[First draft!]
The next morning after breakfast, Grace took Ida and Gretchen upstairs. After making sure their faces and hands were washed, she told them to put on their church dresses and come out into the hall.
“Girls, Weeda wants to see you.”
Ida followed Gretchen in, eyes down, not knowing where to stand. Across the bed from her, Dr. Krumholz stood folding his stethoscope into the side pocket of his suit coat. His own medical bag lay open on the bedside table. Seeing the girls, he beckoned them forward. Mama had told her he was the first man who’d ever seen her, had even spanked her just after she came out. Then visits to his parlor office, always chuckling, he’d earned her trust with the lollipops she got after he’d stuck that stick on her tongue, looking down her throat.
“Your Grandpa says he’s fine. He is a tough old coot, but I want him to rest some more. You two just stay here a minute with him while I go out and talk to your mama and SB.”
Looking back at Weeda, Ida saw his eyes flutter, then his hand raise up towards her, index finger beckoning them over. Gretchen reached over and took his hand in hers.
“Ah, my good little girl. You’re always the quiet one, aren’t you? Take care of your mother for me. She’s needing you.” He pulled his hand out, patted hers twice, then crooked his fingers at her sister.
A new feeling rose up in Ida. She’d always felt safe with her Grandpa Weeda. He was the one who told her family stories, the one whose word was final. He knew everything, knew everybody, Ida thought. But his power had fallen away, overnight it seemed. He struggled to bring his eyes up to hers, the lids tiring with effort. Even the wild eyebrows sagged, grey hairs drooping toward the lashes.
“Ida…” He wheezed, weakly coughed, then went on. “Your mother. Follow her. She’s smart, that one, she knows what you need.” He closed his eyes, reaching feebly to pat her head. “Your father…That man, he doesn’t know what you’ve got inside. Listen to your mother…”
The next day, the quiet parlor was filled with more people than Ida had ever seen in the house before. Grace dressed Ida in in a special dark dress a neighbor loaned, one with black lace around the neck. She drew Ida’s thick black hair up into a top knot, kept in place by a black velvet ribbon. No one noticed her as she scampered among the adults filling the room, their legs surrounding her like a sycamore forest.
She weaved her way up to where they said Weeda was resting. She felt the long, strong hands of her father, lifting her up above a varnished walnut box. Inside lay Weeda, his beard neatly groomed, his eyes closed, his hands clutching a single rose.
“Papa, why’s he sleeping in the parlor? Is he OK?”
“Child, he’s died. You know what that means, to die, don’t you?”
“Die?” Ida repeated.
“Yes, it’s forever. His soul has gone to heaven, to be with Grandma. He still loves you, but he won’t be here anymore.”
“Won’t be here? Be where?” she asked.
SB abruptly put her back down. Ida wished that he would cuddle her like Weeda did, Sometimes, he would swoop her up in his arms, put her on his shoulders, and leap up the stairs two at a time. That was fun, but never lasted long. He always had some task that seemed more important than her. He would be off reading, how to cultivate dry land for grapes, or how taxes would ruin the country. Things she never understood when she asked about the books laying all over his desk.Each time the door bell rang, Grace took Gretchen and Ida by the hand, while she led them to the door, admitting yet another group of strangers. Guests would talk to Gretchen, so Ida tried to figure out what was going on by listening, too confused to ask anyone herself. Everything sounded like the fairytales or the bible verses Grace would read whenever Gretchen asked for a story ay night. Ida found them silly, not real. She was puzzled by things like prayer or death. Her father had cautioned her such stories were not real, couldn’t teach us how to live. What had Weeda meant about her father and her mother? Who was right?