Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Page B

the women they love.” I can’t help noticing Grumps crank his head out the window to keep the strawberries in his rearview mirror as we pass. I find myself daydreaming about Del giving me those strawberries and swerve to avoid a ginger cottontail hopping in front of the truck. Now I’m down to ten miles per hour. We might as well be walking home.
    I turn onto the still-mucky path to our cabin and stop for a moment to avoid a slinking tabby cat holding a squirming flaxen mouse between its teeth. I eye Grumps’ pockets, looking for the bulging rocks he usually keeps to ward off cats. I fully expect him to toss one at the animal. But he doesn’t budge. His face remains relaxed, almost devoid of wrinkles. I feel a warm rush as I realize he is content, and I have a band date for Saturday. Not to mention I just learned how to drive.
    We unload our groceries, and I get busy boiling beans. They bake in the woodstove all afternoon and I’m grateful it’s cool for a summer day. The beans come out of the oven candy-crunchy in their maple glaze. Grumps fries the fish outside over a fire in a cast-iron pan. It turns out crisp and delicious. This meal is a miracle, as I’m no cook. Sandwiches are usually all I make. I can’t help wondering if my inveigling dead grandmother had a hand in all this.
    Grumps thanks me, pats his impressive stomach, and settles into his rocking chair to read Yankee magazine. I bring Rosalita into my bedroom and happily bang away at James Taylor’s Steamroller Blues . It’s the most upbeat blues song I know. My world brightens with each verse. Yes, I’m a steamroller now, baby, I’m bound to roll all over you. I think of Del’s teepee eyebrows, his lichen-green eyes, his spiked dark hair.I’m surrounded by beauty in this room. The woodland wall mural, floor leaves, cornflower dresser, ivy covered bedposts, and ceiling dappled with constellations. This bedroom is gorgeous. Hell, my world is gorgeous. I sing my song louder. Yes, I’m a cement mixer for you, baby, a churning urn of burning funk . I try to simmer down, telling myself not to fall in love with a guy I’ve just met. But James Taylor’s lyrics speak for me. And if I can’t have your love for my own, sweet child, won’t be nothing left behind.
    Perhaps I’ve fallen into one of Bilki’s vortexes. Don’t get me wrong; I miss Shandkaddy and the bluesy end of Hartford. But here in Indian Stream, I’ve found a musical guy who’s perfect for me, and woods that make me feel like I’m part of them surround me. I feel closer to Bilki. The fact that one of us is living and the other dead doesn’t matter.

Four
    Blond Bear
    I’m sporting the neon yellow George Harrison “Here Comes the Sun” tee shirt that Lizzy gave me. This shirt always seemed too loud and hopeful, until today, when it’s sunny outside, eighty degrees, and I have a band date. Del steps out of a Saab as old as he is in his kick-ass black boots, wearing a tee shirt with an emerald-eyed leprechaun peering through a shower of glittering gold coins. It’s a tour shirt for the band Leprechaun Gold. Seeing Del in that tee shirt is like seeing Grumps sporting a Bad Santa shirt or Mom with an Indian butter girl on her chest—redundant.
    I glance back at Grumps’ cabin door, painted with colorful fall leaves. I’m expecting him to burst through it, any second, to greet his favorite grandson, but the door remains shut. It’s the middle of the day yet he’s nowhere in sight. I wonder if he’s visiting his bears.
    Del lays Rosalita in the backseat atop a messy pile of papers beside an expensive-looking electric guitar with ghostly gray wings.
    I step inside the vehicle and pat the dashboard. “Nice car. They don’t make these anymore. Do they?”
    â€œWhat you mean is that this is an outdated car.”
    I want to tell him it’s a nice car,