The Orange Houses by Paul Griffin Read Free Book Online

fret board. “You gonna get the operation?”
    Mik looked down into the courtyard. Drunk dudes swore at each other to wake the world. She wanted to click off her aids but didn’t dare while Mom was in this state, ready to cry or scream or both. “Ma, if you never gonna play that guitar again, why you restringing it?”
    Drine Sykes shoved the guitar into her closet and grabbed a fresh shirt. “I gotta get back to work.”

chapter 13
    FATIMA
    The Veterans Administration hospital, Friday, nineteen days before the hanging, 3:00 p.m. . . .
    Word was getting out about Fatima’s teaching. Yesterday she had two students. Today the ten chairs around the rec room table were full. Most of the students were young children taking time off from visiting their parents upstairs. One of the latecomers was a burn patient covered in bandages. A girl gasped when the man came to the table in his motorized wheelchair.
    â€œSorry,” the man said. He turned for the door.
    Fatima brought him back to the table and sat him next to the shocked girl. Seeing Fatima at ease with the man calmed the girl. “Now,” Fatima said, “today we are going to make a school of newsprint dolphins.”

    Â 
    She rushed from the hospital to pick up Mik from school. Mik was out front, her eyes darting about the street for the bully girl.
    â€œI thought she has been suspended,” Fatima said.
    â€œDoesn’t mean she isn’t waiting for us,” Mik said. “You’re lucky you don’t have to go to school.”
    â€œI am finding many wonderful books in the garbage on the other side of the reservoir, outside the college.”
    Â 
    At the supermarket Fatima said, “This is ridiculous, all of the things we can buy here.”
    â€œThis store is booty. You should see the rich folks’ markets downtown.”
    â€œFive kinds of apples?”
    â€œApples are lame.”
    â€œWe can only dream of apples where I come from. What is this, this star fruit? This is food to make our imaginations strong.” Fatima gathered up an armload.
    Â 
    They sat on milk crates in Fatima’s yard, eating what they cooked on a grill they found on the street. The arthritic cat crawled out from the woods into Fatima’s lap. She fed him bits of fish. “I call him Every Third because he comes only every third day. He is a stray, but he lingers longer with each visit. With winter near he is realizing he needs a friend.” She said to the cat, “Do not fear, little one. My door is always open to you. How would I say this in sign?”
    â€œWhy you want to know?”
    â€œFor when I return to my country. To teach the children. Show me.”
    Mik showed her. Fatima was a quick study.
    Mik indicated the cinderblock fence. “Weren’t these walls pink?” She signed as she spoke.
    â€œI changed the color yesterday to amuse myself. Next week they will be turquoise.” The twilight sun on the freshly painted orange walls warmed Fatima. She took in the backyard: swept clean cement, plastic vines hanging from a sawed-down willow trunk, a bowl chopped into the top for a birdbath. “By springtime we will have an oasis back here for my sister’s arrival.” She hoped Mik would not ask if any word had arrived from the camps.
    She didn’t. She said, “We should paint the walls a rainbow.”
    â€œI know where we can get the paint. Come. In that lot back there, through all that creeping thorn, is a treasure palace.”
    Â 
    Dead vines covered the house. Its windows had been smashed long ago. Gauzy bits of curtain twisted in the breeze. In the shed were enough paint buckets to cover the house. “Lots of light green here,” Mik said. “Cool color.”
    â€œThis is the Statue of Liberty’s color, no?”
    â€œNever been. Hey, the dolls, why not pipe cleaners or wood or clay? Why always newspaper?”
    â€œIt was all we had.”