Kepler’s Dream by Juliet Bell Read Free Book Online Page A

toilet, a bad habit of his; and found a spider that looked like a tarantula, caught it under a cup, and left it near the outside door, which I tried but couldn’t open. (No escape there.) I spent a while looking at my face in the blurry bathroom mirror: blue eyes, straight nose and my “cropped” brown hair—my grandmother’s word made me feel like a dog sent to a crummy groomer. I tried to figure out if I really did resemble this lady who was (reluctantly) letting me stay in her house. I could only sort of see it.
    Finally I took a shower. Standing in the brown-stained tub, I tried to tell myself things could be worse.
    It took me a minute to figure out how, though.
    Then I came up with it: I could be stranded a million miles away from my mom who had cancer, staying with an old dragon of a grandmother who didn’t have any Internet connection or TV—AND there could be no running water.
    That would have been worse.
    On the dot of five o’clock I set out on my return journey to the main entranceway. I wondered whether I should write my will before setting off in case I never made it.
(To Abbie, my autographed Giants baseball; to Auntie Irene, my authentic Bionic Woman Barbie; to Lou, my secret stash of beef jerky
…) The Haitian Room was a little scary, because the place was dark as a grave,but I asked the penciled face of my dad to help us through, even if I couldn’t see him, and I guess that worked. When we got out to the stone polar bears on the table again, I almost waved at them in relief.
    My grandmother emerged from another door, now dressed in ruby red. She came out in such a way that I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of her bedroom back there. This made me wonder if that was where the buried treasure was—or dead bodies, possibly.
    â€œAh! You’ve changed,” she said approvingly. I was wearing a cotton flowered shirt and a long skirt that made me feel girly, which I usually don’t, much. It was the closest thing I had to a gown. She said hello to Lou politely, and then helped me take him out into the courtyard where he could “relieve himself.” Tucked over by that screen door I saw a few other low bookshelves that I hadn’t noticed before. It was like the house was breaking out in a rash of books all over.
    â€œNow,” Grandmother asked, once Lou was out there meeting and greeting a few of the peacocks, “do you take iced tea?”
    â€œUm …” I stood stupidly, trying to figure out whether she meant had I stolen any, or did I want to take some back to my room, or what. “I, um-”
    â€œI’ve always wondered,” she interrupted, in the tone of someone who has just found gum on their shoe, “why people say
um
rather than simply not speaking. It’s such an ugly syllable.” She crossed to yet another door, disappeared for a moment, then returned holding two tall, filled glasses. “I took your
um
as a yes.” She handed me one.
    â€œThank you.” It was around now that I started to think of my grandmother as a general major—the GM. I half wanted to salute her.
    We sat on the wicker chairs, sipping our iced teas. There was an uncomfortable silence. I am often pretty chatty, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
    â€œYour father tells me,” the GM said eventually, “that you like to play soccer.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œDo you mean yes?”
    â€œY-
yes
.” I cleared my throat. “I’m on a team called the Hawks.”
    â€œHawks?” She raised an eyebrow. “We used to have a pair of hawks that nested in the cottonwood trees. Then one morning, completely unprovoked, one swooped down and attacked a sweet little dove I kept as a pet. The hawk tore it to pieces, right in front of its mate, which died of shock a few days later.”
    â€œOh. I—”
    â€œSo I’ve never been terribly fond of hawks since then.” The GM