Yankee Doodle Dixie by Lisa Patton Read Free Book Online Page A

bottom lip.
    “Honey, please don’t talk with food in your mouth,” I say, and pat her lips with my napkin.
    Kissie, who has enough food on her plate to feed all four of us says, “I like dogs. I just don’t have a place to put one. There ain’t a fence in my backyard.”
    “We could build you one,” Sarah says, innocently.
    Once Sarah’s comment sinks in, Kissie explodes in hysterics. Her hearty, infectious laughter bubbles up from the depths of her gut—a window to her inner joy. She lightly slaps the table. Already I’m grinning with her. “You gonna build Kissie a fence? That’s so sweet, baby.” I’m sure the image of Sarah and me operating a post-hole digger is better comedy than anything she sees on TV.
    “Then why don’t you get a hamster?” Issie says, with a squeal. “You could keep his cage in your bedroom.”
    Kissie nearly falls off her chair. That one little remark from Issie puts her over the edge and she holds her stomach, rocking back and forth in her spot at the table. I’m forever amazed at her ability to derive joy from the smallest of things. She calls it the “Fruit of the Spirit” and says that I can have it, too. All I need to do, she says, is dedicate my life to the Lord.
    Of course it’s impossible for me to watch the tears streaming down Kissie’s face and not double over myself. And hearing my daughters laugh along with us reminds me of how Kissie describes heaven. “There’s gonna be music with singin’ and dancin’, and lots and lots of laughin’,” she’s always telling me. “The Lawd gonna make sure of that. Heaven gonna be full a’ all the things that make us happy.”
    *   *   *
    Summer had barely started when a man dressed in a business suit rang our front doorbell. My parents, who weren’t home that day, had taught me never to answer the door by myself so I followed behind Kissie into the foyer. She peeked through the side window aligning the front door and instead of opening it she paused and looked at the floor, as if she was considering not answering at all. Several moments passed before she finally cracked the door, using her body as a shield between the outside and me.
    From the sound of Kissie’s voice I knew something was horribly wrong. “There’s a speed limit on this street,” she said, muttering “hm, hm, hm” over and over, as if she were disgusted with the person on the other side of the door.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am,” a male voice said. “She ran out in front of me.”
    Panic crept all over me, an emotion I had not yet felt as an eight-year-old. I clutched Kissie’s waist. “What’s wrong? Kissie, what’s wrong? Is it Daisy?” A ten-pound white fur ball with big black eyes, she was a birthday gift from Daddy—a Bijon from the litter of one of his clients.
    “Wait just a minute, baby,” she said, turning around. “I’m tryin’ to talk.”
    “Can I help you? I feel terrible about this,” the man said.
    “Just leave her right there on the step. No, second thought, wait here, please. I’ll be right back.”
    Kissie grabbed my hand and pulled me along with her.
    “What’s wrong with Daisy? What’s wrong with Daisy?” When Kissie didn’t answer, I started to wail. I tried collapsing on the floor but she wouldn’t let me. She held on to my hand and dragged me out to the garage, searching through a pile of rubbish. When she spotted a box, she held it with her left hand, all the while clutching my hand in her right so tightly; it would have been impossible for me to move, impossible for me to run away to the front porch. When we got back into the house, she instructed me to sit on the couch in the den and not move a muscle. The tone of her voice was stern. It confused me, but because of it I minded her. I could hear her in the entrance hall, whispering to the stranger. “If you put her in the box, that would help us quite a bit. I don’t want my little white girl to see her dog layin’ there dead. Hm, hm, hm.