Free In All Deep Places by Susan Meissner Page A

bent over on her driveway, pounding on the lower edge of her garage door with the flat of her hand—and cursing. He noticed for the first time the tattered remains of a net in a basketball hoop attached to the roof of her garage, a tiny reminder that the cantankerous Nell was someone’s mother.
    “Can I give you a hand?” my Dad had asked, walking toward her.
    She whipped around to look at him. Dad told me she had on a blue button-down shirt with her name embroidered on a patch. He figured she was on her way to the bowling alley. And was late.
    “What?” she yelled back.
    “I said, can I give you a hand with that?”
    “Stupid thing won’t open all the way!” she grumbled.
    Dad took that for a yes.
    He studied the door, checked the springs, and noticed a piece of rusted metal had wedged itself into the hinge on one side. He worked it loose and then raised the door the rest of the way.
    “There you go.” My dad grabbed his camera bag and waited for her to say thanks. When she did not, he added, “I’m Jack Fox bourne, by the way.”
    “Nell Janvik,” she said through her teeth, looking at her mischievous garage door.
    “Nice to meet you, Nell,” he said. She said nothing in return.
    Dad turned to walk back to our house and just as his back was fully to her, he heard Nell say, “Thanks.”
    He turned back around. “Anytime.”
    When he went into the kitchen, he put the camera bag down and walked over to Mom, who was tearing up lettuce for a salad. He put his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck.
    “I met Nell,” he whispered.
    She grinned. “I was right, wasn’t I? Tell me I was right.”
    “You were right. She does make the Wicked Witch of the West seem as harmless as Auntie Em.”
    My mother said she laughed and then shook her head. “Oh, I shouldn’t say such things. She did lose her son last year, Jack. Ella Liekfisch told me his body was brought back in pieces. She must be hurting so bad to be so rude. It’s probably her way of handling grief.”
    Dad tightened his embrace. “Maybe some day she’ll come around and the two of you can have coffee together!”
    “Well, I seriously doubt that, but perhaps she’ll get to the point where she doesn’t scowl when she seesme coming.”
    I would spend my early childhood years in healthy fear of Nell Janvik. My parents knew I feared her, and they thought it was best that I continue to because then I would stay out of her yard and out of her way. As I grew, though, my fear of Nell Janvik morphed into something more akin to disgust. And eventu ally, pity.

    One late summer day, when I was eight and Ethan was four, while the two of us were making chalk drawings on our driveway, a van with a holed-out muffler drove down our street and turned into Nell Janvik’s driveway. A man with stringy hair and a bandanna for a headband got out, followed by a woman with long, dark, curls. She was wearing very short cutoffs and a tank top that revealed too much. Even at eight, I knew enough to look away from her. The man opened the side door and a little girl with blonde braids jumped out. A baby was crying in the backseat.
    “What do you think he wants?” the man was saying to the woman, but he appeared to be looking at the baby.
    “He’s probably hungry again,” the lady said, opening a mac ramé purse and taking out a pack of cigarettes, “Here, I can take him.”
    I stole another look at the woman. She was wearing large hoop earrings and lots of makeup. Her nails were long and painted purple.
    “Nah, I got him, Bel,” the man said. “I want to show him to my mom.”
    “I have to go potty,” the little girl said.
    “Well, let’s go inside and see Grandma,” the man said, grabbing the crying infant out of the back of the van. “You can use her potty, Norah.”
    The man steadied the baby in one arm and slammed the van door shut. He walked to the front door, and the little girl trailed after him. The lady followed, stopping to cup her hand