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GRANDDAD AND I go to Edgartown that afternoon. Bess insists on driving us, but she goes o by herself while we go shopping. I nd pretty fabric shoulder bags for the twins and Granddad insists on buying me a book of fairy tales at the Edgartown bookshop.
“I see Ed’s back,” I say as we wait at the register.
“Um-hm.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Not that much.”
“But he’s here.”
“Yes.”
“With Carrie.”
“Yes, he is.” Granddad wrinkles his brow. “Now stop bothering me. Let’s go to the fudge shop,” he says. And so we do. It is a good outing. He only calls me Mirren once.
THE BIRTHDAY IS celebrated at suppertime with cake and presents.
Taft gets hopped up on sugar and scrapes his knee falling o a big rock in the garden. I take him into the bathroom to nd a Band-Aid.
“Mirren used to always do my Band-Aids,” he tells me. “I mean, when I was little.”
I squeeze his arm. “Do you want me to do your Band-Aids now?”
“Shut up,” he says. “I’m ten already.”
* * *
THE NEXT DAY I go to Cuddledown and look under the kitchen sink.
There are sponges there, and spray cleaner that smells like lemons. Paper towels. A jug of bleach.
I sweep away the crushed glass and tangled ribbons. I ll bags with empty bottles. I vacuum crushed potato chips. I scrub the sticky oor of the kitchen. Wash the quilts.
I wipe grime from windows and put the board games in the closet and clean the garbage from the bedrooms.
I leave the furniture as Mirren liked it.
On impulse, I take a pad of sketch paper and a ballpoint from Taft’s room and begin to draw. They are barely more than stick gures, but you can tell they are my Liars.
Gat, with his dramatic nose, sits cross-legged, reading a book.
Mirren wears a bikini and dances.
Johnny sports a snorkeling mask and holds a crab in one hand.
When it’s done, I stick the picture on the fridge next to the old crayon drawings of Dad, Gran, and the goldens.
