Kristin James - Once In A Blue Moon

Jenny’s dark head came down in the same hard nod. She was clearly feeling indignant. “Yes! And Miss Bright, she said, ‘Don’t talk.’ I don’t like that.”

“I’m sure not. You just wanted to see what he was drawing, right?”

“‘Whatcha doing?’” Jenny agreed. “‘Whatcha doing?’”

Isabelle repressed a smile. This was Jenny’s favorite question of any-and everyone. No doubt some other child in her class had resented her asking it.

“Well, I’m sure Miss Albright didn’t want you disturbing the other students. Apparently he didn’t like it when you asked him to let you see.”

“He’s a poophead,” Jenny commented. Then she added, “Kevin said ‘He’s a poophead.’”

“I bet Miss Albright didn’t like that.”

“Uh-uh.” Jenny shook her head exaggeratedly. “She said, ‘No, no, no.’”

“And what have you been doing since you came home from school?” Isabelle asked, deciding it was probably better to switch off this subject. Miss Albright would probably not appreciate Jenny’s implanting the forbidden word in her mind with further repetitions.

“I gave Patience a ride.” Jenny leaned down and patted the dog firmly on the head.

“Good. But don’t ride her around too much, or she might get sick.”

“She likes to ride. Lady didn’t like to ride.”

“No. Lady was getting a little old for riding.” Lady had been their first dog, a rather cantankerous old miniature poodle that had been Isabelle’s mother’s dog. Jenny had cried so much at leaving her when they moved to Los Angeles that Frances had given her to them.

“Lady’s gone now. Lady’s in Heaven,” Jenny pointed out.

“I know. And I’m sure she’s very happy.”

“Lady’s in Heaven now. We took her—she went—weeks ago.”

“Even longer than that.”

“She went to the dog hospital. Now she’s in Heaven.”

“That’s right. Why don’t you put up your bicycle and let’s go inside and see what Irma has fixed for supper?” Isabelle suggested.

“Hot dog and chips.”

“That’s what we’re having for supper?” Isabelle smiled. “I imagine Irma’s cooked something healthier than that.”

“ I had it. Hot dog and chips. That’s what I wanted.”

“When you came home from school? That’s what Irma gave you for a snack after school?”

Jenny nodded and started over to her cycle, saying again, “Hot dog and chips.”

She walked her big tricycle into the garage and carefully stowed it away in its place beside Isabelle’s car. Isabelle waited for her, and they walked in the back door. Irma Pena, their housekeeper, turned and grinned at them, whisking off her apron.

“Ah, Mrs. Gray. I’m glad you’re home. I’m sorry, but I have to run tonight.” Usually Irma was happy to stay longer with Jenny when Isabelle ran late in the evenings. “I have to pick Estrellita up at school. They’re practicing a play, and I have to be there at eight-thirty.”

“I’m sorry I kept you late. We ran over at the studio today.”

“ Sí. No problem.” Irma waved away Isabelle’s explanation and apology. “I got plenty of time still. But I don’t like for Estrellita to have to stand around and wait, you know—you never know what can happen.” She shook her head, clicking her tongue, as she crossed the room and picked up her handbag and keys from the counter. “Terrible thing, when a girl isn’t safe at school.”

“Yes, it is.”

Jenny was frowning, listening to her. “I’m safe,” she said.

“Of course you are, precious one.” Irma smiled at her. “I was talking about something else. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Don’t talk to strangers,” Jenny told her solemnly. “Then you’re safe.”

“That’s right. Never talk to strangers,” Isabelle agreed, waving to Irma as she bustled out the door.

“I never do. Miss Bright told us. Strangers might—might—”

“They might hurt you,” Isabelle supplied gently. “That’s why Miss Albright told you not to talk to them.”

This was a lesson that Jenny had been taught regularly for years, both in school and out. She repeated the words often, proud that she had learned the lesson, but for all her words about it, Isabelle was not at all sure that Jenny would heed the advice. She was impulsive and affectionate, prone to hug everyone she met, and Isabelle could easily imagine her wandering off with anyone, hand in hand, while she faithfully repeated her maxim of “Don’t talk to strangers.” For that reason, she made sure that Irma was always there to pick Jenny up as soon as school was let out, and she never let Jenny play outside their fenced-in yard.

Irma had left grilled tuna and a broccoli-and-rice casserole on the stove for them, and Isabelle dished them up and carried them to the table while Jenny painstakingly set the table. Jenny continued to chatter all through dinner and afterward, until finally Isabelle told her that it was time for a quiet period and sent her off to her room to play by herself for a few minutes.

Isabelle kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch. Her head was pounding and had been for some time, she realized. Prudence uncoiled her large, smoky gray body from the mantel where she liked to perch and leapt lightly down. She came over to the couch and rubbed herself against it beneath Isabelle’s head, emitting plaintive meows.

“Hey, kitty,” Isabelle murmured, stroking her hand down the cat’s back. “You’re looking as fat and sassy as ever.”

She closed her eyes, still stroking the cat, reveling in the peace of the moment. She needed it, after a day like this one had been.

Taking this time to herself—turning off Jenny’s incessant chatter and separating herself from the child for a few moments—had been one of the hardest things for Isabelle to learn to do. She had been accustomed since Jenny’s birth to spending all her time caring for her and worrying about her. She felt guilty for spending time away from Jenny when she worked even though Jenny was going to a special school that did wonders for her. When she was at home, she felt it was imperative that she give Jenny her constant undivided attention. There were times when Jenny’s disjointed, repetitive chattering scraped her nerves raw, but she gritted her teeth and listened and responded.

It had been Jenny’s teacher, at a parent’s night, that had taken her aside and advised her to tell Jenny when she had talked enough, when Isabelle needed to be by herself or enjoy a few minutes of quiet.

Isabelle had felt—and looked—a trifle shocked. “But I want her to feel that what she says is important to me. I think I should listen to her.”

“Of course you should. But not all the time. I’ve been watching you tonight, and you’re letting Jenny dominate every moment of your time. That isn’t good for her, Ms. Gray. She needs, just like every other child, to know her limits. She needs structure. You aren’t doing her any favors. It’s pity, not love. Just think about it. If Jenny were a ‘normal’ child, would you allow her to rattle on all the time? I don’t think so. You would teach her manners. You’d know that she needs to learn to let others talk, that she’s not the only person in the world. Jenny needs to learn that, too.”

Isabelle had stared at her, much struck by her words. Then she had thanked her, and ever since that day she had made it a point to now and then stop Jenny’s prattling and to take a few minutes out of her evening to be completely alone.

Prudence jumped up onto the couch and settled onto Isabelle’s stomach, letting out her low, throaty purr. The sound was hypnotic, soothing, and Isabelle felt the knots of tension gradually seeping out of her muscles. She was just drifting into sleep when Jenny came back into the room, dragging one of her dolls by the hair.