The Mccaffertys: Slade

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SHIVERING, JAMIE CHANGED INTO soft jeans and her favorite old sweatshirt before she clamored down to the kitchen where she found a pan, washed it, heated the soup and crushed oyster crackers into the beef and vegetable broth. She imagined Nana sitting across the table from her, insisting they say grace, watching her over the top of her glasses until Jamie obediently bowed her head and mouthed a prayer.

It wasn’t that Jamie hadn’t believed in God in those days, she just hadn’t had a lot of extra time to spend on her spiritual growth—not when there were boys to date, cars to carouse in and cigarettes to smoke. It was a wonder she’d graduated from high school, much less had been accepted into college.

“God bless the SATs,” she said, smiling at her own prayer. “And you, Nana, wherever you are. God bless you.” She left the dishes in the sink, then started cleaning, room by room, as the ancient furnace rumbled and heat slowly seeped into the house. She’d considered hiring a cleaning service, but figured the scrubbing was cathartic for her and somehow—wherever she was—Nana would approve. “A little hard work never hurt anyone,” she’d lectured when Jamie had tried to weasel out of her chores.

Nita Parsons had realized her granddaughter was a troubled girl who had one foot headed to nowhere good. And she had decided she wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Jamie as she had with Jamie’s father, an alcoholic who had abandoned his wife and daughter two days after Jamie’s eighth birthday. Barely nine years later, Jamie’s single mother had gotten fed up with a rebellious teenage daughter who seemed hell-bent on ruining both their lives.

That’s when Nana had stepped in.

And how had Jamie repaid her? By giving her grandmother more gray hairs than she’d already had.

“Sorry,” Jamie whispered now as she rubbed polish into the base of a brass lamp. She intended to scrub Nana’s hardwood and tile floors until they gleamed, paint the rooms in the soft yellows Nana had loved and repair what she could afford.

And then sell the place?

Inwardly Jamie cringed. She could almost hear the disappointment in her grandmother’s voice. How many times had she heard Nana say, “This will be yours one day, Jamie, and don’t you ever sell it. I own it free and clear and it’s been a godsend, believe me. When times are lean, I can grow my own food. Twenty acres is more than enough to support you, if you’re smart and work hard. I don’t have to worry about a rent payment or a landlord who might not take a shine to me.” She’d wagged a finger in front of Jamie’s nose on more than one occasion. “I’ve lived through wars and bad times, let me tell you, and I was one of the lucky ones. The people who had farms and held on to them, they did okay. They might have had patches on their sleeves and holes in their shoes but they had full bellies and a roof over their heads.”

Jamie had thought it all very dull at the time and now as she wiped at a network of cobwebs behind the living room blinds, she felt incredible guilt. Could she really sell this place, the only real home she’d had growing up? And what about Caesar? Could she offer up the roan to some stranger for a few hundred dollars? Biting her lip, she looked at the rocker where Nita had knitted and watched television, the coffee table that was cluttered with crossword puzzle books and gardening magazines and the bookshelf that held her grandfather’s pipes, the family Bible and the photo albums. In the corner was Nana’s old upright piano, and the bench, smooth from years of sitting with students.

Nostalgic, Jamie glanced out the window.

A shadow moved on the panes.

Her heart nearly stopped. The shadow passed by again and then, behind the frosted glass a tiny face emerged—gold head, whiskers, wide green eyes.

“Lazarus!” Jamie cried, recognizing her grandmother’s precious pet as he jumped onto the window-sill. He cried loudly, showing fewer of the needle-sharp teeth than he had in the past.

Grinning, Jamie sprinted to the front door, pulled it open and flipped on the porch light. Cold air followed the cat inside. “What are you doing here, old guy?” she asked as Lazarus slunk into the living room and rubbed against her legs. She gathered him into her arms and felt tears burn the backs of her eyelids. When Nana had died, the neighbors, Jack and Betty Pederson, had offered to take in the aging cat, Jamie had never expected him to show up.

“You escaped, did you?” she said, petting his silky head. “You’re a bad boy.”

His purr was as loud as it had been when he was a kitten. “Like a damned outboard motor,” her grandfather, when he’d been alive, had complained.

Now, the sound was heavenly. “Come on, I’ve got something for you,” she whispered, kicking the door open and starting down the hall. Lazarus trotted after her. In the kitchen she poured a little milk into a tiny bowl, took the chill off of it on the stove and set the dish on the floor. “There ya go.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard footsteps on the front porch. The doorbell chimed. “Uh-oh,” she said to the cat. “Busted.”

She expected to find a frantic Betty or Jack on the front porch. Instead, as she peered through one of the three small windows notched into the door, she recognized the laser-blue eyes of Slade McCafferty.

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