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The very first Sunday that summer, I found out Zimmie wanted us to go to church with her. I moaned, kicked the stairwell. Kitty in the mirror threw a match on my funeral pyre, telling me Grandpa's coming with us. I moaned, flew back and forth in not-quite-circles. Grandpa usually just dropped Zimmie off at church, then cruised for an hour along right-handed black top lanes cleaving miles of gossiping cornfields. Although he was old and a smoker (living on borrowed time). But this Sunday he was going to put on a suit and come along; a terrible tragedy Zimmie couldn't drive. Kitty posed at the hall tree, its greeny mirror diseased by time. She raised one foot, then the other, trying on angles. It mattered: yesterday she'd broken in new flats, wore them all day around the farmhouse with a pair of Grandpa's red hunting socks. Said: I think after, we're going to visit Claudette. I moaned and flew, my hair a wild blonde flame throwing sparks across 122 the foyer. Church was all starch and lace, moist heat, moist sounds, programs adorned with doe-eyed Jesus fanning powdered-sugar faces slowly dissolving under delectable hats. Our grandmother Zimmie beamed and nodded all through the flydroning service. God was helium to Zimmie. Pumped her up every Sunday. She was light and happy most of the time anyway, although I have caught her, unawares, looking sucked up and airless, but I never let on; Zimmie rarely showed her hurts to the world. Basted and glazed her pain with happiness. Faked her way through life when she had to: fluent in bilingual body language. Sometimes hard to imagine she'd come out of a daredevil woman who'd stowed away from Ireland to America, ending up a suffragette, newspaper journalist, farm wife. Grandpa was always saying that only stupid people were happy all the time. Which makes you, Moms, as he called Zimmie, one of the happiest people I know. And she'd peal with laughter. Although I knew her hurt burned under her lovely skin. I'd stand where Grandpa couldn't see me and put a whammy on him, blade of my hand between my eyes. A neat trick I learned from my twin brother. He and I had been amputated that summer. It was our turn, we girls, to be farmed out, get sick on Black Cows, play Monopoly until we went blind or

Eating Potato Salad On The Lawn Of The Damned