Bigger than a Bread Box Read online

  Probably nobody was home.

  I wiped away a few cobwebs and rang the doorbell. It made a buzzing sound, like a bee trapped in a jar. Nobody came to the door. I stared at the dead plants. I looked back over my shoulder, at the overgrown yard. I buzzed the bell again.

  After a minute, I heard some noises inside: a groan, and then what sounded like someone moving something heavy, a box or a piece of furniture maybe. Next something fell. After that, silence.

  Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t this. I really didn’t know what to do. Should I ring the bell one more time? Should I wait? Should I run next door and see if I could find a neighbor? That falling sound had me worried. What if something was wrong inside?

  I wanted to walk away from that house, but now I really couldn’t. I decided to look for a neighbor in one of the other dingy brick boxes on the street, to see if maybe they could help.

  Just as I was turning to walk down the steps, a key turned in the lock with a scraping sound, and the door opened about four inches. A tiny face peered out at me, a woman’s face.

  “Hello?” said the woman. “Hello?” She squinted. She seemed okay, pretty much, not healthy, exactly, but okay. At least she didn’t look like she was the thing that had fallen.

  Her face was pinched and lined. It looked like it had been dusted with flour. Her chin was pointy, her lips were smeared unevenly with orange lipstick, and there was a tiny white bun on the very top of her head. She was so small I was able to look down at the top of the bun. She reminded me of a bird.

  “Hey,” I said, turning back around to face her fully. Then I corrected myself. “I mean, hello, ma’am.”

  I guess because she was so old, I found myself suddenly talking like someone in an old-fashioned book. “Hey” felt like a bad word, too slangy. I bent down so that I was the same height as the woman. I had to resist a funny urge to curtsy.

  When the old lady saw me, she opened the door a bit farther and smiled. Her eyebrows went up into her little forehead, and I noticed they were painted on. She was wearing a shapeless blue flowered dress and a pair of scruffy white slippers. She was really old.

  “Why, hello,” she said, and her voice took me by surprise. It stood out, like the orange lipstick. Her voice wasn’t tiny. It was clear and sharp. Her voice sounded as strong as her body looked weak. Her eyes were bright in her white face, light blue and rimmed with a little bit of pink. They looked watery, but wide awake.

  I decided I liked her.

  “I rarely use this door,” she said. “So I had to move a few things around to get to you, I’m afraid. That’s why it took me so long. Can I help you?”

  I hoped so, but I didn’t have any idea how to begin. “I … um … I’m sorry to bother you. If now isn’t a good time I can …” I didn’t know what I could do. It wasn’t as though I was going to come back later. I wasn’t even sure how I planned to get home, but it seemed like the thing to say. “I mean, if you’re busy—”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” said the old lady with a chuckle. “I haven’t been busy in decades. Not since my grandson grew up and moved to California. I’m pleased with the distraction. Can I help you?”

  “Actually, I … um … I …” I knew I sounded like an idiot, stammering like that, but I really had no idea how to start. How did I tell her I’d come to bring her back an old, tarnished spoon that she probably didn’t even remember?

  “Don’t be frightened, dear,” she said with a laugh. “I won’t bite you.” Her laugh sounded old-fashioned too. Southern, but also proper, like something from an old movie my dad would fall asleep watching. She stretched back her head when she laughed. “Are you selling cookies or something like that? For school?”

  I took a deep breath. “No. I’m not selling anything. I just … have something I want to show you, if … well, if you’re … Are you Adda?”

  She laughed again. “Usually I’m called Miss Adda by people your age, but, yes, that’s me. I think you’ve got the right house.”

  I nodded. “And so … Harlan is—”

  Miss Adda’s face fell. “Oh. He’s dead, dear. Harlan is dead.” Her orange mouth frowned and mostly disappeared.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I just—”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s fine,” said Miss Adda, though she still looked sad. “I mean, it isn’t fine. But it’s been years and years, and I’m mostly used to it now.”

  “I’m still sorry,” I offered.

  “That’s kind,” she said. “Me too.”

  I didn’t know what else to add to that. My backpack was slipping, so I hefted it farther onto my shoulder.

  “Well,” said Miss Adda. “Now that I’m who you want me to be, would you maybe like to come in and tell me who you are? I don’t often have guests, so it’s a bit of a mess in here.” She glanced behind herself and looked nervous. “But I’m pleased to have company, and I can make a pot of tea.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a bother—”

  “You’re not, dear, but I just don’t want to stand up forever like this on the porch. It’s chilly out here, and my arthritis—”

  “Oh, of course,” I said. I hadn’t thought about her standing there in the cold in that thin dress.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere with strangers, but after all, I was the one who’d come knocking. I’d disturbed her, so I should go inside and let her sit down. It was only polite.

  But when I stepped inside after Miss Adda, I felt less sure about my decision. In fact, I wanted to run back out. I found myself staring down a dark hallway full of junk. This hallway made Gran’s attic look like a showroom at a department store. Along each wall was a long bookshelf, bursting with a strange assortment of books, antiques, and garbage. China figurines and balls of rubber bands, dishes of hard candy and stacks of old newspapers. Broken toys. Everything on the bookshelves in the dim hall looked about to spill over. The bookshelves themselves appeared to be leaning, as if they might cave inward at any second.

  The floor was even worse! It was covered in boxes and bags of old clothes, plastic trash cans full of coat hangers. Recycling bins full of everything but recycling. One box seemed to hold nothing but old records without their jackets, just black plastic disks stacked and crammed together. By my right foot was a bucket full of twisted and tangled beaded necklaces. By my left foot was an open garbage bag crammed with dingy white leather purses, as far as I could tell.

  Finding a path through the mess was tricky, like walking down a stream on stepping-stones. I had to look for clear bits of carpet. Miss Adda was well ahead of me. She knew where to step. It must have been like this for years.

  Halfway down the hall, I stepped over a birdcage lying on the ground. I thought maybe that explained the crash I’d heard, because as I made my way past it, I felt birdseed grinding into the rug under my feet. But that wasn’t the bad part. The bad part was that inside the birdcage was a bird. A bird that looked like it had been dead for a long, long time.

  Ahead of me, Miss Adda was stepping into a rectangle of light at the end of the hall, heading into another room. I wondered what I’d find there.

  CHAPTER 19

  Miss Adda’s kitchen didn’t look like any kitchen I’d ever been in before, mostly because it was so green. There was a green tablecloth on the table, and in the center of it were several sets of green salt and pepper shakers arranged around a little vase with a green silk flower in it. The flower was dusty, but it was all just so. The walls were papered with a glossy pattern of forest branches. None of the chairs matched, except for the fact that they were painted green. At one end of the room was a glass door that led out to a little back porch, which appeared to house some actual living plants. I could see their tendrils curling against the glass. At the other end of the room was an open doorway, hung with a green curtain. It was weird how completely green the room was, but it was a nice-enough place. Clearly it was exactly how she wanted it to be. Nobody ended up with a kitchen like tha
t by accident.

  Despite the weird amount of green, looking around the kitchen made me feel better about Miss Adda’s house. The counters were mostly clear and clean. There weren’t gross food messes or anything. The trash wasn’t overflowing. It didn’t smell bad. Still, it was sad to imagine Miss Adda eating alone there. Washing a single cup. She’d said she didn’t often have visitors, and I wondered how often she got to the store. I wondered if she was able to drive a car. I hadn’t seen one out front.

  Miss Adda was busy, filling a kettle at the rust-stained sink. She set it on the stove and reached for a tin of tea from a little shelf. “So, dear,” she said, “where do you live?”

  I sat down in one of the green chairs and thought about that. It took me a minute to say. “Well … Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore?” She turned around. “You’re an extremely long way from home.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said with a sigh. Then I added, “But I’m staying with my gran right now—not far away from here.”

  “Oh, that’s nice for your gran! Nice for everyone, I’m sure,” Adda said, bobbing her tiny head up and down.

  “I guess so,” I said. “I guess it is.”

  Adda turned back around to the stove, where the kettle was starting to steam.

  “I like your kitchen,” I said, staring up at a green glass chandelier. “I like how everything is a different kind of green.”

  Miss Adda turned away from the stove and beamed at me. “Oh! I’m so glad you noticed!” she said. “Green is my favorite color. It’s so alive, so fresh, but not everybody sees all the different greens, you know—some people just see green. Doesn’t that sound boring to you? Wouldn’t you hate to be one of those people?”

  I thought about that. I was glad to see all the greens, though it seemed a funny thing for her to say.

  In a minute, Miss Adda set up a little tray with a sugar bowl and two cups and a fat little teapot. It was cute, something old ladies were supposed to do, though I’d never seen one actually do it. I didn’t know many old ladies very well, besides Gran, and she wasn’t that old.

  Miss Adda carried the tray very carefully over to the table. It made a tinkling sound as she slid it in front of me. Her arms shook.

  I looked down and noticed that there were sprays of fern all over the cups. They looked so delicate. When I reached out to touch one with a finger, the porcelain felt as thin as glass, fragile.

  “Pretty,” I said.

  “Thank you. They are, aren’t they? It’s my wedding china. Kept it on the shelf for years and years, but I don’t see any reason not to use it now. What on earth was I saving it for?” She turned back to the counter for a plate of cookies.

  There were some very old-looking napkins the color of new grass on the tray too, edged in dark green lace. They were stained, but ironed to a crease as sharp as a knife. I took one and put it in my lap.

  “Milk, dear?” Miss Adda asked, standing by the sink.

  I nodded.

  Miss Adda reached for a box that said “nonfat dry milk.” She shook the box right into the cream pitcher, then added water, stirring it quickly with a fork. I’d never seen powdered milk before. It reminded me of the formula Dad had sometimes given Lew when he was a baby and Mom had to work late.

  Miss Adda brought the pitcher and the plate of cookies to the table and sat down slowly in the chair opposite me. She poured us each a cup of tea, adding the milk to both. The milk smelled funny and left bubbles on the surface of the tea. There were lumps. I don’t know why that was so disgusting to me, but it was. I had to work hard at not wrinkling my nose. I was afraid of what would happen if I actually tasted it, so I just pretended to sip my tea and said, “Mmmmmm …” The cup warmed my hands.

  Miss Adda clutched her tea. She sat on the very edge of her seat, which was a ladder-back chair painted a forest green.

  “I can’t tell you how nice it is to have a visitor for tea on a cold day,” she said.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” I said, remembering my manners.

  “Certainly.” She nodded. “Although, when you rang, I almost didn’t come to the door. I figured it was someone selling something, or the police wanting me to cut the grass, or maybe a nice lady wanting to tell me about Jesus. As if by the age of ninety-three I haven’t decided what I think, or don’t think, about our Lord. They always tell me there’s still time left. What they don’t say is that there isn’t much time left.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but Miss Adda didn’t seem upset. She was matter-of-fact about it. She looked me in the eye and said, “There isn’t, you know—much time—but that’s okay.”

  I shifted in my chair and picked up my cup. “We don’t have to talk about—”

  “Why not?” Miss Adda asked. She stared up at me. “Why shouldn’t we?”

  I stared back uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Why do people never want to talk to old folks about dying?” asked Miss Adda. “Heaven knows we think about it an awful lot. Why, we know more about death than anyone!”

  She paused and sat there, like she was waiting for me to actually answer her. She just sat there, looking at me, gripping her teacup, waiting.

  “I guess …,” I said at last. “I guess because it scares us. Death, I mean. And getting old. I guess we’re trying not to think about it. And you remind us of it?” This felt like a terrible thing to say, but it was what came out.

  “Hmm. That’s probably true,” said Miss Adda. She poured herself some more tea.

  I pretended to sip mine again.

  Miss Adda’s orange mouth curved gently into a smile. “Is your tea too strong? You don’t have to drink it, you know.”

  “Um, just a little,” I said with relief. I set my cup down.

  “I’m sorry to sound like a batty old bird,” said Miss Adda. “But I spend all day alone with the radio and whatever is out my window, and none of it talks back very often. So I forget how to be polite, I suppose. I forget my manners, after all those years thinking about them. Funny, they don’t seem so important now.” Miss Adda stared off, out toward the glass door. She seemed lost in her thoughts, and I didn’t interrupt her. Then she turned back to stare at me and said suddenly, “But this isn’t what you came here for. What did you come here for? You said you have something to show me?”

  “Oh yes!” I said. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten distracted for this long. “I do! Let me get it.”

  As I leaned down to reach into my backpack, I felt nervous, tingly, almost scared. Then, rooting around in my bag, I couldn’t find the spoon!

  “Hang on,” I said. “I’m sure it’s here. I know I brought it.” I lifted the bag to my knees to paw around inside it, but I still couldn’t find the spoon. Was it possible I’d lost it, after all this trouble? I stood up and walked over to the counter, where I set down the bag under the overhead light and practically stuck my whole head inside it.

  At last I saw a silver gleam. There it was! Tucked away beneath a fold of fabric, buried under my sweater. I pulled it out, breathed on it, and shined it against my shirt.

  I whirled around and held the spoon out to Adda. “Found it! Here it is!” I called out, elated. “Look!”

  Across the room, Miss Adda stood up. Her eyes widened as they settled on the spoon. Her mouth opened. Her chin went down.

  “Oh,” she said. She looked stunned. “Oh!” She gasped as she fell against the table, caught herself, but then pushed herself back up.

  The table wobbled. The tray of tea things shook too, then slid and tipped onto the floor. All the dishes crashed against the tile and shattered. The thin, lumpy milk and tea ran together and made a puddle all over the floor. Sugar scattered.

  I looked over at the floor below Miss Adda’s feet. “Oh no. I’m sorry!” I said. I reached for a dishcloth that hung over the faucet beside me. Then I froze.

  Miss Adda had such a strange look on her face. She didn’t even seem to notice that she was standing in a puddle o
f milky tea. She just stood there, her eyes fixed like laser beams on the spoon in my outstretched hand.

  At last she mouthed, “It … can’t … be.”

  She moved toward me quickly, pushing through shards of china in her soft slippers, and grabbed the spoon, as if she were in a trance.

  “Where? How? Where …,” she babbled, wrapping her fingers around the spoon.

  I let go of the spoon, and she pulled it close to her face to read the inscription out loud. “ ‘To Adda. From Harlan. With love,’ ” she whispered softly. Then she clutched it to her chest. “It really is the spoon,” she said. “Our spoon. How did you—”

  “I knew it was yours!” I shouted happily.

  Miss Adda’s face shifted. It was like watching weather change. The trance faded. Her orange mouth drew into a tiny smudge, the lips pinched and tight. Her eyes slitted. Her painted brows lowered, and her shoulders hunched. She shook the spoon in the air, in front of my face.

  “How did you get this?” she demanded. “How?”

  “I … I bought it …,” I said, confused. “In a junk store, for my mom.”

  “Liar,” she spat, jabbing the spoon in my direction. I took a step back.

  She said it again: “Liar!” Like she was stabbing me with both the spoon and the word. “Thief!”

  My heart began to race. How could she possibly know that? What was going on?

  “I don’t know how you did this,” Miss Adda said in a strange hissing voice. “I don’t know why you did this! Why did you do this thing?” She jabbed again, pushing at the air in front of her with the spoon.

  “I don’t know! I didn’t mean to—” I cried, taking another step back.

  The weather shifted again. Like a sudden storm, Miss Adda’s tiny face crumpled and she began to weep, standing there in the middle of that green room. She cried deep, deep sobs, clutching the spoon to her chest. Her whole body shook.