Vera learned the boy’s teacher’s name and used it. Using names correctly was a private joke she did not tell. He had said her name every time he left. The saying had not been loyalty. It had been a bell. She used names to mean who was in the room. The teacher was in the room on grandparents day. Nadine was not. The difference was the lesson. She did not put the lesson on a pillow. She put it in how she introduced herself. I am his grandmother. Clear. No second row. Clear was a courtesy to children. She could do courtesy. She had done fury. Fury had been the right tool once. Courtesy was the tool now. Both fit in the same woman. Keisha saw both and did not ask her to pick. Picking was how people lied. They were done with that lie.
The insurance plant on the step outgrew the pot. Vera split it. One half stayed. One half went to Keisha’s. Splitting was not a metaphor she announced. It was gardening. Gardening was allowed to be only gardening. The half at Keisha’s lived. The boy overwatered it. Marcus corrected the water. Correction of water was safe. Correction of a father was already done. They did not mix the lessons. Mixing was how Labor Day got into a parlor. They kept days in their days. Vera, told the plant lived, said good. Good was old. It still worked.
Nadine gave the chain, not the photo, to a drive Loretta mentioned. The photo she kept in the box. Half a obedience, half a keeping. She could live with half. Half was more honest than a speech. The drive did not know the chain’s aisle. The aisle was not the chain’s fault. She let it go. The box was lighter. Lighter was strange, as the shirt bag had been strange for Vera. They would never compare the strange. Comparison was a meeting. They did not meet. The grocery aisle remained a turn. The turn was the relation. It was enough relation. Nadine slept. The name did not ring. A season, then another. She marked nothing. She went to work. The lot was grim and quiet. She ate an apple. The apple was a ordinary. She was allowed.