QUINTON
“Eat your greens or no ice cream, little lady.”
My daughter, love of my damn life and spitting image of the woman who couldn’t be bothered to stick around for her, pouts. Her dark chestnut curls bounce as she shakes her head, dark eyes narrowing over her pretty nose and tilted-up chin.
“Yucky.”
Her five-year-old face bunches with disgust.
I fold my arms over my chest, leaning back on the ancient dining chair. It creaks with my weight. Maisey’s eyes widen at the noise. The sooner I get rid of all this decrepit old junk, the better.
Every damn piece of furniture in this house is an accident waiting to happen. And since nobody on either of the town’s buy-sell-trade sites wanted the junk, I’m stuck with it. Until I can burn it all, bit by bit. The town dump wouldn’t take it on principal, something along the lines of the fact that it would be like trashing the great Agnes Elizabeth MacKelvie.
Small towns . . . Good Lord.
Besides, I didn’t know her, really. My mother left our father when we were young, only going back here once a year for anannual visit. Never long enough to be meaningful. Just long enough to check it off the ‘not-a-bad-ex-daughter-in-law’ list.
But the chance to raise my little girl in a place like this, where she can be safe and happy, trumps every feeling I have about map-dot towns. This one included, with its family history and apparently massive shoes to fill, thanks to Agnes.
So, we’re burning it all. And as soon as I have it cleared out, new furniture should just about be here, if the estimate from the local furniture store is accurate. Besides, the ash will be good for the gardens I plan on installing when the warmer weather comes in spring.
“No ice cream, remember,” I warn, and she harrumphs but plucks the floppy green vegetable between two tiny fingers and holds it up for inspection.
She winces as she brings it closer to her mouth. Taking a small bite, she pretends to gag.
I know it’s pretend because she used that same tactic last week with the lettuce on her burger when we made homemade chicken burgers, as per her request. Guess she wasn’t anticipating the crunchy layer of watery goodness.
“Hmmm. Dis so gross, Dada.” Her mouth is full of mushy greens.
I shake my head. “Not with your mouth full, Maise.”
She swallows, wincing again dramatically. “There, done.”
Her eyes sparkle as she places her cutlery in the center of her plate, like the little lady I’m trying to raise her as.
“Good job, kiddo. Just let me finish up.”
“I can get yours, too, Dada.”
She slips off the old chair and runs for the kitchen before I can object.
I finish up my meal and take our plates to the sink. Scraping them off, I glance up.
A light on next door catches me by surprise. Hank’s room is on the other side of the house... As is Marie’s.
Nice old guy. Shame about his condition.
I dunk the plates into the soapy water, washing them down as Maisey plonks the ice cream tub on the counter, climbing onto one of the stools. She pulls out the drawer, finding a scoop before her little tongue pokes out in concentration as she sends it through the middle of the ice cream. Her curls hang around her shoulders as she leans in further, so determined.
The ice cream is hard, and the scoop flings out of her grip, hitting the floor.
“Oh shit,” she hisses.
“Maisey Emmaline MacKelvie. Manners.”
She snickers softly, climbing off the stool to pick up the scoop before handing it to me to wash off under the tap.
I hand it back to her, and she mounts the stool with determination anew.
