Jackson Pearce - Cold Spell

“Who was that man?” Kai asked as we buckled our seat belts. Grandma Dalia whirled around to face us, and I realized that her face was white, her hands shaky.

“Don’t ever be so stupid,” she hissed at me. “You think they wouldn’t love to eat you up?”

“Who was he ?” Kai whined.

“Mind them,” Grandma Dalia said, pointing a finger in my face. “Mind the beasts, Ginny.”

It was one of the few times she used my name instead of calling me “the neighbor child.” It was also one of the few times that she seemed to genuinely care about me. But what I remember most was that I knew she was right. That something dark, darker than a man had been there, and that she had saved me from it.

Ever since then, underneath my certainty that Grandma Dalia was just a crazy, paranoid old lady was a spinning, hungry fear that she was right about the beasts.

“You’ve been playing a long time then?” Mora asks as she picks at her casserole, not really eating it. It doesn’t look like something a girl like her would eat—too much cheese, perhaps. I stick my fork back into my serving, struggle to lean forward over the footstool I’m sitting on. Grandma Dalia wasn’t kidding about there not being enough chairs, I guess.

“Since I was three,” Kai says. “My grandmother was a little obsessive.”

“No, that’s not obsessive. It’s fantastic,” Mora says. “My family hated the arts. We weren’t allowed to dance, and we listened to this awful droning music. All the money in the world, but it was like being trapped in a place without beauty. I got into singing for a little while, after I moved out, but now… I mostly just appreciate musical talent. Are you any good, then?”

“He’s brilliant,” I tell her, smiling. “He’s going to study in New York this summer.”

“New York!” Mora says. “I love New York. Only downside is you can’t drive there.”

“Not a fan of taxis?” Kai asks.

“Ha,” Mora says. “Not a chance. I’m antitaxi, anti–factory radio, and anti–automatic transmission. Tell me you know how to drive a stick shift, Kai, or I’ll have to leave right now.”

“I don’t,” he admits.

“What! That’s crazy!” Mora exclaims, as if this is deeply offensive.

“I don’t, either,” I say coolly, shrugging.

“Well,” Mora says, “I guess I can forgive you this time. But call me when you’re there, Kai—I’ll show you around. There’s this little comedy club that does musical improv every Thursday….” She speaks quickly and her words flow; they have a cadence that makes me stare at her lips forming each syllable. Kai is nodding, grinning, smiling, agreeing to New York, to plans she’s making, plans that change what he and I—

“I’m going, too,” I interrupt. Mora looks over at me, surprised.

“You play something as well?”

“Just cards,” I joke. She doesn’t react. “Er—no. I don’t play anything. I’m going just to go. With Kai.”

“Oh,” Mora says, looking at Kai. He looks a little awkward, but he nods, then smiles at me; I’m relieved. “I see.” She looks back at Kai. “What’s the plan after the intensive, then?”

“Well…” Kai pauses. “I promised my grandmother I’d come back here and audition for the Atlanta Philharmonic so I could stay close. But now…” He looks at his hands and shrugs, and I can see him struggling with the realization that he’s free to make other plans—and doesn’t want to be.

“So, Mora,” I say quickly, drawing her eyes off Kai so he has a moment to recover. “What’re you in town for?”

“How do you know I’m visiting?” Mora asks, amused.

“You drove through the snow yesterday like it was nothing,” I say. “No way you could live here. Plus, you don’t have freckles.”

“Freckles?”

“Everyone from the South has at least a few freckles,” I say, shrugging. Mora’s face is perfectly smooth, a single, solid color—she looks like a photograph.

“Noted,” Mora says, nodding. “You’re very observant.”

“No kidding,” Kai jokes. “Don’t play poker with Ginny. She’ll figure out your hand based on your eyebrows. We used to bet on games of Go Fish in elementary school.”

“Not eyebrows,” I say. “I just remember when the good cards are coming up.”

“Ah. Clever,” Mora says, then pauses before answering my question. “I’m from everywhere. I lived on Cape Cod, a long time ago, then in South Carolina by the beach, and now I live up north.”

“How long will you be here?” Kai asks.

“Not long,” she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “But I’ll swing by your grandmother’s funeral tomorrow, if you want.”

“Yes,” Kai says. “That’d be great.”

“It’s really nice of you,” I say, “but don’t feel like you have to. You’ve already done so much.”

“No, no.” Mora waves me off. “Besides,” she says, eyes flickering to Kai, “I should go pay my respect. After all, she’s the reason I got to meet you.”

Not everyone can make it to the funeral.

The snow has stopped falling, mostly, but the roads are still thick with ice; the news keeps playing a clip of a man ice-skating down Juniper Street. Still, the funeral home has a decent-sized crowd—Mora and her two young “work friends” included. When Kai plays his violin tears fall among the guests, if not for Grandma Dalia then for the eerie, haunting notes coming from the instrument.

The somber melodies make my heart beat slower, my breath catch in my throat—if I didn’t know Kai at all, didn’t know Grandma Dalia, I would understand him right now. And despite knowing him like I do, I learn something new about him through the melody: The thing I want, the family, the love, the happiness, those are things he’s already had. Things that he’s lost. I reach down and touch the cover of the cookbook in my purse while he plays—I brought it just in case Kai couldn’t get through the song. The cover is uneven under my nails, the material soft and ragged, yet it makes me feel better—as if I’m telling Grandma Dalia not to worry. Kai will be happy again; we’ll be happy together. We’ll make it.

They start a photo montage on the projector; I see Kai tense, the tears building up in his eyes as piano music punctuates black-and-white photos of Grandma Dalia as a little girl. I have to look away, or I’ll cry, too; my eyes land on one of Mora’s companions. He has red hair and doesn’t look much older than me, and his eyes are locked on the screen, which is flashing a photo of Grandma Dalia on her wedding day. He reaches up and touches his temple as if he has a headache. Mora takes his hand and smiles at him, and I’m ashamed to feel something akin to relief wash over me. She’s holding his hand—the strange, jealous feeling that’s been brewing in me over the way she looks at Kai must be for nothing.

I hate myself for thinking like this at a funeral. I swallow, close my eyes, and leave them that way until the service is over.

The coffin is white, and when they remove it from the hearse after a short drive to the cemetery, it blends in with the ground. If it weren’t for the pink roses on top, I think it’d be invisible. It feels wrong, hiding her under the snow, under the very thing that scared her the most.

Mom stands over my shoulder, a few other neighbors beyond that with a handful of our classmates. For all her eccentricities, Grandma Dalia wasn’t disliked—she let people slide a few days on the rent occasionally, and she sent Kai to school with cupcakes every holiday during elementary and middle school. The dry cleaner is here, as is the guy who owns the pizza place that delivers to us. Kai’s aunt isn’t here—she called ahead to say she couldn’t make it through the ice.