	RodMer Short Story Package BB Mrs. Blackwood's Cookie Hour
by Merike Lugus	for on-line reading now in your browser

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Here is Short Story Package BB a short story by Merike Lugus.

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This is the second in a series of five stories about an immigrant girl, Annika, who ended up in Germany, then Sweden and then Canada after WWII. This was not an unusual route for tens of thousands of DP's, or Displaced Persons, as they were called.

Annika is about ten years old here and yearns to connect somehow with a father who is preoccupied with a world that does not include her. She makes an unexpected connection with another man of her father's generation.

MRS. BLACKWOOD'S COOKIE HOUR

Approximately 7,100 words

Annika stood on the kitchen doorstep looking out into the backyard. The grass was freshly cut, and the rake leaned against the garage wall. Annika was keeping her options open, resisting the urge to turn cartwheels on the cool grass. She could almost feel the stubble of it against her palms, her bare legs hurtling through the air, but cartwheels would bring attention to herself and to the grass needing to be raked. She looked down at her father sitting at the picnic table working on the week-end crossword puzzle, his hand on the dictionary next to the newspaper, within easy reach of the coffee mug. He sat there like another fixture that had to be navigated. He didn't take much notice of her except when she annoyed him, which, as it turned out, happened whenever she brought attention to herself.

Annika had noticed that when he took a swig of coffee, he often misjudged how much was left in the mug and tipped it too far, spilling some down his chin and into his lap. Such things were not to be pointed out, but secretly Annika figured she would never make such mistakes. And she wouldn't misjudge the position of the ash tray either. She wouldn't spill the ashes on the table, especially not into her coffee, if she ever smoked, which she'd decided never to do. She wondered why her father scowled when working on puzzles just as he did when reading newspapers. When they came to Canada two years ago her mother had promised that there would be no more danger and everyone would be happy, but as far as Annika could tell, the news hadn't reached her father yet. In her eleven years, this was the fourth country she'd lived in. Learning English for her had been as quick as running to the corner store, but her father seemed weighted down.

The neighbour's screen door slammed and Susan stepped out into the sunshine. Their houses were joined together and the small backyards were separated by a low wire fence. Susan never spoke to Annika even though they were in the same grade at school. When Annika said hello, Susan closed her eyes and turned her head away. Susan hopped out onto the grass in shorts and bare feet and started to play with her Bolo game, a little rubber ball attached to a small paddle with a long elastic string. Annika held her breath. Her father could not tolerate unnecessary commotion. And Susan almost shouted the numbers: "One, two, three, four, oh! crap! one, two, three, four, five..."

Annika took a step back, not wishing to be associated in any way with this noisy girl and decided to do the dishes. Then the raking would become someone else's chore and she'd be free to do as she pleased. As she was washing, her father came inside, smiling.

When they talked to each other they always spoke in the other language. "You know," her father said, "that girl, Susan is really an interesting child."

You call that interesting? Annika said nothing but picked up her speed in drying and putting things away, while her father elaborated on a particular attitude he saw in Susan.

"I've been watching her since she moved here. She carries herself in a way that is rare in girls that age."

She's a nincompoop who doesn't know enough to keep her knees bent. Annika finished her work and rushed past her father, out the door. That's why she never gets past ten!

She roamed the streets looking for signs of life. She could not imagine her father being even aware of Susan let alone being impressed by her. She could not imagine him taking the time to observe her. Annika thought her cartwheels were pretty spectacular, far trickier than playing stupid Bolo, but, obviously, her father couldn't see that. Her insides grew hot and her eyes blurred.

Sundays were boring. Most kids weren't allowed to get their clothes dirty because they were off to somewhere else with their parents. Then she remembered the strange activity around the funny looking house a few blocks up and around the corner. Every Sunday a group of kids, mostly younger than herself, hung around the walkway, and then at a certain point the front door opened and one by one they entered the house. Once she had got up the courage to ask one of the boys what was going on in there and he'd told her that Mrs. Blackwood gave them cookies if they were good. So on this particular day boredom and curiosity urged her up the street to find out how good she had to be. She got there just as the last of the children had been swallowed up by the house and the door was closing.

She stood by the sidewalk for a moment deciding on what to do. The house was taller than the other houses, its roof higher, pointier, and at the very top was a weather-vane in the shape of an arched cat, its tail straight up. She happened to glance up at the second story window between the entrance door and the cat, and saw a man there looking down at her. She was about to skip off when the man beckoned invitingly and pointed down to the door below him, and so she went up the walkway and rang the bell.

"You're rather big to be a lost lamb," a woman muttered under her breath. Annika wasn't meant to notice and pretended she didn't, but all the same she felt too tall and too skinny. She stood almost eye to eye with Mrs. Blackwood who was a rather small woman. Her bright red mouth stretched into a crooked smile. As for her eyes, they were like transparent beads behind her thick glasses. The eyebrows were two perfect arches drawn on by a reddish brown pencil. The two creases between them suggested that she disapproved of a lot of things.

"Come in, come in," she said briskly. "The others are already here." Mrs. Blackwood's trim waist and swaying hips seemed absurdly incongruous with her boldly lined face and her graying hair pulled back into a bun. The hallway smelled like something good was happening in the kitchen.

Mrs. Blackwood ushered her to the front of the living room. "What's your name, child?" she asked, and Annika told her.

"Children, we have a new pupil today. Her name is Annika and she has come to us because she wants to be saved." Ten young faces looked up from where they sat cross-legged on the floor and Annika's heart sank. Not only was she the tallest but also the oldest. What was she doing here? She looked around for a place to sit. The sofa was covered in plastic and so were the two arm chairs. Her dilemma was solved with the snap of Mrs. Blackwood's fingers which pointed to a spot on the floor behind the others.

At the front of the room was an easel with a pad of paper on which something had been written in thick black crayon.

"Now then, we can begin. First I will read these words to you and then we will read them out loud together. This is from The Gospel According to Saint John, Chapter Three, Verse Sixteen." She looked around the room pausing at each face as if to plant her seed of inspiration there. Then in a low quaking voice she spoke: "'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Now children, I want you all to say it together."

A ragged chorus of young voices read the words back to her. Annika felt embarrassed, as if she had suddenly been jerked back to Grade Three, but she mouthed the words, not wishing any extra attention to be brought onto herself. As Mrs. Blackwood proceeded to explain the love of God for His son Jesus, Annika looked around the room. On the wall behind Mrs. Blackwood was a painting of Jesus she had seen before, many times. His face was lifted gently towards the source of the light which poured onto his face. Whatever was in the oven created a sweet atmosphere for God looking down at His son.

Annika thought she knew how to look saintly in a way that convinced grown-ups. She stared at the face of Jesus, working up a sort of pressure inside that made her eyes go blank. Suddenly she realized that Jesus looked a lot like her once-friend Mary. Mary was the only girl in her neighborhood taller than herself. She must have been nearing six feet at age thirteen and tried to hide it by stooping, and so she always looked as though she were about to enter a tunnel five feet high. Jesus had blue eyes just like Mary's and his brown hair flowed in the same way, back, away from the face. They had the same forehead. Except for the beard, they looked much alike. They could be brother and sister.

It was perhaps not so surprising that she thought of Mary. She felt a bit guilty because not long ago she'd told Mary she didn't care about God or Jesus or going to church, and yet here she was, learning about God from Mrs. Blackwood. Mary's father was a minister and Mary had tried to explain God's love to her once, but Annika had been suspicious because Mary wasn't allowed to dance or swear or wear lipstick, and she wasn't allowed to see movies except those with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. It might well have been that growing breasts was also against the rules because Mary took a lot of pains to keep hers a secret. Annika could hardly blame her for that, because they did look strange popping out from Mary's skinny chest. Mary always wore a sweater draped over her shoulders which she would pull across her body like a shawl. Even in summer, every Sunday she got into a dress with puffy short sleeves and, despite the sticky heat, draped the sweater around her shoulders.

Annika couldn't imagine life without dance or cartwheels and somersaults. Herself, she had started to take lessons in rhythmic gymnastics. Her school gym teacher gave the classes at the local YMCA every Saturday morning and had told Annika that she could pay for them whenever she had the money. She loved Saturday mornings. Wherever she went she found it hard to keep from practising the sweeping arm motions or the little skips and gallops and the occasional leaps.

Mary Jones had been her main friend the summer before. Annika had felt it an honour because Mary was almost two years older than herself. She thought her hooded blue eyes were very beautiful. Mary had talked about love in the same way Mrs. Blackwood was now describing it and Annika had held on to every word. Mary's eyes had promised everlasting love. And then Mary's father the minister had told his daughter that she couldn't hang around with Annika unless Annika agreed to go with her to Sunday school.

When Mary delivered the terms, her eyes were sad and heavy. Annika's feelings were hurt enough to decide then and there that she would never go to Mr. Jones' church. "Why not?" Mary was surprised. "Because." That was an answer that forestalled all arguments. Annika watched as Mary walked away, her shoulders more stooped than ever. She felt sorry for her, sorry that she had a father who wouldn't let her try on lipstick.

Soon afterwards, when Mary ran into Annika on the street, she let her know how busy she was. She had joined the Christian world of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans and Trigger the horse. Now there were fan clubs to join, letters to write, moneys to send, black and white glossies to frame, jamborees to attend. Another thing, too, happened. After Mary failed grade five for the second time, Annika began to wonder about the placid look in her eyes. Maybe it had nothing to do with a forever kind of love. She felt badly for Mary now that they would both be in the same grade. But then she heard that her father had decided to send her to some private school far away.

Mrs. Blackwood was talking about the special love that Jesus and his Father had given the world. She called it unconditional, which meant that it's given whether you wanted it or not. It's just there, like gold underground, like diamonds in dark caves, just waiting to be discovered. While Mrs. Blackwood was explaining that this was no ordinary love, although humanly possible, Annika was making some calculations: a face like Mrs. Blackwood's, which looked pinched and cross, did not necessarily predict what was in her heart and that's why she wafted the sweet aroma of cookies over their heads.

Love. The need for it. That was Annika's weakness, even though she didn't quite understand the extent of her craving. She approached some people like a baby bird, with her beak wide open. She wasn't quite old enough to be ashamed of this or even to recognize when she was doing it. To be fair, there had been something about Mary which had made it safe to let her mouth fall open and Mary didn't seem to mind as she absentmindedly fed her with stories about Jesus and the beauty of heaven. The food was so sweet it was almost enough to make Annika change her mind about Sunday school, but then she remembered the way Mary's father frowned every time her arms flung out to demonstrate the movements she had learned in her gymnastics class.

The smallest boy in the front started to twitch and look around him. He craned his head far enough to catch Annika's eyes. He couldn't have been more than six years old. Others became restless. Mrs. Blackwood cut off her little sermon with the summary that God's love was just like money in their piggy banks, and then passed out copies of the day's verse to every outstretched hand. They were to know it by heart for the next time.

Annika's eye was drawn to a movement by the curtains at the side entrance to the room. A shadowy figure stood there, still as a statue. She felt sure it must be the man she had seen at the window, and she wondered if he would appear.

"And now it's time for our milk and cookies," Mrs. Blackwood called out over the din of excited voices that already knew what would happen next. As if on cue the statue moved and walked into the room carrying a tray, which he placed on the small table beside Mrs. Blackwood. Calmly the man looked around at the faces of the boys and girls and found Annika's eyes studying him. He held on to them for a powerful moment, then left as quietly as he had come.

Mrs. Blackwood poured out milk into Dixie cups and passed out the cookies. Annika ate hers along with everyone else and drank her cup of milk. During the long silence she scanned the other faces with their white milk mustaches and guessed that none of them were related and none of them were friends.

That night she couldn't sleep for wondering about things that Mrs. Blackwood had said. She had tried once before, before they had come to Canada, to believe in Jesus. She had talked to him earnestly each night. Dear Jesus, if thou art in heaven, I know you are as lonely as me; I will be your friend. She hadn't known how to pray or what to pray for, but had hoped, vaguely, for some changes in her life. She thought she had to be pure in her heart before her prayers were answered, so she believed if nothing changed, it was her fault. She was embarrassed to look back at that time, mostly because her older brother had caught her on her knees, praying, and never stopped teasing her. Sometimes he threw himself on his knees in front of her and clasped his hands in mock prayer. Oh, Annika, if thou art in heaven...

Her brother had been right every time so far: there was no Santa Claus, and babies really did come out from there, as preposterous as it had seemed. Now he was getting around to God. If God went, so did Jesus, and Annika had found it harder to let go of him than of God, because there was so much kindness in his face. She still had to consider the coincidence that it was shortly after one of her prayers that her mother had announced that they were moving to Canada. That was change, all right, and pretty interesting, too. Maybe by some chance there really was purity in her heart. Of course, now Mrs. Blackwood was saying Jesus loved her no matter what. It seemed unlikely.

Other than that one big event, she had no particular reason to believe one way or another. Neither of her parents ever prayed or asked for God's help. Her father had pushed away the religious dimension of life just like he pushed away many things--with a closed fist. As for her mother, her faithful payment of tithes was a joke in the family. Annika was sure she paid money to the church to aggravate her father.

Before falling asleep she thought about the mystery man. Why had he looked at her like that? Was it at all possible that he saw something special in her? Her beak was open. Downstairs her parents were talking to each other. Her mother' laughter rose and fell. This was good. Most often they quarreled or deliberately ignored each other but even so it never occurred to Annika that they might not love each other or that they might have separate dreams. She thought indeed that if her father could remember to change his socks and shirt more often, smoke less and drink less, they could be happy. She thought indeed that if her mother could eliminate the yellow smell of poverty, as she called the smell of nicotine and alcohol and sweat, through more scrubbing and longer hours of work, she could forgive him. When they laughed together like that she felt something lift from her heart.

She fell asleep content.

The following Sunday, she ambled along the sidewalk when up ahead she saw one of the boys from Mrs. Blackwood's Bible class. She ran up from behind and joined him just as Mrs. Blackwood opened the door. She took her place at the back of the room, cross-legged on the floor in her pedal-pushers. Some faces around her she knew from the week before. Some were new.

"Children, today I want to talk to you about original sin," Mrs. Blackwood said after everyone calmed down. "Can anybody tell me what is original sin?"

A girl in pink shorts waved her hand. "It's when you do bad things."

"Ye-es...that is sin, but what is original...anyone?"

"It's about Adam and Eve," another girl said breathlessly. "They didn't have any clothes on and they knew they were bad."

Mrs. Blackwood nodded slowly. "Adam and Eve, yes, that's good." Annika thought she looked disappointed but she added brightly, "Well, let's get started, then. We'll begin at the very beginning in the Garden of Eden."

She told them about Adam and Eve and the garden of Eden and the apple and the serpent. Annika's mind wandered and Mrs. Blackwood's voice faded in and out as the serpent whispered and Eve wondered and God raged and she watched the profiles of the others around her. The boys fidgeted and looked about the room and the girls sat placidly with their hands in their laps. It seemed that everyone was looking not at Mrs. Blackwood but at the side entrance. They were all waiting for the mystery man to appear with the tray of milk and cookies.

But first they had to show that they had memorized the verse from the previous Sunday. They jabbered through "for God so loved the world" in such a jumbled way that it caused Mrs. Blackwood to grimace. She pursed her lips and singled out Annika to stand up and recite the words alone. On her feet, looking down on the faces of the other children, Annika found herself in a situation that was becoming increasingly familiar. She felt she had nothing at all in common with anyone else in the room, no desire to know these verses, yet she continued to behave as if she did. But when she saw the shadow by the curtain, her heart started to beat faster. She stood straighter and spoke as clearly as if this were the test of the purity of her heart, as if then the unknown heart beating in the shadow would be moved.

Mrs. Blackwood looked pleased when she finished, and passed out a new verse with instructions to memorize it for the next time. The man entered with the tray of goodies and he found Annika's face and smiled. Mr. Blackwood was a kind man, she decided. On her way home she recited the words from a poem she had just memorized. She'd found it in one of her brother's school books: ...and a feeling of sadness comes o'er me that is not akin to pain, but resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain. In particular she liked the words sorrow and mist.

Sorrow-w-o-o-o. Mis-s-s-s-t.

When she had smiled back at Mr. Blackwood, she had hoped that her face reflected the possibility that someone like her would know the words to a poem like that. She walked home slowly, her head bowed, concentrating on her every step, careful not to step on any cracks in the sidewalk.

Sunday after Sunday she returned. She recited her verses in a way that pleased Mrs. Blackwood, but the real prize, the reason for her efforts was the chance to look up at the window where Mr. Blackwood waited for her. Then later for the chance of looking into his face when he emerged from the shadows, when, it seemed to her, they joined in a brief moment of unspeakable feelings. By then Jesus was on his journey back to Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, and in Annika's thoughts Jesus and Mr. Blackwood were one, their eyes gazing steadily into a future which was foretold and irrevocable.

The summer was coming to an end. School would start again and Mrs. Blackwood's Bible classes would stop until the next summer. It made Annika sad to think about that. It did not come as a complete surprise when on the last Sunday morning in August Mrs. Blackwood took her aside at the door as she entered and led her down the corridor towards the stairway to the second floor.

"Mr. Blackwood has taken a special interest in you and wishes to talk to you," she said. "Would you be so kind as to pay him a visit upstairs?" No one had ever talked to her in such a polite way. She felt taller, older.

The hallway was dark and the stairs were narrow. But her curiosity and the excitement of being singled out combined to overcome any hesitation. Slowly she ascended the stairs, the chatter of the children gathering in the room fading behind her. She saw the tree first, in all its green glory, then the man sitting in front of it, his back to the window.

"Sit down," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Thank you for coming to see me." He waited for her to get comfortable, then asked, "Does it seem strange that an old man like me wants to talk to a girl like you?"

"Not really." She was accustomed to accepting things as they happened. If she had any complaints, it was that they didn't happen often enough.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He wore a white shirt with rolled up sleeves. Annika stared at his forearms. If it had been her father, the bulge of the forearms would have caused the cloth to stretch and heave. This man's arms extruded like little branches, scarcely troubling the fabric at all.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, following her gaze, which continued on to the shirt which was bunched at the waist, as if nothing were inside. When he smiled, his eyes lit up and his face stretched into a pattern of little lines.

"No," she said. She had no wish to run away, if that was what he meant.

"Good. Tell me, Annika, for that is your name, why do you come to these classes every Sunday?"

"I...I like Mrs. Blackwood." She felt suddenly shy. Heat rose to her cheeks.

"And Bible studies?"

"It's...interesting." She'd already discovered the usefulness of the word when speaking to grownups. She felt sure her face was glowing.

"Hmmm...I dare say it is. I like you, Annika. You remind me of...perhaps...oh well, I may as well tell you I'm going to die soon, and seeing you makes me happy. Does that make any sense?"

Annika stared at him with curiosity. "I don't know, Mr. Blackwood," she said. Death was interesting too. Until now it was a subject that was deep inside her father's territory. She thought for a moment that perhaps the man ought really to talk to her father. And the thought of her father brought her presence here under a glaring spotlight. She felt both inadequate and somehow privileged and the two feelings were at war. But she would not mention her father for she did not want Mr. Blackwood's attention to turn to someone else. She felt selfish, greedy, and very curious.

"I dare say it doesn't, Annika. By the way it would please me enormously if you called me John. Mr. Blackwood seems so...formal."

"Yes...Mr. John."

Annika had never seen a dying man before. At least, not knowingly. She'd seen them already dead in coffins. She shivered respectfully when a hearse went by, careful not to laugh ... for you may be the next to die... To be sure, she had seen Aunt Lucy, her mother's friend, a few days before she died, but she'd never had time to look at her thinking, Aunt Lucy's going to die and how does she feel about it? ...the worms crawl in the worms crawl out... Death was a big topic, one that grown ups paid attention to, went to church and took off their hats for. Fear of it, running away from it was what had determined the journey of her family up to this point. Death was the reason Annika had so few relatives. ... they crawl in your stomach and out your mouth... Knowledge of it was what gave her father the right to be so angry, so alone in his brooding over lost friends and brothers.

Not knowing of it, then, defined her as the ignorant, slow-to-grasp child her father accused her of being. She stared at Mr. John, her eyes round with wonder as if he were a messenger sent by death himself to deliver Annika from the realm of ignorance.

"Are you scared?" she asked, hoping the question was not disrespectful.

"Heavens, not any more. Sad, maybe. Yes, sad to be leaving this place."

"Are you going to heaven?" Mrs. Blackwood had described the place so wonderfully, but Annika felt pretty sure her brother, the messenger of truth, was right on this one, too.

"What do you think?" John turned the question over to her.

"It would be nice, maybe."

"In any case, that's not where I'd be going." He stared down at his arms and shook his head. "It seems just yesterday I was like you."

Annika drew a long breath, unsure of what he meant. "How?" she asked very softly, so that if he didn't want to answer he could pretend that he hadn't heard her.

"I've watched you from the window. I often watch the children on the street. I never had any, you know. Your father is a lucky man."

This was strange talk. Mr. John didn't know everything about her the way her father did, so how would he know that her father was lucky?

"Whenever I see you, you seem so absorbed inside your own world. What do you think about?"

"I don't know," she said, then looked up at him shyly. "I'm thinking now the cookies must almost be ready." The warm aroma had entered the room moments ago distracting Annika and she wondered if it was time for Mr. John to go downstairs to hand out the tray.

Mr. John's spirit seemed to droop. "Vera will take care of them," he said. He shifted his weight in the chair and Annika could see the pain in his face as he did so. "It's hard for me to get down the stairs, otherwise I'd ask you to go for a walk with me. Do you play chess?"

"No, my father does. He plays with my brother."

"What do you like to do most?"

"Mmm...I like to dance."

Mr. John leaned forward. "Dance!" he exclaimed. "It's been a long time since I've seen anyone dance. Can you show me how you dance?"

Annika pulled back and looked at him doubtfully.

"I have an idea, Annika. You think about it. The Bible classes finish today, but if you have the time, I would like it very much if you paid me a visit next Sunday. If you decide to come again, you can dance for me. Or we could talk about other things. But it would make me very very happy to see you dance. What do you think?"

Annika chewed on her lower lip pretending to concentrate, then nodded.

"Now you'd better be off and see if there are any cookies left."

After leaving the house she stopped for a moment at the edge of the front lawn and hesitated. She was afraid to look up but wondered if Mr. John was watching her from the window. The grass looked inviting. There was so much ticking inside her that she seemed to explode into cartwheels. One...two...three! If she didn't look up, if she didn't know if he was looking, then she could say she wasn't just showing off.

All week Annika thought about it. She would do it. No she wouldn't. She'd look silly. But it felt so good when she danced. Maybe it would make Mr. John feel good. He had said as much. She practised in front of the bathroom mirror, even though all she could see was her face and her arms swaying about. No, she looked ridiculous. But deep inside she knew that Mr. John would not laugh. And when night came she could see her reflection in the big window and as she moved about, the ghostly reflection looked graceful and mysterious. It gave her an idea.

Mr. John was happy to see her when she entered the room the following Sunday. They talked about school starting again, about the end of summer, about winter and snow.

Mr. John looked very small in his chair, Annika thought, maybe even thinner than the week before. Death might be like that. You just grow thinner and thinner until you disappear to where you came from. His eyes looked tired, the eyelids heavy, as if they might decide to close forever at any moment.

"I want to dance for you," she said, wanting to bring him to life again.

"Good. Excellent," he said and straightened himself out, presenting the floor to her with the sweep of an arm.

She stood up hesitantly, unbuttoned her skirt and stepped out of it in her blue gym suit and brown stockings. The space was cramped, not like the vast gymnasium floor of the YMCA, but there was room enough for the small routine she had prepared for him. Room enough to go down into the splits, to bend backwards into a bridge, to hold an imaginary candle and twist and turn her body, keeping the candle from going out. Room for the dramatic gypsy steps and Cossack kicks. All the while she kept her eyes down, afraid to see the expression in Mr. John's face.

Finally she curtseyed in front of him, out of breath, her face glistening.

"It would be better with music," she said.

"Even without music, it's one of the finest things I've ever seen," said Mr. John. He clapped slowly, loudly, and for a long time. "One of the finest things," he repeated.

She dared at last to look at Mr. John. That was when she noticed the aroma of cookies in the room and she was surprised because the Bible classes were over and there were no children downstairs. She didn't mention it, but it made her feel good.

After she was dressed again she sat down opposite him and listened as Mr. John told her about how he had run away from home when he was fourteen and about working on cargo boats that went all the way to Africa. He told her stories about thieves in Cairo and crocodiles along the Nile. He told her about the tall warriors that hunted lions and the Bushmen who lived in the desert. He told her there were places she must visit when she grew up and books she must start reading.

There was a small knock on the door and Mrs. Blackwood came in with a plate of cookies. She put them on the table between Annika and Mr. John and pulled up a chair for herself. Mr. John nibbled on a single one while Annika and Mrs. Blackwood kept reaching for more until they were all gone.

"I'm afraid all this excitement is making me a bit tired," Mr. John said at last. "You've given me so much joy. If you could come again next Sunday it would give me something to look forward to all week." Annika thanked them for the cookies with a small curtsey and promised she would be back.

The following Sunday Mrs. Blackwood opened the door as usual but Annika knew right away that something was wrong. Her eyes were red and swollen and the moment she saw Annika she burst into tears. She led Annika into the living room. The smell of cookies seemed to be a part of this house, and now it reminded her of how Mr. John had stood in the shadows, by the curtains. Instinctively she knew that this would never ever happen again.

Annika sat down on the gold brocade couch while Mrs. Blackwood went to the kitchen and brought back a plate of cookies. The plastic covers had been removed from the couch and the chairs. They looked brand new. Mrs. Blackwood patted Annika's hand and explained that the funeral would take place that afternoon and that she would understand if Annika couldn't come, but it would mean a lot to her if she could accompany her. John would have liked that. She offered her another cookie. Annika did feel that even if there were no heaven, Mr. John would still know she was there. So she arranged with Mrs. Blackwood to be at her house at three o'clock that afternoon. As she left she thanked her for the cookies and told her politely that she needn't have baked them on her account, she would have gone to the funeral anyway.

When she got back to her house, her father was sitting on the front porch flipping through the newspaper. She didn't know how to explain that she was going to Mr. John's funeral that afternoon because she had never told anyone about Mr. John, or about Mrs. Blackwood either, so she decided not to. Instead she told her mother that Mary was having a birthday party at three o'clock. That would explain why she would be wearing her good dress. Her mother didn't look up from the sewing in her lap, but said it was nice that Annika had something to do. The sewing meant her mother didn't have much time to spend with her, but it also meant that she had nice dresses, and when she really needed money for something, her mother usually managed to find it for her. Sometimes it was useful, she thought, that her mother never asked any questions about what she did with her time. She didn't even know that she and Mary hadn't seen each other all summer. So she got herself ready in her navy blue dress with the white sailor collar, made herself a sandwich for lunch, then started to wait for three o'clock.

She sat down on the couch in front of the bay window overlooking the front porch. The sky was a bit overcast and it looked as if it might rain, which was why her father had moved his chair from the backyard to the front porch. He was working on the weekend cross-word puzzle as usual. The dictionary was at his feet. She felt slyly powerful when observing him without his knowledge. The pen in his hand made little circles in the air, once in a while coming down in the margin of the paper depositing little mounds of goop.

Suddenly she was aware of a movement on the neighbour's porch which was attached to theirs. There was a low barrier between them so that her father could not have seen, but Annika was higher and closer and saw Susan on her hands and knees fumbling with something in her hand. Her arm flew up and she threw a small round thing across the barrier. Annika's father jerked to attention as if something had stung him. He looked around him for the culprit and seeing nothing out of the ordinary went back to his puzzle. Susan was rolled up like a little ball against the barrier, holding her sides. After a few moments her hand flew up again and this time the pebble hit Annika's father on the temple. Annika recoiled from the window, knowing what would follow. Her father sprang to his feet and from that height he spied Susan immediately.

"What you are doing!" he said angrily. "You are crazy girl!" Susan looked into his face and laughed. He made a gesture as if to grab her even though she was well out of his reach, and she ran into the house slamming the door behind her. Annika flew into the kitchen, settled into a chair and pretended she'd been sitting there all along. She didn't want her father to know that she had seen or heard a thing. She was boiling over inside. That stupid Susan! Stupid stupid Susan! Tomorrow in the school yard she would have to listen to Susan mimicking her father's English, "What you are doing you crazy girl!" And she would dramatize it with a clumsy gesture, showing how her father had tried to grab her. If he'd really tried, you idiot, you'd be dead!

Other than an issue of Time magazine, the only reading material on the table was an atlas of the world. Quick before he gets here! She opened it at random and found herself staring at a big map of Africa. This is really weird, she thought, thinking of Mr. John and his stories only a week ago. Now he was dead but Africa was right here in her kitchen. It felt strange, as though maybe Africa had belonged to him. She spotted Alexandria right away and started looking for Cairo and the Nile when her father came in.

"How's the cross-word going?" she asked, sounding bored, as if nothing unusual ever happened in the world. He went past her to the sink and began washing his hands furiously. She wondered if he had heard her.

"That Susan," he said, "I was wrong about her. She has a mean streak." He sounded tired and disappointed.

I could have told you that! Annika thought triumphantly. "Why? What happened?" she asked, still bored.

"Ahh! It's not important!" He paced up and down the kitchen floor for a while, his head down, his hands in his pockets. Finally he came to a stop right behind her. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Annika wondered if she smelled of cookies, or of death, or if there was anything about her that was wrong or out of place. Would he ask why she was wearing her best dress? Would he guess that she was not going to a party? A long silence continued. The Nile wiggled and squirmed under Annika's frozen stare. The printed words, the blue rivers seemed to lift up and hover over the yellows and ochres of Africa.

After what seemed like an eternity her father cleared his throat. "You see, Annika," he said, "that is the Tigris River, and that is the Euphrates." His voice was softer than she'd ever heard it. There was surprise in it, and tenderness. "I didn't know you were interested in geography."

He was leaning over her shoulder now, his thick nicotine-stained finger outlining the cradle of civilization off in the upper right hand corner of the map. His fingers were tough, looking more like leather than skin. Iron particles from the steel factory had worked their way deep into the crevices and could not be washed out. She felt his flannel shirt against the back of her head, sensed the movement of his hard stomach as he breathed, in and out.

Later that afternoon she stood next to Mrs. Blackwood close to Mr. John's coffin thinking about Africa floating like a patch of leather on the turquoise water. She was thinking of the way her father smelled, like molten iron and scorched cotton. And then, had she just imagined it, or had he touched her hair? Her scalp had tingled as a strand of it had been placed behind her ear. She was trying hard to remember how this had happened, exactly. She had been intensely aware of the heat radiating from his body, but could not remember whether the hand that that stroked the hair into place had been his or her own.