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The Blue Paint

The Blue Paint I want to tell you about the night I stood in a crowded gallery on West 27th Street and let a thirty-one-year-old woman take me apart in…

I found my foster grandson trapped inside a jar of pickled chilies, his tiny skin bright red, while his stepfather dragged the baby’s mother through the house by her hair—but when the diaper bag buzzed with a message asking, “Did the lesson work?” I realized this horror might have been planned by more than one person.

The air in the kitchen always carried a lingering trace of whatever preserved thing Clara had put up that week—pickled beans, fermented cabbage, or, in this case, the sharp, throat-closing…