Grandma Threw Her 92nd on Her Own Porch

The Kitchen Table at Home

I drove home with the empty corn sack on the seat beside me and my heart going like a rabbit’s. I had not asked Josh.

I had not asked anybody. I had just said it, the way you grab a child’s arm at a curb before you think.

Josh was in the garage with the hood up on his brother’s pickup, which is where Josh always is on a Sunday.

He is thirty-six, a mechanic at the implement dealer, and he thinks with his hands before he thinks with his mouth.

I told him the whole thing standing in the doorway. He wiped his hands on a red shop rag for a long time without saying anything. Then he asked, “How’s her hip?”

“She says it’s fine.”

“Is it fine?”

“She’s walking without the cane when she thinks nobody’s looking,” I said.

Josh nodded. Then he said, “We rent this place month to month. The landlord’s been wanting to sell it anyway. It’s twelve miles further for me to drive, and four less for you.”

That was it. That was the whole argument. I have been married to that man for eleven years, and he has never once made a big speech about doing the right thing. He just checks the mileage and picks up a box.

The kids took more talking. Wyatt was worried about changing buses. Rosie wanted to know if Great-Grandma’s house had ghosts in it, because it was old, and she had heard that old houses had ghosts.

“No ghosts,” I told her. “Just a lot of stairs and a cat named Pickles who doesn’t like anybody.”

“Will she like me?” Rosie asked.

“Pickles doesn’t like anybody,” I said. “But Great-Grandma will.”