her small fingers. Then there was the Saturday she poured an entire container of fish food into the water. Once she tossed in a graham cracker. Another time a purple jelly bean. And now Grable is asking if this child can come to my house to see my fish—a ploy to get her to leave McGuire’s.
“Well . . .” I watch my eel bury his head in the gravel under the green-and-red ceramic pagoda. One of the angelfish glides over his head. If only I could bury my head in the sand.
“Nicole?” A familiar man’s voice is on the phone.
“Mr. McGuire! What’s going on?”
“The little lass wants to see you.” Joseph McGuire, even after all these years in North Carolina, still keeps his thick Irish accent. “She will only leave my store if promised a visit to your house.”
More shrill screams cause me to hold the receiver at a distance to spare my eardrums.
One thing is for sure: Monet at the store can’t be good for business. If the noise is sounding this loud over the telephone lines, it has to be twice as loud within the four corners of McGuire’s.
There is a rattling on the other end and then, in a thin voice, Mr. McGuire says to someone else, “Careful now, careful. Hold the phone like this.”
Suddenly Monet is talking to me in her slow, mumbled style. She asks, “Niccc hows? Pleeez. Nicc fisssz? Pleeezz. Pleeezz.”
And before I know it, with all the sincerity I can muster, I tell the terror child she can come to my house to see my fish.
There is shrieking and clapping of hands. My stomach knots. Then the phone is dead.
I begin to prepare for a visit from the wild one.
I turn off my computer, place students’ papers in my tote bag, and stick the bag in my bedroom closet. In the kitchen I check to make sure each cabinet is shut. Tightly. I stand over my fish tank and pray my three clownfish, two angelfish, and eel will live to see tomorrow. Then I hide the nearly empty container of fish food in my underwear drawer. There is no way she’ll be able to find it and overfeed my fish today.
Monet’s piercing screams still ring in my ears. Moments after her birth, her great-grandmother Iva reached out to embrace the newly arrived baby. Above the screams Iva cooed with joy, “Ah, you are a loud one. No doubt you belong to us.”
Now, three years later, her great-grandma’s pride has shifted to sheer annoyance. “Oh, God,” she will mutter, “please help me tolerate that child.”
To which Ducee will comment, “Monet is a treasure. You have to dig deeper, Iva, to see what beauty lies within.”
I groan as my front doorbell rings. I think the Beauty Within has arrived.
Chapter Five
We watch Monet closely as she stands by my lit aquarium. In low tones, Grable tells me she is tired. She doesn’t need to tell me this. I can see tired written on my cousin’s face—under her blue eyes in the form of smudged circles and in her voice, which is slow and lacking its usual lightness. Her nails are still painted though, a creamy light pink today. They are like ten jewels, glistening, especially when she stands near the fish tank and the fluorescent light dances on them. I am afraid she will break into tears any moment, but she just keeps her eyes on Monet.
Monet, dressed in a denim skirt and green shirt, presses her nose against the aquarium and in intervals squeals, “Fiszzzzz!” Then she tilts her head full of brown curls to the left and to the right, stops, laughs, and says nothing. She jumps on one foot, lets out a “Niccc fiszz!” and then squeals again. Between her outbursts, I focus on Grable’s words.
“Dennis is going to Boston this weekend. Some lawyers’ thing. This means it’ll be me and Monet all alone.” Her words all alone sound hollow. She stiffly moves toward the aquarium and places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Monet, please speak softer.”
Monet, with her mouth on the tank’s glass side, says, “Okaaa, Maaam.” Then she laughs.
I think of all the glass cleaner and
“Well . . .” I watch my eel bury his head in the gravel under the green-and-red ceramic pagoda. One of the angelfish glides over his head. If only I could bury my head in the sand.
“Nicole?” A familiar man’s voice is on the phone.
“Mr. McGuire! What’s going on?”
“The little lass wants to see you.” Joseph McGuire, even after all these years in North Carolina, still keeps his thick Irish accent. “She will only leave my store if promised a visit to your house.”
More shrill screams cause me to hold the receiver at a distance to spare my eardrums.
One thing is for sure: Monet at the store can’t be good for business. If the noise is sounding this loud over the telephone lines, it has to be twice as loud within the four corners of McGuire’s.
There is a rattling on the other end and then, in a thin voice, Mr. McGuire says to someone else, “Careful now, careful. Hold the phone like this.”
Suddenly Monet is talking to me in her slow, mumbled style. She asks, “Niccc hows? Pleeez. Nicc fisssz? Pleeezz. Pleeezz.”
And before I know it, with all the sincerity I can muster, I tell the terror child she can come to my house to see my fish.
There is shrieking and clapping of hands. My stomach knots. Then the phone is dead.
I begin to prepare for a visit from the wild one.
I turn off my computer, place students’ papers in my tote bag, and stick the bag in my bedroom closet. In the kitchen I check to make sure each cabinet is shut. Tightly. I stand over my fish tank and pray my three clownfish, two angelfish, and eel will live to see tomorrow. Then I hide the nearly empty container of fish food in my underwear drawer. There is no way she’ll be able to find it and overfeed my fish today.
Monet’s piercing screams still ring in my ears. Moments after her birth, her great-grandmother Iva reached out to embrace the newly arrived baby. Above the screams Iva cooed with joy, “Ah, you are a loud one. No doubt you belong to us.”
Now, three years later, her great-grandma’s pride has shifted to sheer annoyance. “Oh, God,” she will mutter, “please help me tolerate that child.”
To which Ducee will comment, “Monet is a treasure. You have to dig deeper, Iva, to see what beauty lies within.”
I groan as my front doorbell rings. I think the Beauty Within has arrived.
Chapter Five
We watch Monet closely as she stands by my lit aquarium. In low tones, Grable tells me she is tired. She doesn’t need to tell me this. I can see tired written on my cousin’s face—under her blue eyes in the form of smudged circles and in her voice, which is slow and lacking its usual lightness. Her nails are still painted though, a creamy light pink today. They are like ten jewels, glistening, especially when she stands near the fish tank and the fluorescent light dances on them. I am afraid she will break into tears any moment, but she just keeps her eyes on Monet.
Monet, dressed in a denim skirt and green shirt, presses her nose against the aquarium and in intervals squeals, “Fiszzzzz!” Then she tilts her head full of brown curls to the left and to the right, stops, laughs, and says nothing. She jumps on one foot, lets out a “Niccc fiszz!” and then squeals again. Between her outbursts, I focus on Grable’s words.
“Dennis is going to Boston this weekend. Some lawyers’ thing. This means it’ll be me and Monet all alone.” Her words all alone sound hollow. She stiffly moves toward the aquarium and places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Monet, please speak softer.”
Monet, with her mouth on the tank’s glass side, says, “Okaaa, Maaam.” Then she laughs.
I think of all the glass cleaner and
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