“No. No more than one mess per morning. Now get.”
Jeff shooed the little boy out of the bathroom, then called after Davey as he ran off, “And you’re cleaning up this mess before I get home!”
“But I didn’t make it!”
“Then get the other little boy with your face to help.”
Davey pondered that for a second. “I could get him to do it easier if I had a dollar to give him.”
“Davey!”
“Okay, okay!”
Davey ran off into his room. Jeff just shook his head, and finally headed for the shower.
***
Out in the kitchen, sunlight warmed the countertops and music filled the air. They were songs from vinyl records – 40’s big band tunes, full of trumpets and clarinets, scratchy from a thousand previous playings. As Jeff walked down the hall, he stopped by the parlor door and poked his head in.
Granny Jobson was starting the morning right, with a little spring in her step. Eighty-one years old and a spry little twig of a woman, she backed up from the old-time phonograph and side-stepped, back-stepped, forward-step-hopped, arms out in the air around an invisible partner. Her simple blue housedress fluttered as she turned and saw Jeff.
“Good morning, Jeff!” she smiled. “Care to dance?”
“Noooo, you’ll wear me out, Granny, and it’s not even eight o’clock.”
“Come on, now. Just a little foxtrot.”
“No, I’ve got to eat breakfast – ”
“It’s not the Lindy Hop, for heaven’s sake, boy,” and without giving him time to object, Granny Jobson grabbed his hands and pulled him into the room. Jeff laughed as they circled around, let himself be turned about and even dipped (not too much, even though Granny Jobson was stronger than she looked), and then he begged off.
“I’ve got a meeting at nine, Granny.”
“Some evening, you’re going to help me fill up my dance card.”
“I promise.”
“Well, then, give us a kiss.” She offered her cheek, and Jeff gave it a little peck before walking back out into the hall. Granny went back to dancing with her unseen partner.
***
Brian Tanner sat at the countertop that divided the kitchen and the eating area, his legs dangling off a tall barstool. At eight years old, he was as quiet as Davey was loud, and as thoughtful as Davey was brash. Just like every other morning, pieces of drawing paper lay spread around him as he penciled and colored. An untouched bowl of cereal sat safely away from his drawings. He peered at his work from behind Coke-bottle-bottom glasses, and continued his artistic endeavors without a glance at his brother.
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Copyright © 2008 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.
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