skeleton story time.

I was so excited for my first day of volunteer work. This lady hired me… do you hire people for volunteer work? Well, anyway, she kinda-hired me to read for an hour every day to her elderly mother. I called her for directions; it was an easy walk from my house.

The crickets were chirping and the roses smelled lovely as always. I whistled through my smile, marveling occasionally at the way I could create a rhythm between the air expelled from my lips and the scuff-scuff of my sneakers on the sidewalk.

As I approached Mrs. Palmer’s house, I saw that she was eagerly waiting for me. She’d strung herself up all nicely like a present; she was so excited to see me! Dangling from the porch like a wind chime, her neck was cocked at a severe angle, lips drooping as she snoozed, interrupted occasionally by little snores, I supposed. I leaned gingerly against one of the porch’s support beams and slid down, first making sure there were no splinters aimed at my back.

I cleared my throat and began to read from the day’s New York Times, “Three Washington Mutual executives were shot and killed yesterday while leaving a coffee shop on…” I paused and looked up at her.

Her facial expression told me this story was just a bit too grim. I flipped over to the Arts section and began reading her a lovely feature about a beautiful actress, now a Broadway star, who had come to terms with an abysmal home life and childhood.

“See, Mrs. Palmer, see how pretty she is? She how happily she’s smiling? Isn’t that wonderful?” Mrs. Palmer’s head bobbed peacefully, as if with the stout summer wind. I smiled and began reading the crossword puzzle clues aloud, “Another name for a moose, 6 letters.”

I glanced at Mrs. Palmer, but she didn’t seem to know the answer. “Well, I’m sure you know what it is, Mrs. Palmer! Don’t be shy!”

Her dress fluttered in the wind just as her eyelashes had minutes before, revealing gray legs and feet, dirty toenails and those peculiar prominent veins that old ladies tend to have. Trying not to stare, I bit my lip in concentration and went back to the crossword, “Well, that one – 6 letters, another name for moose – that one’s ‘wapiti.’ I’m sure you knew it!”

“WHAT THE HELL!?” I jumped to my feet as a woman who appeared too proper for such language ran up the front walk.

“Ma’am, you’ve left your car running and the door open… what is the problem?”

She ignored me as she tottered up the steps in business-like heels and a pinstriped pencil skirt, strands of hair pushed impatiently behind delicate ears. I cleared my throat and extended my hand to the lady.

“Hello, my name is…”

“I don’t care what your name is!”

She pulled her cell phone from her expensive-looking leather bag and punched in 3 numbers, “Yes, my neighbor is dead… No, it looks like a suicide… 8473 Leonard Drive. Thank you!”

Hanging up the phone, she melted to the ground and her body began seizing up with convulsions. I cautiously slid down the support beam again. This time, instead of the New York Times, I opened up Soap Opera Weekly. Mrs. Palmer’s mother had told me how much she enjoyed General Hospital and All My Children, so I found the teasers for the next week and began reading them to her.

“Erika Kane is at it again this week on All My Children! This society lady is involved in yet another scandal with…”

“What is wrong with you!?” she whispered in this kind of funny, shrill way.

I smiled at her, then looked at Mrs. Palmer, who still had that mysterious half-grin on her face. “I guess I don’t understand your question, ma’am. I’m just here to help out. I volunteer here every week – well, technically this is my first time – anyway, I read to Mrs. Palmer. She likes to be read the New York Times and the soap magazines.”

A wailing siren pierced the air, lilting harshly over the breeze. I continued talking, explaining that though my volunteer work was a school project, I also simply enjoyed helping out, but my words were muted by the screams of city life and the stomping feet of men and women in doctor-type costumes.

“Wow, Mrs. Palmer likes to play some fun games with some very interesting people, now doesn’t she?” A crowd had very suddenly inundated the porch and, though I was a bit nervous, I was mostly excited for this swell in activity.

“Who’s that girl?”

“Has she been here the whole time?”

“When did you get here?”

“You called right when you got here?”

“You might want to turn off your car and move it out of the way, ma’am.”

Oh! And here, now, was a face I finally recognized. It was Mrs. Palmer’s daughter – oh, now what was her first name? Amy, maybe. Anyway, she didn’t look nearly as happy to see me as I might have anticipated. In fact, she seemed to be crying, though I can never be sure. Adults are always telling me they’re not crying when it looks like they are – “No sweetie, I just have allergies,” or, “Oh, no, pet, I’ve simply got something in my eye.”

Tears are quite deceptive when you get right down to it.

The flurry of activity settled as a man with the kind of mustache that traps cookie crumbs quite well turned to Ms. Palmer.

“Amy, I’m afraid we’re far too late. It appears that she’s been dead for at least an hour now. Young lady,” he turned to address me and I could just barely stop myself from giggling, I kept picturing those cookie crumbs in his mustache. He cleared his throat and looked as if he were thinking very deeply.

“Young lady, can you tell me exactly how Mrs. Palmer was when you arrived? Was she just like this? Did she move at all?”

I furrowed my brows; I could tell he wanted me to think hard about this. I remembered the wind gently rustling her skirt and causing her head to nod. I remembered some slight grunts and sputters, flutters of eyelashes and her crooked neck angling itself more and more severely toward me, listening to my sweet, sweet voice telling her stories of hate crimes and soap opera scandals.

“Well…” I began, timid but determined, “It’s been quite windy. Her skirt was moving some, but I think that was just the wind.”

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Palmer’s daughter spat out in frustration. The mustache man put a comforting hand on her back, “Why don’t you go in the house and have a seat? You shouldn’t be here anymore, but we must wait until the police arrive. They should be here any minute.” As if to punctuate his sentence, another wail, this time fluctuating with more urgency, met my ears.

“Now, honey,” Oh, no, he was looking at me again, “Honey, did her eyes or mouth move? Did she move her fingers or toes?”

I squinched my eyes at him in the most adult way I could fathom, “Her eyes fluttered and she snored a bit. I suppose my nice voice put her to sleep. She seemed like she needed a nap.”

I didn’t understand the big words that all of these adults were spluttering out impatiently – “autopsy” and “suicide” – they didn’t mean anything to me, but they all sounded scary, especially when they started glancing sideways at me and muttering things about, “the little girl.”

They gently untied her ribbon (I didn’t understand why, wasn’t that for me?) and put her in the big ambulance, covering her with a white sheet.

“Is that all?”

A lady in scrub pants and a top with a Daffy Duck print turned and knelt before me, “Sweetie, what do you mean, is that all?”

“Well, am I done reading to her for today?”

“Reading to Mrs. Palmer? Is that what you mean?”

I nodded, “Yes, I volunteer every week to read to her. Well, this is the first time. But I’m looking forward to next week! She seemed so content to listen to me.”

More of those bewildering tears spiked the corners of the lady’s eyes, “Darling, that is all, and I don’t think you should come back. Mrs. Palmer won’t be here next week.”

“Oh, is she moving? If I could get her new address, even if it’s too far to walk, maybe my mom will take me.”

“She’s moving, but it’s too far to drive.” Amy had cut in to the conversation. Adults are so rude! “And we won’t need you anymore, you sick little girl.”

I put my hand to my forehead, “I don’t think I’m sick. I haven’t got a temperature.” The neighbor lady with the business-y heels put her hand on Amy’s shoulder as she began to do that weird seizure-y thing and maybe crying but maybe not.

“Please go home,” said Amy.

I shrugged my shoulders and jumped off the porch, forgoing stairs completely. It was a cool trick my older cousin had taught me. Jumping is fun.

“Bye! Tell Mrs. Palmer I hope she has a nice trip to wherever she’s moving!” I waved and began my shoe scuffing, whistling rhythm once again.

Grown ups are weird.