By Mark Taylor and Jim Roberts
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I had to get ahold of her—to make sure she got out of the street. What happened next was a blur. I still can’t be sure what I saw first: the black car turning onto Ocean Avenue from a side street, or my grandma, gaining speed, on the opposite side of the street. Bizzy was straddling the bottom rails of Dixie, riding her souped-up walker like a skateboard, holding on for dear life. She was wearing a red helmet and her face had a fierceness to it—like her jaw was reinforced with iron. I spun back around.
Bizzy’s eyes were clear. “In the paper. ” I began to push back against the couch, away from Bizzy, scared. “Now ain’t the time for questions,” Bizzy said urgently. I was confused. If there was any time for questions, I was sure this was it. Though my trust in her was shaken, I wanted an explanation and she seemed to have one. So I told Bizzy about the spooky picture of Jodi, the headline to match, and what the paper said about her dying in a car accident on the corner of Dolores Avenue and Ocean Avenue.
It’s supposed to be quaint, but I find it confusing more than anything else (as does the postman, Mr. Westerberg, I’m sure). Our house is named Beside the Point because it’s on a cliff right next to a lookout over the whole Pacific. On the south side of us is The House of Six Gables (the Dandos planned on the traditional seven gables but ran out of money) and to the north, Periwinkle (repainted an eye-popping blue violet color every summer by the McGraw brothers). At a Round Table town meeting a few years ago, Bizzy almost got into a shoving match with the head of the Crabapple Historical Preservation Society, Mr.