Grandma Violet comes running, bounding along pretty fast for a grandma. She wraps me up in a snug two-armed hug that feels like love. I must have grown since summer, because now her head doesn’t even reach my heart.
“Oh, honey!” she says, and I hear tears in her voice.
“I’m sorry about Grandpa,” I say, and she really breaks down.
“I know,” Grandma says. “Me too.”
We hug for a long time, and then she steps back, studying me.
“Lily, my girl,” Grandma keeps saying. “You are growing up so fast! You’ve gotten so tall!”
Inside the trailer, it smells like smoke, and socks, and old people, plus something like French fries or a hamburger. There’s a tree—a green plastic bare one—but nothing else with a hint of Christmas. One saggy green sofa, two black recliners, a tiny red kitchen with a miniature silver refrigerator. Pictures on the walls of my grandma and grandpa, looking happy and young. There are my school pictures, too, framed in gold, and old photos of Trullia. There’s even a picture of way-young Trullia and my dad at their high school prom, back before they moved to West Virginia and had me. And of course there are lots of pictures of Trullia on the flying trapeze: Miss Famous.
A cuckoo clock chirps nine times.
“Welcome to our little home, Lily,” says Grandma. “It’s not fancy, but it’s ours. And it’s a little bigger than that motor home we travel in.”
My grandma waves her hand, which is wrinkly and spotted brown like most people who are in their sixties. She is so teeny and fragile; her purple-streaked hair hangs almost to her waist. Grandma Violet’s face is crinkly and kind, and she’s wearing plaid shorts and red Converse shoes (just like mine!) with a black T-shirt that says Be Yourself. I have to admit: my grandmother is pretty hip, with that purple hair and cool clothing.
“So how was the flight, Lily-Bird?” asks Grandma.
“Okay,” I say. “I sat with a nice lady. Her name was Donna, and she wore these funky cat’s-eye glasses and she was a ‘spiritual adviser and animal communicator’ of some kind.”
“That’s good,” Grandma says. “It always makes flying nicer when you have a friend. Plus, who doesn’t need a little bit of spiritual advice and communication with animals, every now and then?”
“Man, this suitcase is heavy,” complains Mike, scrunching up his face as if he’s lifting weights. “Where can I put this thing?”
“Oh, just set it down anywhere,” says Grandma. “Make yourself at home, Lily. Our home is your home, too.”
“You can take off those boots,” says Trullia. “You keep forgetting: you’re not in West Virginia anymore.”
Mike puts my suitcase on the sofa.
“Feels like she packed the entire state of West Virginia,” he says.
“Did you pack a swimsuit?” asks Trullia. “There’s a pool.”
“Um . . . no. I kind of forgot. It was just so cold when I left home that I didn’t even think about swimming.”
“I understand how that happens,” says Grandma. “It’s like when I’m here in Florida, I can’t even imagine it snowing and being cold in West Virginia. Two different worlds. How’s your father, Lily?”
“Good. He’s good.”
My mother obviously doesn’t like talking about my dad. She chews on a fingernail, and then she changes the subject.
“Mom!” says Trullia. “Where are the tree ornaments? Where are the lights?”
“I took the ornaments down,” Grandma says. “I wrapped up the lights. Who feels like celebrating now?”
“That’s kind of extreme,” Trullia says.
“I just needed to do something while you were gone, so I undecorated the tree,” Grandma says.
“But you didn’t take down the outside lights?” Trullia asks.
Grandma shrugs. “Can’t explain it,” she says. “I’m just not feeling the holiday spirit.”
“Well, we do have Lily here,” says Trullia. “We could do it for her.”
No. Don’t do anything for me. Please. Because that would mean I have to appreciate, and I’m not in an appreciation kind of mood, to tell you the truth.
“This is Christmas Eve,” says Mike. “You need a freaking tree.”
“I have a dang tree,” says Grandma. “And that’s all I have.”
They’ve moved Trullia to the green sofa, and Mike to the recliner, and given me their room, which really isn’t much to brag about. A creaky whining bed that sags in the middle; a dresser with broken drawers. Apparently, everything in this trailer is broken or old or tired or sad.
It’s only nine thirty, but I’m tired. Too sleepy to even unpack my suitcase and take out my pajamas. Flying wore me out. It’s like I’ve left my entire body and half my mind in the sky.
I flop into the bed, lying on top of the covers.
Grandma Violet made macaroni and cheese with hot dogs for my dinner, but I’m still kind of hungry. That’s when I remember the pack of peanuts in my jacket pocket.
I take out the peanuts, rip open the pack, and munch a few. But then I get thirsty. I really don’t want to go back out and talk to anyone. I decide to just suck it up and go to sleep. I put the pack of peanuts on top of the dresser.
I turn off the light and through the window, I can see the elephant, a hulking shadow in the night. It’s a little bit cool tonight, so the windows are closed. I can imagine the sounds of her huffy breathing, though.
I yank off my jeans, drop them on the floor, and climb once again into the complaining bed, wearing the shirt and socks from this morning. So weird to think that I put these clothes on just this morning, at home, with my dad nearby. And now here I am: same clothes, same me, same moon overhead . . . but somehow everything has changed.
Good night. Going to bed, I text Dad, and he texts right back.
Sweet dreams. Love you.
I wish he was here to tuck me in, to sing one of his silly songs, to read a book with me. I know I’m kind of old for all that, but still.
I just really love my dad.
Falling asleep, I think I’m in a dream, something about tapping and knocking. Then a crash, a huge splintering sound of breaking glass, and I sit up. It’s real. The glass of the window is crashed, a big, jagged, sharp, star-shaped hole letting in a piece of the night.
“What the . . . ?”
And then I see it: the trunk of the elephant, reaching boldly into the room, eating from the open pack of peanuts I left on the dresser.
It’s Queenie Grace, and she just keeps eating the peanuts, never taking one eye from my face.
I don’t know what to do, so I don’t do anything. I just sit and stare, knees and blanket to my chin, quivering. The clock in the living room cuckoos twelve times, and I reach over and turn on the light.
The elephant is bleeding. She has a small spot of blood on her trunk, and then it’s dripping onto the broken old dresser in this creepy little room.
This feels like a nightmare, some crazy bad dream, but then I know I’m awake because Trullia Lee Pruitt busts hollering into the room.
She goes straight to the elephant, never mind me, and then she yells for my grandmother and for Mike, and before you know it, there’s a big ruckus going on.
I’m watching them all through the broken window, trying not to step in shards of broken glass that fell on the bedroom floor.
“What are you going to disinfect it with?” Trullia asks.
“Hydrogen peroxide,” Grandma says.
“Are you sure that’s the right thing to use?” Trullia asks, and it strikes me that she worries more about the elephant than she does about me.
“Yes,” Grandma says.
“I bet it’ll burn,” Trullia says.
“Babe,” Mike says, “it’s an elephant. Just an elephant. Chill out a little bit, okay?”
From here I can see that Trullia’s gnawing on her fingernails again.
Grandma pours hydrogen peroxide on the elephant’s trunk and Trullia helps to hold it still. The elephant makes noise as Grandma Violet wraps gauze around the cut on its trunk.
Mike carries a big chain across the yard.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Mike,” Grandma says.
“Well, we can’t have her breaking windows and stuff,” Mike replies.
Grandma sighs. I can see the rise and fall of her chest with her deep breath.
“I’m too tired to fight,” Grandma says.
Mike bends down and ties the chain around one of Queenie Grace’s legs, then he circles a tree with the chain. He knots it tight and steps back, surveying the elephant and the chain.
“That should keep her safe for the night,” Mike says. “And keep us safe.”
“She only wanted the peanuts,” I whisper to myself, kind of surprised that I’m feeling half-sorry for the elephant.
I smell cigar smoke. The creepy fire-eater is standing outside, gawking and smoking. I swear he catches my eye again, even through the darkness.
I look away. The elephant stares at me, too.
I know just how Queenie Grace feels; I do. But this much, too, is true: I still don’t like her. After all, that elephant did try to kill me one time, and she scared the heck out of me back in July.
Maybe the chains serve her right.