The Same Stuff as Stars

“I got a little cash,” Verna said next. “Enough to cover food for the week.”

What does Verna mean about a week? She told us this was our new home.

Mumble. Mumble.

“Well, I can’t be responsible for Wayne. You raised him. I didn’t.” Verna’s voice was shrill as a crow squawk.

Bernie punched Angel in the ribs. “Go on, Angel. You got to tell her.”

“I can’t, Bernie. I think they’re having a fi—important discussion.”

“Then I’ll tell her.”

She tried to stop him, but he was too quick for her. He jerked loose, darted around her, and raced into the kitchen, waving his arms. “Mama! Mama!” he cried. “There’s a man out there with a big gun and he’s going to kill us all dead!”

Verna spun around, her mouth still open for whatever she had planned to say next, obviously furious at being interrupted. “What’s the matter with you, Bernie? What are you doing down here?” She looked over his head to Angel, still standing in the doorway. “What do you mean coming down here when I told you to stay upstairs?”

“I told you already, Mama,” Bernie cried. “There’s a man out there with a big gun!”

“I never heard such fool talk in my life. Get back up those stairs this minute!”

Bernie made a dash for the rocker. “She won’t never believe me,” he said to the old woman. “I did see him. I did. I did.”

Grandma stuck a hand out of the blankets and put it on Bernie’s head. “Calm down, boy. That was probably just Santy Claus out there with some big old toy.”

“Santa Claus? Really?” Bernie turned to look at Angel, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. For a minute he was caught up in the idea, but then he turned back to the rocker. “How could it be Santa Claus? It ain’t even Christmas.”

“You never know about old Santy Claus. Maybe he’s just scouting you out—seeing where you got yourself off to. He’s got to keep track of all the kiddies, you know.”

“Yeah. He’s got to know where I moved to, right?”

“You got it, boy.”

“I guess he’d be mad if he knew we was spying on him.”

“You got that right. Santy Claus is like some of the rest of us.” She turned to look at Verna. “He don’t want nobody poking into his private business.”

Angel didn’t know what to do. The old woman was as crazy as Bernie. “He really did see someone, Mama,” she said.

“I don’t care what he thinks he saw. I want you kids to stop your nonsense and get up those stairs before I take a belt—”

“I’m hungry.” Bernie was leaning against the rocker, looking into the old face, his voice sweet as pure maple syrup.

“Don’t you ever feed these children, Verna?”

“’Course I feed them.”

“Not supper,” Bernie said. “And I still ain’t had my milk shake.”

The old woman slowly unwrapped her blankets and began to hoist herself out of the chair, looking as though she might just snap into pieces from the effort. “I don’t know what I got. I wasn’t expecting—”

Verna gave another of her fake laughs. “Oh, Grandma, forget it. He always says he’s hungry. It don’t mean nothing. He’s just trying to get attention.” She glared at Bernie, daring him to contradict her. But Bernie wasn’t paying any attention. He was staring at the old woman, who was lifting her body bone by bone from the rocker.

“Angel and me can help, can’t we, Angel?” he said anxiously.

Angel’s eyes darted back and forth between Verna and Grandma. She didn’t know how to answer. Bernie, meantime, had taken Grandma’s hand and was leading her over to the refrigerator. It was small and square and had coils on the top, as ancient as its owner. The old woman opened the door. No light came on. She stuck in her head. Bernie shoved his small one in beside hers.

“Not much in there,” he said. “But you wasn’t expecting us, was you?”