Jack's Carousel

"Thought I'd finish carving the forelock and eyes tonight, but no go. Too many interruptions." Jack glanced at Nikolas. "Did you know all those kids would be there? What was it, some kind of party?"
Nikolas nodded. "The lady in the gift shop--you know, the one who sometimes helps sand the ponies--she said the children were celebrating a birthday. To visit the Carousel was a special surprise. Especially because they observed us at work." Nikolas stroked his full, grizzled beard. "I did not mind their visit."
"Hmph. Well, I did. Couldn't get any work done. That one kid kept taking my chisels. Probably dulled every blade."
"Ah, yes, that boy. You should have seen him in the paint room. Even our lovely lady with eyes the color of the ocean raised her voice to him."
Jack frowned. "What? Who're you prattling about?"
"You know."
"You think I run around checking the color of every woman's eyes?"
"But this one, you know."
"You mean Kennocha?"
Nikolas arched one black, bushy eyebrow, a satisfied smile on his face. "Yes. Kennocha Bryant. I am right, am I not? Her eyes are the color of the ocean?"
Jack snorted. "I know what you're up to, you nosy old Russian. But you'll get no reaction from me." He paused. "Besides, how about you and those two women after church last Sunday? The way you were making eyes at them . . . why, they were young enough to be your great-great-granddaughters."
Chuckling, Nikolas halted at a stop sign, carefully looked in both directions and drove on. "You exaggerate. They are young, yes, but not too young. Know this, my friend, younger ladies prefer gentlemen our age. We are more settled, more mature, more distinguished--"
Jack whooped. "Distinguished! Me, maybe, but not you." He grinned at his friend and waited for his comeback.
"You change the subject. We were talking about Miss Bryant."
"You were, I wasn't."
Nikolas pulled into the driveway behind Jack's attractive, white clapboard home on the corner. A spacious yard with several tall maples surrounded the blue-shuttered, two-story house. "Perhaps you do not need to tell me much. I see what I see. And I am glad. Four years Claire has been gone. It is time for you--"
"You see what you want to see. Martha's been gone longer than Claire, and you're still alone. Fine one you are to talk." Ignoring Nikolas' chuckle, he said, "You want to come in for a cup of coffee?"
"What, and have caffeine disturb my slumber?"
"Cocoa, then."
Nikolas peered at the dashboard clock. "No, it is after ten. Time for me to go home."
Jack groped for his gloves, found them and pulled them on. He snugged a red woolen scarf around his neck. "There's a John Wayne movie on tonight--Rooster Cogburn--I'll make popcorn . . . ."
Nikolas raised one eyebrow. "With butter?"
"And a little salt. C'mon, you old Russian, it's not so late."
Sighing, Nikolas eyed the clock again. "No, no. I cannot. We worked too late tonight."
Jack's shoulders slumped. He pulled his scarf up around his ears, pushed the car door open, and stepped into the frigid, windy night. Bright moonlight, seizing openings between fast-moving clouds, cast distorted shadows of barren elms into the street.
Jack leaned into the car and said, "I'll drive tomorrow. The usual time?"
"Not tomorrow, my friend. Sunday--the Lord's day. I will pick you up for church."

An hour later, lying in bed with W. Phillip Keller's Still Waters propped on his chest and his purring cat curled up at his side, Jack felt drowsiness flowing into his limbs like liquid warmth. His eyelids closed.
The sound of someone pounding on the back door startled Jack awake. He threw off the covers, burying the cat, glanced at the clock and swung his feet over the side of the bed. After midnight. Probably one of those college kids next door. Locked himself out of the house again. Good thing for them Mrs. Adams gave me a spare key when she moved downtown. The cat sneezed, scrambled out from under the bedspread and began grooming her fur.
"Sorry, Missy." Jack patted her head and pulled on a gray plaid robe with threadbare elbows. He tightened the belt and groped for his slippers.
The knocking became more insistent.
"C’mon, let’s see what’s going on." The cat leapt off the bed and minced out of the room, tail high. Jack followed, his slippers making a soft scuffing sound on the carpet. He flipped on the porch light and pulled the curtain aside to peer out.
"What the--" He unbolted the door and yanked it open. A blast of cold air hit him.
"Hi, Granpop. Can I come in?"
Scott Giroux, Jack's sixteen-year-old grandson, stood shivering on the porch, duffel bag in hand. "Scott!" Grinning, Jack pulled the boy into the room and wrapped him in a bear hug. Then he stepped back, placed his hands on Scott’s shoulders, eyes level with his, and said, "Am I getting forgetful, or what? I didn’t know you were coming. Where’re your folks?" Jack glanced beyond the teenager’s shoulder toward the door.
"Just me, Granpop." Scott shoved his hands into the pockets of his Boise high school letter jacket and looked away. "Got anything to eat? I’m starved."
"Of course, of course. Come in, take your coat off. Sit down. I’ll see what I can find." Aware of his grandson’s nervousness, questions raced through Jack’s mind. He opened the refrigerator and rummaged. "Here’s a pork chop leftover from supper . . . and . . . macaroni and cheese?" Jack backed away, balancing covered dishes and a carton of milk. He nudged the refrigerator door shut with his foot. "You here for school? Debate team?"
Last year, when Scott won his state's title in debate, he made the trip here with his teacher to compete against winners from other states. Jack had gone to the event, proud to see his grandson competing, not minding that he didn't win again. Surely, that’s why Scott's here now--another school event--or is it? Why doesn’t the boy answer me? Why is he avoiding my eyes? And what about that hair? Looks like he bleached it on top.
Clattering dishes caught the tabby's attention, whiskers alert. Her immaculate fur was offset by one ragged ear, scarred from some battle only she knew about.
"Hey, kitty. C’mere." Scott stood, scooped up the cat and allowed her green-eyed scrutiny. He laughed as, satisfied, she rubbed her head under his chin. He stroked her and was rewarded with a deep purr.
Jack punched start on the microwave oven and turned to see Scott wipe away a tear with the back of his hand. With exaggerated nonchalance, his grandson tossed a shock of blond hair off his forehead. Jack pulled at the tips of his mustache, wondering.
To ease the sudden awkwardness, he said, "That cat. Thinks she has to eat every time I open the refrigerator. You’ll have to share the macaroni and cheese with her, but she turns her nose up at my pork chops. Thinks I used too much pepper."
Scott smiled and sat down with purring cat on his lap. "What’s her name again?"
"Miss Lavender. Inspired by an Ogden Nash poem.