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there, isn't it?"
"Yes," Aunt Zipporah said, laughing. "It's
Tyler's meat loaf, Dad."
"Right. Well?"
My grandmother shook her head and looked at
me. I could see that she was half hoping I had
changed my mind about everything, but the
improvements in my bedroom and now my art
supplies installed in what would be my studio drove
home my determination.
"I'll be fine here, Grandma," I told her. "Next
year I would be going off to college anyway," I said. "Some birds throw their babies out of the nest,"
my grandfather said, smiling.
I quickly looked at Aunt Zipporah. She and I
shared a secret. I knew that she and my mother had
baptized the attic as Nest of Orphans, and ever since I
learned that, I could never hear the word nest without
thinking about it, thinking about the two of them
treasuring their privacy, their imaginative world, their
precious. secrets.
"If you want to base your behavior on other animals and insects, Michael, female black widows kill
their male mates, too," my grandmother threw back at
him, and he roared with laughter.
We went to the cafe in two cars because my
grandparents were going to leave right after lunch.
Aunt Zipporah thought I should ride with them to
spend as much time with them as possible. It also
gave my grandmother one more chance to ask me
questions that might annoy or embarrass Aunt
Zipporah if she heard them.
