her, wondering what she is going to do or say next.
Persephone is watching her too. Watching them together, I find myself thinking about Cess and Ness. And Daphne and me.
“I’m going to call you Grumpy Granny,” Delly says after a moment.
“Me too,” Persephone says.
They roll about in hysterics. Pieces of work, both of them. And yet, I’m not offended in the least. In fact, as I make my way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, I find myself chuckling.
“Can we make an apple pie, Granny?” Delly says.
“Yeah, Granny!” Persephone echoes.
“No. You’ve already had an ice cream, a bowl of grapes, and some popcorn.”
Delly and Persephone are already pushing stools up to my kitchen counter. Persephone gets my apron off the hook on the back of the pantry door and puts it on.
“For pity’s sake,” I say, getting the pastry out of the freezer.
“I like your granny,” Delly whispers to Persephone, as they roll out the pastry a few minutes later.
“Me too,” Persephone says. “You’re the best granny in the world, Elsa.”
“An honor,” I mutter with faux grouchiness.
But my heart hurts because I know that being the best granny in the world isn’t just about baking or sleepovers. The best granny in the world wouldn’t let her presence put them in additional danger. The best granny in the world would make sure the child—and her mother—was safe.
With great honor comes great responsibility.
Persephone had gone home, as had Delly. They’d eaten the entire apple pie, bar one slice that I’d saved for my dessert. After Roxanne came to take Persephone home I noticed the plate that I’d left the remaining piece of pie on was empty.
I chuckle. You had to admire the audacity.
“R.J. Kenton Real Estate, Sailor speaking, how may I help you?”
“Sailor?” I exclaim. “Did you say your name was Sailor?”
“I did. Who am I speaking with?”
I don’t like to be judgmental, but frankly, I’m appalled.
What will people call their children next?
Builder? Teacher? Archaeologist? As far as I’m concerned, calling your child Sailor was a declaration that you had far too much time on your hands, and anyone who attempted to name their child that should be issued the name Eustace or Darold by the government as punishment.
“My name is Elsie Fitzpatrick,” I say, “from 2 Kenny Lane. I’d like to speak to Rebecca Kenton, please.”
I’d discovered a fridge magnet in my letterbox a few weeks back and thought, Well, I may not require the services of a real estate agent, but then a fridge magnet is a fridge magnet, isn’t it?
For the last week it has held up a self-portrait of Persephone sporting a very high ponytail that resembles a penis.
I’d found it very off-putting, and ended up placing the magnet directly over the penis/ponytail.
This morning, as I reached for the fridge door, I realized that I did require the services of a real estate agent after all.
“May I ask what it is regarding?” the woman asks, an idiotic question if ever I’ve heard one.
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
I’m being a smart-ass, but mother of God … I was tired. Until a few weeks ago, Kenny Lane had been home. It had been a quiet place. A safe place, for me and for the neighbors. It wasn’t that place anymore, because of me. It may not have been my fault. But I had the power to change it.
I wait, but she doesn’t even have one guess. A sense of humor wouldn’t hurt, I think. Especially with a name like Sailor.
“I’d like to put my house on the market,” I say.