Other Shepards Read Free Page B

strokes, but her movements are fidgety and graceless, as if she can’t figure out how she is centered. I decide the problem must be her old-fashioned cork-soled sandals, a style that not only looks uncomfortable but is too summery for the weather.
    She jerks to a stop at the kitchen counter and begins tunneling into a nylon knapsack that is flopped beside the sink. “In here somewhere, if you just hold on a minute.”
    Geneva looks at me and mouths, “Gun.” I shake my head and mouth, “No way.” Annie rummages and mumbles to herself, looking slightly demented, if not gun-toting.
    “Ask,” Geneva mouths. I shake my head.
    Geneva pulls in a quivering breath and squeaks, “Who are you? Are you a robber? I think now is a good time to call Dad or the authorities to find out—”
    With a triumphant “Aha!” Annie whips around, clutching a white paper bag. Geneva screams. It is her usual scream, a spine-scouring pitch that has roused me so many times in the middle of the night that upon hearing it now, I do not even flinch. Annie immediately drops her paper bag and matches Geneva with a scream of her own, although this noise seems more professional and military: a call to arms, a war whoop. Then she claps a hand to her mouth, spreading the fingers of her other hand to touch the pulse points of her neck, and she doubles over laughing. Her laugh is goofy, it sounds like hiccups. I smile. I can’t help it.
    “I see tomorrow’s headline of the Post : ‘Girls Attacked by Artist Bearing Pastries.’” Annie smiles and bends to retrieve the bag, which she opens and glides beneath Geneva’s nose. “Day-old cinnamon rolls. That’s all they are. See? Look, it’s no joke, I was officially contracted to come to the Shepard residence and create a spectacular mural worthy of your mother’s fifty-sixth birthday. I have all the information on me, somewhere.” She taps her forehead. “Most important is that it’s up here. Anyone will tell you the best plans are stored in the memory.”
    “Oh, sure,” I agree. The smell of coffee dries my throat and gurgles my stomach, and most of my concentration is focused on tasting it.
    “Clear off the table, and then we’ll sit down and take a load off. You can tell me which design ideas you like best. How obvious is it that I haven’t talked to a single solitary person in a while? I’m going crazy for company. I should have Jack’s job. I’d be good at heartburn commercials. ‘Oh, Mama, I love your sausage and anchovy pizza, but I sure hate the heartburn.’” Annie makes a sour face and touches her hand to her heart. Then her expression changes to coin-eyed surprise. “‘Cohrex? Never heard of it! But hey, I’ll try anything to get ridda this pain.’”
    I look at Geneva, ready to take my cue from her reaction. Annie’s day-old rolls and heartburn monologue might be too much for my sister. A classic Geneva move would be to run upstairs and slam her bedroom door, and I am half-waiting for it. Then I will have to apologize for my sister and spend the next hour coaxing Geneva back into a social mood in time for Mom’s birthday dinner. I make a bet. If Geneva stays, then you have to do all your French conjugations after dinner and not, absolutely not, leave them for last minute tomorrow morning.
    Geneva stands still for a moment, then picks up a mug of coffee, steps lightly to the kitchen table, and roosts on the edge of the banquette. Victorious, I jump to clear off the books.
    “There are plates above the stove, Annie, if you want to set the rolls on them. Where should I put your designs? We have half-and-half, too, in the side of the fridge, on the shelf with the jelly and mustard.” I’m chatty to hide my surprise. Geneva will stay. No running upstairs, no locked door. What a relief to avoid the usual scene.
    The three of us assemble naturally, as if we have always shared coffee and rolls after school. The old, well-grooved routines are blinked out in a moment: