[originally published in The Grey Rock Review] [revised 2024]

The concrete warmed the soles of my bare feet as I stood on the sidewalk, staring with wonder. We were all playing outside that day, so we all saw when the police cruiser pulled up silently to Miss A’s house. 

“Where is she going, Janie?” my six-year-old brother, Clyde, asked me.

“She won’t be far,” I replied.

 Six of us gathered in my driveway, barefoot and squinting in the sunlight, chapped lips hanging open with mouths of missing teeth, skinny limbs sticking out of t-shirts and shorts. Miss A walked out with her head up, a police officer holding both her arms behind her back with one hand. It was inevitable that someone would be arrested, with the way the summer heat cooked everyone’s brains. 

It all started with the street we lived on. The road was marked with potholes that we kids had learned to dodge while chasing each other like swallows diving through the air. There were six of us who were kids at the same time. My little brother and I lived in the only house with a tree in the front yard. Next door lived the seven year old twins, Annalise and Jason, at the only house with a basketball hoop. Across the street was little five year old Philip Jr., who had nothing material to offer, but always did what we dared him to do. Lastly, at the end of the block, was curly-haired, ever sunburned Sanders Kurt, who was ten years old like me and led us all through grand imaginary adventures in places far away from our decrepit neighborhood. As the oldest girl in the bunch, I looked after these kids the way their mothers should have but didn’t.

 Things hadn’t changed in a long time. Each and every house hid darkness behind its doors. People mostly knew the truth about their neighbors, but everyone was too busy concealing their own secrets to worry about anyone else, trusting each other like a bad habit. It was like every neighbor had a loaded gun pointed at another, if one went down, the entire neighborhood would go down with them. That’s why no one said anything when Philip Jr.’s front tooth rotted out; or when Clyde and I would sit on the curb in front of our house as our parents screamed at each other inside; or when Sanders showed up to school with a busted lip, or a black eye, or both. There should’ve been a line when it came to the children. 

Miss A moved in across the street on the hottest day of July. We kids watched from the safety of the oak tree in my front yard as she unloaded her moving truck without any help. Never once did she show signs of strain or fatigue. Her calm was enchanting. However, we stayed behind the oak tree. Being wary of adults was our means to survival. 

It was Sanders who suggested we go to meet her. Logically, I was reluctant to stray too close to a stranger, but I too felt the urge to be near her. The other kids seemed drawn to her as well. For no apparent reason, throughout the days after she moved in, each of us kept checking over our shoulder at her house. Every time one kid stopped to look over at it, a wave of heads turned. Our expansive imaginations fueled our ravenous curiosity. Philip Jr. said she must be a witch or an angel. The twins thought she was from a far off country, because why else would she move into a neighborhood like this except by accident? Sanders thought she seemed harmless. I thought she seemed lonely. 

After eight days of sitting around, stealing glances and inventing legends, my curiosity got the best of me. I decided to cross the street. The summer heat pelted me the moment I stepped out from underneath the shade of the oak tree. Sanders crossed with me, bouncing with excitement in each step. He was always the more optimistic one. The four remaining children waited a few seconds before scurrying after us, not wanting to miss any of the action. For a moment, the six of us just stood together on her small porch step. The cement was so cool compared to the river of asphalt we had just crossed. Finally, I pressed my pointer finger into the doorbell. 

The door flew open like a gust of wind blew through it. Our new neighbor stood before us, wearing a white kimono and no shoes. She held out her arms, not asking for a physical embrace, but like a preacher before a sermon. We were speechless. Later when the six of us would be questioned by the police, we would each remember her face differently. For me, I thought her face was young and soft, like a sweet older sister. Sanders said she was very old, like his grandma who had passed years ago. Clyde thought she looked like our mom, back before Dad left and her eyes grew heavy. Philip Jr. said she looked just like his teacher, who had caramel-colored skin, but the rest of us were sure her skin was as pale as our own. Annalise and Jason both agreed that she looked like me, with light freckles and dark brown hair. However, when we were meeting her, I don’t think any of us were really paying attention to her face. 

“Hello little ones,” she said with a voice like a bird’s song. “My name is Miss A. What are your names?”

And because we were not afraid, we told her. 

“Would you like to play in my front yard?” she asked. 

The one thing we could all agree on about her appearance was the way her soft gray eyes sparkled every time she spoke. 

In the front yard, she brought out buckets of soapy water and strings tied in loops. She bent forward like a swan and showed us how to dip the strings in the buckets so that the circles shimmered. Then she ran with the wind to birth the bubbles. I watched as the faces of the little kids lit with joy. Sander’s ocean blue eyes glazed with hope before he winked at me and dove into the bubbly fun.

 Miss A brought out shining brass bells and gave us each one. They were so big that little Philip Jr. needed two hands to hold them as Miss A taught us how to swoop our fist in a low arc to produce a chime. Sanders and I danced in carefree circles as the kids played their bell song and Miss A sang in a high clear voice. The sky began to spin above my head, so I collapsed onto the soft grass, pushing my chest and stomach to the clouds as I laughed. 

All day we frolicked on her front lawn. The sounds of our delight attracted the neighbors to their windows like moths. Through the strips between curtains where the sunlight broke into dark houses, adults watched with anxious eyes. The parents especially would remember that day in Miss A’s front yard with the bubbles and the bells and the absolute elation of it all. Later, the parents would be sure to tell the police that Miss A dared to feed us sliced peaches and strawberries. The police would use all of this to build their case against Miss A, because who would be kind without an ulterior motive? 

The following morning, when the six of us reported to the oak tree, every child had food in their bellies. For the first time in a long time, everyone’s parents had made breakfast. Usually, Sanders and I could make ourselves breakfast, and Annalise and Jason could work together to get milk and cereal. However, Philip Jr.’s stomach almost always growled so loudly in the morning that the other five of us would split off to hunt down some food for him. This morning, however, Clyde and I woke up to a plate of bacon and eggs for each of us. Our mother sat at the table with us, smoking her cigarette and drinking orange juice. We didn’t ask why as we gobbled down the deliciously warm food, but every time I looked up, our mom had a dreamy twinkle in her eye. Before she left for the day, she kissed us on the crown of our heads. I focused on the way the spot tingled for as long as I could. 

Annalise and Jason reported that their mother made them toasted white bread and jam, complete with a kiss on the cheek each. Sanders’ eyes shimmered when he said his mom gave him a hug and his dad patted his back before work. What surprised us most was Philp Jr., who not only ate waffles for breakfast but received both a hug and a kiss from his mother. The little kids weren’t interested in questioning why this had all happened to us at the same time, but I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. 

Later, during a game of hide and go seek, Sanders and I hid in a sweetly scented jasmine bush together. The spotted shadows from the flowers and leaves painted our faces.

“I had a dream last night,” I whispered to Sanders. He was the only person who ever got to hear about my dreams.

“Me too,” he whispered back. “It was about Miss A.”

“Mine too.”

“Did she fly in yours too?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“She said it’s going to be alright, I think.”

“But how could she know that?” I asked. “It’s not up to her.”

*

In between the long hot days and endless evenings, the black asphalt road was off-limits because of all the cars returning to their houses. During this time, my mom and Sanders’ mom would stand in front of my house, with glasses of white wine balanced between their fingers, whispering to each other. They were upset about Miss A but didn’t have much to be really upset about so they invented gossip. Sanders and I listened as we pretended to build castles in the dirt.

“I keep dreaming about that woman,” my mom muttered to Sanders’ mom. 

“Sometimes when I’m alone in my house, I swear I’ll see her out of the corner of my eye, but it’s just my own reflection,” Sanders’ mom replied. 

One night, when Clyde accidentally spilled orange juice all over the kitchen floor, our mom opened her mouth to scream as she normally would, but no noise came out. The veins in her neck bulged ripe and red as she strained to make a sound. Finally, she gave up and looked down at the juice pooling at her feet. Clyde and I stared at her, unsure what to do. Our mom surrendered and helped us clean up the mess in silence. Her voice returned with the rising sun. 

A few days later, Annalise and Jason said that their mom, who sometimes stayed up all night ranting about demons or making them clean the entire house, had been falling into a deep sleep directly after dinner each night. They said they were able to sleep the whole night undisturbed, a rare event since their mother stopped taking her medication.

The next day was as hot as the one before, like the sun wanted to show us her full power. Sanders played basketball with Clyde and Jason in the driveway. I laid in the grass and taught Annalise and Philip Jr. how to make dandelion crowns. By the end of the day, the sun had sufficiently zapped our energy, making us delirious and lethargic. Clyde missed a shot at the hoop, sending the basketball into the street. Without thinking, he chased after it, not noticing the SUV barrelling around the turn. I stood up and screamed as Clyde crouched down in the middle of the street. I wasn’t going to be fast enough. Just as the front bumper came within inches of my little brother’s head, the car stopped, as if crashing into an invisible wall. It flipped over my little brother’s head, who stared up at it with his jaw open wide. Landing several yards away, the car rolled three times before landing face up. Then the battered car sped away so fast it burned black streaks into the road. 

I collapsed in the middle of the street and embraced my brother. Sanders was by my side. Clyde was wailing now, with snot and saliva running down his face. I squeezed him into my shoulder. Over the top of his head, I saw Miss A standing in her doorway. Her chest was heaving like she was crying too. I hugged Clyde closer. 

My heart pounded for days after the phantom crash. I couldn’t stop seeing Clyde’s face, terror overtaking his innocence. Annalise and Jason confirmed after that Miss A had been standing in her front yard the whole time. Clyde was too young to understand how close his fate almost was to becoming another nameless hit and run in a neighborhood no one cared about. This was a miracle, and we were smart enough to keep it to ourselves. 

Additional neighbors began to join my mom and Sanders’ mom for their evening sessions on the front porch to glare at Miss A’s house, like a flock of vultures waiting for an animal to die. The majority of the adults had never met Miss A, which only added to their suspicion. One old man accused Miss A of digging through his trash, but it was more likely raccoons. Philip Jr.’s dad claimed Miss A was staring at him through his window. He said that every time he ran outside to yell at her, she was nowhere to be found, but when he went inside again, she was back on the sidewalk, staring at him like a ghost. Philip Jr. later confirmed the story as true but claimed he wasn’t scared. The rest of the neighbors disregarded the story on the basis that Philip Sr. was a severe alcoholic. Regardless, confusion was swiftly channeled into a panic and consequently, a deep fear emerged. The drunken adults spread rumors amongst each other like a disease. Everyone worried about what would happen if their sins were brought to light. Her compassion equaled impending doom for these morally bankrupt souls. I wanted to protect Miss A, because I understood the danger of fools in agreement.

Two days later, everything ended. In the morning, Sanders was the first one at the oak tree. When I asked him if he was ok, he looked up at me sadly to show me the dark purple bruise around his brilliant blue eye. I hugged him tight like I was trying to hold all the pain in one place. 

“This isn’t the worst part,” Sanders whispered.

We walked over to the worst part, which was Sanders’ dad’s truck. Every window was completely shattered. Not a single shard of glass remained attached to the car. The glittering fragments spread out around the car like a perfect halo. 

“My dad called the police and said he saw Miss A break all his windows with a golf club,” Sanders told me. 

“What really happened?” I asked. 

Sanders sighed.

“Dad came home, drunk or something,” Sanders started. “He started yelling at me, pushing me around. I ran to the front room, trying to escape, and that’s when he socked me.”

I squeezed his hand. 

“But the strangest thing,” Sanders continued. “With my good eye, I was looking through the front window. Right as he punched me, every window in his car exploded.”

I shook my head. 

“She’s strong,” I said. 

That was when Annalise and Jason ran down the street yelling that a police car pulled up to Miss A’s house. 

Days later, our mom hung up the phone and cussed at the ceiling. Somehow Miss A disappeared from her cell without a trace. An officer came to my house and asked if we knew where she might have escaped to or who might have helped her. Clyde and I just smiled sweetly and shook our heads, like the good children we were.