Seven Stories Up (12 page)

Molly, in a mixture of startled confusion and childish delight, burst out, “Papa!” just as the kitten scratched me good on the neck. My eyes watered as I grabbed his face to keep him still. I had to bite my lip to keep from yelping, but even so, a breath escaped too loudly.

There was silence above me.

I froze, still holding the kitten’s jaws. His tail twitched. His claws dug into my hand.

Molly spoke again, her tone eager. “Papa? I’m glad to see you. It’s been so long since—”

A stern voice interrupted her. “Yes. Hello there, Mary. Things are busy downstairs. How are you today?”

“I’m better, Papa!” Molly’s voice was painfully cheery.

“I’m pleased to hear that,” said her father. “I’ll be sure to tell your mother when I speak to her.” The shiny black shoes stayed at the door. Then, after a beat of silence, they turned and walked away. The stern voice called out, “I must get back to work now. Be well, Mary.”

The delight was gone when Molly said, “Oh! All right, Papa. See you soon.…”

“Now you get better right away, you hear me?” said the doctor, snapping something shut—a bag, I supposed—with a final click. “That’s an order. Har har. And don’t eat too much pudding. I know how you children are, with your pudding.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

I heard the man groan once more as he stood, and the mattress gave a sigh of relief. I waited as the feet shuffled out; I waited to hear the door close in the sitting room. Even after that, I waited, with Friend squirming in my arms.

“Feh!” I said, spitting out dust. Once I was standing, I wiped my face and hair clean. “I think I need a bath.” I dropped Friend on the bed.

“I was worried,” said Molly quietly. “If Papa had seen—”

“You were lucky, miss,” said Nora, stepping back into the room.

Molly whispered grimly, “Lucky. Yes, I’m so very lucky. What with all my pudding and everything.”

Nora patted Molly’s shoulder. “Come now, girls, get yourselves dressed. Breakfast is ready. Pancakes!”

Friend let out a mew, as though he knew what “pancakes” meant, and Nora turned. “I’ve a few sardines for you too, you scampy scrap.”

“So,” I said, reaching for syrup, “that was your dad.”

Molly ignored me and began to spoon up grapefruit in tiny bites.

“Shall we look at our list?” I asked, chewing. “Pick something to do today?”

Molly nodded.

“Or should we stay in? The doctor did say you need to take it easy.”

Molly frowned. “He always says that.” Then she shouted out, “Oh, Nora!”

“Yes, miss?” Nora was heading for the door with last night’s dishes.

“How much do you suppose something like a pretty glass lamp shade might cost? At the Woolworth’s store. Just out of curiosity.”

“Hmm. I’d wager about six dollars, if I had to guess,” she called over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Molly.

“No reason, eh?” Nora shot her a funny look as she closed the door behind her.

I did the math. There had to have been at least six lamp shades. In a world where a Hershey bar cost a penny, there was no way Molly had forty dollars lying around.

But after breakfast was over, Molly reached into a box on her bookshelf and came out with a thick roll of bills.

“Whoa! Where did you get
that
?” I exclaimed. Even in 1987, it would have been a lot of money for a kid to have. I’d never had forty dollars, I didn’t think.

Molly shrugged. “We get pocket money, Ginny and Maggie and me. I’ve never had a chance to spend mine. But Papa’s very fair, so he pays me each Sunday, just like the others. I’ve been saving for a long time. Years.” She shoved the money deep into her pocket.

Outside, the rain was gone, but it had brought cool air. Below me trees swayed. The wind was strong as I leaned into the railing. In the street an engine sputtered to life. A man in a hat was getting into a car.

“Hey,” I said, elbowing Molly, “isn’t that your dad again?”

Molly nodded.

For a minute we were both quiet. Then Molly said, “Annie?”

“Uh-huh?” I looked at her.

“You really want to go home, don’t you? To your mother?”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course. And I will. It’ll work out. It has to.”

“But you never mention your father at all,” Molly added. “Why is that?”

“Because I don’t have a father,” I said. “It’s only me and Mom.”

“I’m sorry,” said Molly right away. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Really, no big deal. He left us. I never knew him.”

“Maybe that’s just as well,” said Molly, staring out at the street.

“Well, yeah, but only because my mom is super cool,” I said.

Molly looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“Hmm. It’s kinda like—” I tried to think of a way to explain. “Life
might
be better if you had four hands, right?”

“What?” Molly was smiling now. “No! You’d look
very
queer.”

“Well, yeah, but you could hold a book and eat spaghetti at the same time! You could do things twice as fast. The thing is, two hands are plenty, and that’s what you’re used to. So you’ve never thought to want four.”

“I … suppose.”

“My mom is like that. She’s two hands. She’s plenty. And she was, long before I knew I was supposed to have a dad. So I never thought to want one.”

“
Plenty
sounds nice,” said Molly. “What sort of person is she, your mom?”

I didn’t know what to say. Mom was just Mom.

“Annie?”

“Mom’s just—she’s my
person
, I guess,” I said. My voice felt shaky. I didn’t like it. “She makes terrible jokes and always runs late. But she’s
—there
. You know? She heats up soup when I’m sick. She reads to me, even though I can read to myself. She yells, and I yell back, and that’s okay. She isn’t perfect, but she’s
mine
. Does that make sense?”

Molly was looking at me intently. Her eyes were focused, constant. “Would you like to know something?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Molly took a deep breath. “I would jump from this fire escape right now to feel that way about someone.”

For a minute we stared at each other. It was weird. I didn’t know how to respond. At last I said, “Is that true? Really?”

Molly shrugged. “Probably not, no. But it
feels
true.”

“Well, that sucks,” I said. “But jeez, stop being such a drama queen! You scared me.” I punched her lightly in the arm.

Molly smiled faintly. “I don’t know what a
drama queen
is,” she said. “But I’ll try not to be one. All right?”

“Anyway,” I said, “of course your mother loves you too. And you love her. Right?”

Molly leaned over the railing. She looked a little sheepish. “Yes, I do,” she said. “Certainly I do. But she isn’t here, is she?”

“So you miss her! And you’re mad. Like I said, my mom’s not perfect either. Once she forgot to pick me up from ballet class and I had to walk home two miles in the dark! I wanted to kill her. Totally normal.”

“Totally normal?”

“Totally.”

Molly looked strangely relieved. “That’s nice to know,” she said.

After all that talking, it felt good to run down the fire escape with the wind in my face and the thud of my feet on the stairs. I kept a hand lightly on the railing, but I took each floor fast, whipping around corners. It felt like flying.

At the bottom I shot straight out into the alley, Molly behind me. She was smiling again. Soon we were at the fair poster, staring at its bright colors.

“Fell’s Point,” I read from the poster. “Is that far?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “But a taxi driver is sure
to. Look,” she added, pointing to the list of attractions. “There’s a fortune teller!”

“And a mermaid,” I said, scanning the list. “
That
can’t be real.”

“
Probably
not,” said Molly.

We headed down the alley to the big avenue, where we’d seen taxis two days before. But when we spotted a policeman blocking the sidewalk, we nodded at each other slowly and turned right at the intersection instead of left,
away
from the Woolworth’s, as fast as we could hustle.

“We’ll go back with the money when he’s not there,” she said. “After the fair. All right?”

“Sounds good to me!”

After a few blocks, we passed a large square brick building with a paved courtyard. Sitting around it were lots of girls wearing simple brown dresses. A few of them played jacks. Mostly they talked quietly in small groups. “Must be recess,” I said.

Off to one side, two girls about my age were doing a hand clap, quickly but in hushed voices. One wore her hair in tight dark braids, the other in a mousy bob. I tried to listen but couldn’t make out the song, so I walked into the yard with Molly a step behind me. When the clappers saw us, they stopped clapping.

“No, don’t stop!” I said. “Keep singing. Please?”

They began again, slowly at first, then picking up speed. The one with the bob sang:

Molly burst into cheerful laughter when they were done. “How terrific!” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl with the bob. “Who doesn’t know how to clap?”

“I don’t,” said Molly.

I hadn’t done a hand clap in about a year myself. There was an unwritten law of the schoolyard that girls graduated from hand claps to cheers when they started fifth grade. I’d moved on from “Eenie Meanie Bopsabeanie” to “Be Aggressive.” But now my hands itched with wanting to join in. I rubbed them on my skirt.

That was when the girl with the braids looked up at me and held out her hands in a questioning way. “You vant?” she asked. She had a strong accent and a shy smile.

“Sure,” I said quickly. “Thanks!” I sat down on the grass opposite her as the girl with the bob stood up. “You want to do that one again, or do you maybe want to learn a new song?” I asked.

The girl smiled eagerly, and as we began to clap, I sang:

When I got to that line, a small group of girls tittered behind me. I glanced back and realized we were attracting a crowd. Molly was beaming. I sang:

More girls had joined us. This time, when I got to the punch line, the girls behind me chorused the obvious.

I was caught up in it now, having such a good time, singing and clapping. I kept going.

Now the girl opposite me was blushing, but she was also still clapping, so I sang on, a little faster.

I finished, breathless. The girl with the braids grinned and Molly burst out laughing. The other girls around us broke into light applause. In the grass a few feet away, another pair was already attempting a slightly messy version of “Miss Lucy.” When they got to the words
TV set
, they said it like one big word: “TEEVEESET!” The way I sang the songs I learned in French class: “FRAYE​RAJOC​KAFR​AYERA​JOCKA​DORMA​YVOOD​ORMAY​VOO.” Memorized sounds, not words. “TEEVEESET!”

I chuckled.

“Vat is funny?” asked the girl opposite me.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Thanks, that was really fun. Do you want to do another, or will recess be over soon? It’s funny you have school in the summer.”

“School?” The girl looked puzzled.

“No, Annie, look,” said Molly, pointing to a plaque on the building. “This
isn’t
a school.”

I looked up. “The Baltimore Home for Girls,” I read out loud.

“Excepting it’s not a
home
, not really,” called out a voice. A girl a little older than the rest was standing off to one side. She had blond hair and pale blue eyes. She stared at me, hands on hips. “It’s
instead
of a home. Which isn’t the same at all. Who’re you?”