The Great Gilly Hopkins (11 page)

“Miz Ellis,” Trotter broke in loudly, “was just saying how it's up to you.” There was a flash of alarm from the social worker which Trotter pretended not to see. “You want to stay on here with William Ernest and me—that's fine. You want her to find you someplace else—that's fine, too. You got to be the one to decide.” Her eyes shifted uneasily toward Miss Ellis.

“What about,” Gilly asked, her mouth going dry as a stale soda cracker, “what about my real mother?”

Miss Ellis's eyebrows jumped. “I wrote her, Gilly, several months ago, when we decided to move you from the Nevinses. She never answered.”

“She wrote me. She wants me to come out there.”

Miss Ellis looked at Trotter. “Yes. I know about the postcard,” the caseworker said.

Those damned cops reading people's mail and blabbing, passing it around, snickering over it probably.

“Gilly. If—if she had really wanted you with her—”

“She does want me. She said so!”

“Then why hasn't she come to get you?” A hard edge had come into Miss Ellis's voice, and her eyebrows were twitching madly. “It's been over eight years, Gilly. Even when she lived close by, she never came to see you.”

“It's different now!”—wasn't it?—“She's gonna come! She really wants me!”—didn't she?

Trotter came over to her and laid her arm heavily on Gilly's shoulder. “If she knowed you—if she just knowed what a girl she has—she'd be here in a minute.”

Oh, Trotter, don't be a fool. If she knew what I was like, she'd never come. It takes someone stupid like you—Gilly removed herself gently from under the weighty embrace and addressed herself to Miss Ellis, eye to eyebrow.

“Till she comes…till she comes for me, I guess I'll just stay here.”

Trotter wiped her face with her big hand and snuffled. “Well, I'm sure we'll be seeing you sometime, Miz Ellis.”

The social worker wasn't going to be swept out quite so easily. She set her feet apart as though fearing Trotter might try to remove her bodily and said, “Officer Rhine told me when he called that you had well over a hundred dollars with you last night.”

“Yeah?”

It came out sassy, but Miss Ellis just squinted her eyes and went on: “It's hard to believe that it was all your money.”

“So?”

“So I call taking other people's money
stealing
, Miss Hopkins.”

“Yeah?”

Trotter patted Gilly's arm as if to shush her. “So do we, Miz Ellis. Surely you don't think this is the first time something like this has happened to me over the last twenty years?”

“No, I know it's not.”

“Then how 'bout trusting me to handle it?”

Miss Ellis shook her head and smoothed her pants suit down over her rump before she put on her coat. “I'll be in close touch,” she said.

Trotter nearly shoved her out the front door. “We're going to do just fine. Don't worry your pretty little head about us, hear?”

“I get paid to worry, Mrs. Trotter.”

Trotter smiled impatiently and closed the door quickly. When she turned back toward Gilly, her face was like Mount Rushmore stone.

Gilly blinked in surprise at the sudden and absolute change.

“I don't take lightly to stealing, you know.”

Gilly nodded. No use pretending sassiness.

“I figure that money ain't all mine, right?”

“No.”

“Well, where'd you get it?”

“I found it,” said Gilly softly.

Trotter came over and with two hands lifted Gilly's face to look into her own. “Where did you get it, Gilly?”

“I found it behind some books next door.”

Trotter dropped her hands in disbelief. “You stole from Mr. Randolph?”

“It was just lying there behind the books. He probably didn't even—”

“Gilly, you stole it. Don't put no fancy name on it. It was his, and you took it, right?”

“I guess so.”

“How much?”

“Uh, for—thir—”

“Don't fool with me. How much?”

“Forty-four dollars,” Gilly said miserably.

“Well, you gotta take it back.”

“I can't.” Trotter stood there, hand on hip, staring at her until Gilly continued, “I gave five dollars to Agnes Stokes.”

“You did, huh?”

Gilly nodded.

“Well”—a great sigh—“I'll lend you the five to pay Mr. Randolph back, and you can work it off.”

Giving back Mr. Randolph's money was not as bad as it might have been. The old man apparently had no idea that there had been any money behind his books. Either he'd forgotten, or it had been put there by his wife, dead long before Trotter's Melvin. At any rate, when Gilly gave the forty-four dollars to him, Trotter looming behind her like a mighty army, he accepted her mumbled explanation without showing shock or undue curiosity, but with a strange little dignity.

“Thank you,” he said, for once not doubling the phrase. He put the money in his pocket, rubbed his hands together briefly, and then put out his hand to be led to supper.

Gilly hesitated for a moment, waiting for the sermon that was bound to pour forth, if not from him, surely from Trotter. But neither spoke, so she took Mr. Randolph's hand, instead of his elbow as she usually did, as a kind of thank you.

Trotter had obviously never heard of either the minimum-wage or the child-labor laws. She posted the following sign in the kitchen:

Gilly began to spend a lot of time with W.E. She discovered several things. One was that the boy was not as dumb as he looked. If you held back and didn't press him, he could often figure out things for himself, but when you crowded him, he would choke right up, and if you laughed at him, he'd throw his hands up as if to protect his head from a blow. It finally occurred to Gilly that he really thought she would smack him every time he made a mistake.

Which was why, of course, Trotter tiptoed around the boy as though he would shatter at the least commotion, and why she was death on anyone she caught fooling around with him.

But it wasn't going to work. W.E. wasn't a fluted antique cup in Mrs. Nevins's china cupboard. He was a kid—a foster kid. And if he didn't toughen up, what would happen to him when there was no Trotter to look after him?

So Gilly asked him, “What do you do when somebody socks you?”

His squinty little eyes went wild behind the glasses.

“I'm not going to hit you. I was just wondering what you do.”

He stuck his right index finger into his mouth and began to tug at the nail.

She took out the finger and studied his stubby-nailed hand for a minute. “Nothing wrong with this, I can see. Ever think of smacking them back?”

He shook his head wide-eyed.

“You going to go through life letting people pick on you?”

He hung his head. The finger went back in.

“Look, William Ernest”—she bent over close to his ear and whispered hoarsely into it—“I'm going to teach you how to fight. No charge or anything. Then when some big punk comes up to you and tries to start something, you can just let them have it.”

His finger dropped from his mouth as he stared at her, unbelieving.

“You hear how I fought six boys one day—all by myself?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Before I get through with you, you're going to do the same thing.
Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!
” She landed six imaginary punches sending six imaginary bullies flying.

“
Pow
,” he echoed softly, tentatively doubling up his fist and giving a feeble swing.

“First thing, when somebody yells at you, don't throw your hands up”—she imitated him—“and act like you think they're going to kill you.”

“
Pow
?” He swung his little fist in a kind of question mark.

“Naw, not
first
thing. See, they may not be even meaning to hit you. First thing is, you take a deep breath—” She filled her diaphragm and waited while he tried to imitate her, his ribs poking through his shirt. “Then you yell like this:
Get the hell outa my way!
”

Before the sentence was out, Trotter was filling the doorway like the wrath of God Almighty.

“OK, OK,” Gilly said. “Leave out the hell part. The main thing—”

“What are you kids doing? I thought I was paying you to help William Ernest with his reading?”

“Naw. This is on my own time. No charge.”

Trotter looked anxiously at W.E. He was standing on tiptoe, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut in his red face, sucking in a huge breath.

“
Get the hell out my way!
” He turned to Gilly, smiling. “Was that good, Gilly?”

“Better leave the hell part out in front of Trotter. But that was pretty good for a start. Really not bad.”

“Gilly,” said Trotter.

“Look, Trotter. He's got to learn to take care of himself, and I'm the best damn—the best teacher around.”

Trotter just went on standing in the doorway as though she couldn't think what to do next, when the little guy marched over to her, put his fists up in front of her huge bosom, took in a breath, and said squeakily, “Get out my way.”

Tears started in the woman's eyes. She threw her arms around W.E. and bear-hugged him.

“I was just practicing, Trotter. I didn't mean you.”

“I know, William Ernest, honey,” she said. “I know.”

“He's got to learn to take care of himself in the world, Trotter.”

The big woman wiped her face with her apron and sniffed. “Don't I know that, baby?” She patted the boy and straightened up. “How 'bout you finishing this lesson outside? I don't b'lieve it's something I want to listen to.”

“C'mon, Gilly.” William Ernest slid around Trotter and started for the back door. “
Pow! Pow!
” they could hear him exploding softly down the hall.

“I'm not going to teach him to pick on people,” Gilly said, “just how to take care of himself. He can't come hiding behind your skirt every time someone looks at him cross-eyed.”

“I s'pose not.”

“Even real mothers can't watch out for kids the rest of their lives, and you're just his foster mother.”

“So they keep telling me.”

Gilly hadn't meant to be cruel, but she needed to make Trotter understand. “If he knows how to read and how to stick up for himself, he'll be OK.”

“You got it all figured out, ain't you Gilly, honey?” She relaxed into a smile. “Well, I ain't stopping your boxing lessons. I just don't care to watch.”

Boxing lessons? The woman was a throwback to another century. Gilly started to pass her at the door, but as she brushed by the big body, Trotter grabbed her and planted a wet kiss on her forehead. One hand went up automatically to wipe the spot, but a look at Trotter's face, and Gilly stopped her arm midway.

“Don't know what got into me,” Trotter mumbled, trying to turn it into a joke. “I know you don't allow no kissing. Sometimes I just haul off and go crazy.”

“At Sunday school Miss Applegate calls it demon possession.”

“Does she now? Demon possession, is it?” She began to laugh so hard, Gilly could feel the boards vibrating under her feet. “Demon possession—Mercy, girl, I'd have to catch me a jet to keep one step ahead of you. Well—you better get going before the devil grabs me one more time.”

She waved her hand to land a mock spank on Gilly's bottom, but by the time it swept the air, Gilly's bottom along with the rest of her was well down the hall.

T
he week before Thanksgiving, Mr. Randolph came down with the flu. It wasn't a bad case as flu goes, but he was an old man, and any kind of sickness, as Trotter said, was harder on the old. So with many rest stops for Trotter to recapture her wind, she and Gilly brought the rollaway cot down from the attic and set it up in the dining room, turning the never-used room into a sickroom for Mr. Randolph.

There had been a great discussion as to whether big lawyer son should be notified. Mr. Randolph was sure that if his son knew he was sick, he would be snatched away to Virginia never to return again. Trotter recognized this appalling possibility, but maintained that there was some moral obligation to inform next of kin when one took to one's bed.

“Suppose he just shows up one day and finds you sick—then he won't trust you no more. He's sure to take you away then.”

But Mr. Randolph thought it worth the risk, and they had compromised by having Mr. Randolph move in, so Trotter could keep a close eye on him.

“Now what happens if you die on me?”

“I promise not to die in your house. You have my solemn oath.”

“Gilly, if he looks peaky, we carry him next door as fast as we can go. I ain't gonna be sued by no big Virginia lawyer.”

Mr. Randolph raised up off the rollaway. “If I die on you, you can sue me, Mrs. Trotter. You can take me for every cent I have.” He lay back, giggling and gasping.

“Humph, every cent. You won't even have no social security if you're dead. Better not die, that's all I got to say.”

“I promise not to die, but with these two beautiful ladies nursing me, I may decide to remain ill for a long, long time.”

“Well, that's a chance I got to take, beautiful as I am. But if you ain't well a week from today, you're gonna miss out on the turkey and stuffings.”

So Mr. Randolph swore a solemn oath to be well by Thanksgiving. As it turned out, he was a little better, but by then both Trotter and William Ernest were down with the bug.