Grandma whispered his name.
The steam remembered his smile.
“Not his photograph smile,” Grandma said. “His other one.”
Nell looked up at her. “He had two?”
“At least.”
They stood on the customer side of Mr. Reed’s counter. The two kettles had only just begun to warm, and Grandma was describing someone they had never met.
A Different Request
Nell had told her about the kitten three times: once at the button table, once after supper, and once through the bathroom door while Grandma brushed her teeth.
This morning, Grandma had put on her peach dress and cream cardigan. She had checked the clasp of her bag twice before taking Nell’s hand.
Now the charcoal glowed inside the little clay stoves. Tea leaves smelled dry and sweet in the open tin. Mr. Reed had placed two cups beside the folded cloth.
“Nell says they listened to her,” Grandma said.
“She asked. Two cats appeared.”
“But you don’t know how?”
“No.”
Grandma nodded. Her thumb moved across the ridge of Nell’s knuckles.
“Then I shall ask.”
She faced the two spouts.
“Arthur,” she whispered. “May I see Arthur?”
Before the Smile
The first stream rose in a loose spiral. The second followed more slowly, its edges bright in the morning light.
Nell watched for ears. Grandma watched the space between the kettles.
A breeze stirred the leaves above the wall. Mr. Reed checked that the gate hook was fastened, then returned to his side of the counter.
The two streams leaned together. A broad forehead gathered where they met. Pale hair lifted above it; one cheek formed, blurred, and returned.
Grandma’s fingers tightened around Nell’s hand.
A moustache appeared.
“Grandpa,” Nell said softly.
Grandma did not answer yet. The face was looking slightly past them, its mouth still settling into shape. She watched the lines beside its eyes.
Then one corner of the mouth lifted before the other.
Grandma let out a small breath.
“There you are.”
The Other One
The face turned toward her. Fine curls moved through the white hair, but the smile held.
Grandma lifted her free hand to her chest. Beneath her cardigan, the fabric of her dress shifted with a breath that almost became a laugh.
“That’s the smile he used when he said he’d fixed the garden gate.”
“Had he?” Nell asked.
“It opened beautifully.”
“Then why did you mind?”
“It opened into my flower bed.”
Nell laughed. Grandma’s eyes stayed on the face above the kettles.
“You were very pleased with that gate,” she told it.
Mr. Reed moved his hand away from the cups. He took the tea tin off the counter and closed it without its usual little clatter.
The steam held Arthur’s smile a little longer.
Grandma did not ask it to speak. She did not try to straighten the hair or make the two sides of his smile match. Nell edged closer until her shoulder rested against the soft cardigan.
They stood there together.
When the Water Was Ready
One kettle began to whistle. The other answered a moment later.
Mr. Reed glanced toward Grandma and waited.
She watched a loose curl separate from the edge of Arthur’s cheek. The smile was still visible, though the morning light had begun to shine through it.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mr. Reed lifted the first kettle. As he poured, the forehead opened into mist. The second stream kept the curve of the mouth for a breath, then loosened when he lifted that kettle too.
Nell followed the last pale thread until it disappeared beneath the leaves.
Grandma drew out a handkerchief. She dabbed beneath one eye, folded it, and put it away.
“Would you like to sit?” Mr. Reed asked.
“Yes,” she said. “We would.”
He brought two chairs beside the counter. Nell stayed close as Grandma settled into hers, then pulled her own chair alongside.
“Will you tell me about the flowers?”
Grandma warmed her hands around the cup Mr. Reed gave her.
“The gate first,” she said. “He had a very good explanation.”
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