24.

It’s the same old tragic story: Footless baby spends each day with a depressed mother who is warm to the skin but cold to the soul—a distant, distracted, touched-in-the-head mother. Footless baby’s father is either at the factory or in the basement with his hissing, clanging toys.

Then again, maybe it’s not all sad: Footless baby reveals to her big sister an appetite for paper, wax, cardboard, soil, and other nonfood items. McKenna, captivated by this footless girl—our dear Audrey—becomes her nervous “supplier,” going to great lengths to hide her habit from the family. Afraid of being caught, ashamed of what she feels are abnormally intimate feelings toward footless sister, McKenna maintains a distance, avoids footless sister around the house.

(There are, however, stolen moments: feeding Audrey; telling Audrey the story of “The Three Little Pigs”; brushing Audrey’s golden hair; bathing Audrey; watching Audrey sleep.)

Overall, McKenna acts like a gutless dweeb. She follows Toby’s every lead even while her gut tells her that the only hope for a real connection in this family is with the footless girl playing alone in the corner.

One afternoon, Grandmother catches an eighteen-month-old Audrey eating dirt in the backyard. Doctor Burger assures them nothing is wrong. A few months later, Grandmother finds Audrey eating a crayon. “Don’t have a hairy,” Murray tells Grandma. “Do you know more than the doctor?”

When the shoddy “feet” Murray labored over for a year with such devotion are removed under threat of legal action, Grandmother becomes Audrey’s primary caregiver. Murray never quite recovers from his profound disappointment. Ignoring his bright-eyed footless toddler becomes one of his favorite weapons.

Grandmother continues to discover evidence of sinister gob-blings. She catches Audrey chewing the cover of her father’s notebook, half of it already in her stomach. “She’s lucky it wasn’t any of the pages,” Murray growls. He begins storing his notebooks in a fireproof lockbox. Grandmother catches four-year-old Audrey with a ball of Misty’s lipstick in her mouth. “Aww,” says Misty. “She wants to look like Momma.” Grandmother pries open Audrey’s lips to find a family photograph, half-masticated.

Grandmother says enough is enough.

“I will not pay for this girl to go to St. Monica’s,” she announces at Sunday dinner.

Murray is way into his spaghetti. Sunday dinner is the one meal that he always eats with the family. On other days, he takes a Hungry Man into the basement or grabs a bowl of Fritos from an end table. His face is submerged in the noodle pile when he says, “So what’s your point?”

Before Grandma can answer, Misty says, under her breath, “The kids really should go to the same school.” Her words are a wet paper towel.

There’s no sound. No chewing or clanking. Even the children aren’t speaking.

“Exactly,” Murray says at last.

Grandma Pencil—why has she waited until this moment to make the announcement?—speaks as if Audrey isn’t sitting across the table: “The girl doesn’t deserve to be schooled in the ways of Jesus Christ. I won’t have it.” She taps the edge of her plate with her knife—ting!—for emphasis.

Murray looks at Misty, who wears an amused, abstracted smile. She is watching the fork gripped in her own hand as it stirs, needlessly, her potatoes.

(Spaghetti and mashed potatoes? I told you she was touched in the head.)

Murray clears his throat, fist over mouth. “I don’t know if anyone deserves that kind of schooling.” He waits, looking around the table for a supportive laugh. Getting none, he adds his own chuckle. “I’m glad you’re coming around, Annabelle. The twins can go to North Park. Starting next year.”

“Yes!” says McKenna, pumping her fist.

“No way!” says Toby. “That’s not fair! Just because Kenny doesn’t have any friends. That’s bullshit.”

“Your mouth,” says Misty, still monitoring her fork, the tines throttled by noodles.

Toby’s curse word lights up Murray as if someone’s tickling his toes. “Lot of good that moral education’s doing, huh, Annabelle?”

“Enough!” Grandma Pencil shouts. Her face has gone the color of Japan’s rising sun. She scoots from the table, tosses her napkin onto the plate like a gauntlet. Her lips are quivering.

Nobody but McKenna sees Audrey reach across to grab the cloth napkin. She stuffs it into her mouth.

Audrey gives McKenna a wink. McKenna returns it.