The Great Gilly Hopkins (2 page)

Unpacking even just the few things in her brown suitcase always seemed a waste of time to Gilly. She never knew if she'd be in a place long enough to make it worth the bother. And yet it was something to fill the time. There were two little drawers at the top and four larger ones below. She put her underwear in one of the little ones, and her shirts and jeans in one of the big ones, and then picked up the photograph from the bottom of the suitcase.

Out of the pasteboard frame and through the plastic cover the brown eyes of the woman laughed up at her as they always did. The glossy black hair hung in gentle waves without a hair astray. She looked as though she was the star of some TV show, but she wasn't. See—right there in the corner she had written “For my beautiful Galadriel, I will always love you.” She wrote that to me, Gilly told herself, as she did each time she looked at it, only to me. She turned the frame over. It was still there—the little piece of tape with the name on it. “Courtney Rutherford Hopkins.”

Gilly smoothed her own straw-colored hair with one hand as she turned the picture over again. Even the teeth were gorgeous. Weren't girls supposed to look like their mothers? The word “mother” triggered something deep in her stomach. She knew the danger signal. Abruptly she shoved the picture under a T-shirt and banged the bureau drawer shut. This was not the time to start dissolving like hot Jell-O. She went downstairs.

“There you are, honey.” Trotter turned away from the sink to greet her. “How about giving me a hand here with this salad?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Score a point for Gilly.

“Well”—Trotter shifted her weight to her left foot, keeping her eyes on the carrots she was scraping—“William Ernest is in the living room watching
Sesame Street
.”

“My god, you must think I'm mental or something.”

“Mental?” Trotter moved to the kitchen table and started chopping the carrots on a tiny round board.

“Dumb, stupid.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

“Then why the hell you think I'm going to watch some retard show like that?”

“Listen here, Gilly Hopkins. One thing we better get straight right now tonight. I won't have you making fun of that boy.”

“I wasn't making fun of that boy.” What was the woman talking about? She hadn't mentioned the boy.

“Just 'cause someone isn't quite as smart as you are don't give you no right to look down on them.”

“Who'm I looking down on?”

“You just said”—the fat woman's voice was rising, and her knife was crashing down on the carrots with vengeance—“you just said William Ernest was”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“retarded.”

“I did not. I don't even know the stupid kid. I never saw him in my life before today.”

Trotter's eyes were still flashing, but her hand and voice were under control. “He's had a rough time of it in this world, but he's with Trotter now, and as long as the Lord leaves him in this house, ain't anybody on earth gonna hurt him.
In any way
.”

“Good god. All I was trying to say—”

“One more thing. In this house we don't take the Lord's name in vain.”

Gilly threw both her hands up in mock surrender. “All right, all right. Forget it.” She started for the door.

“Supper's 'bout ready. How about going next door and getting Mr. Randolph? He eats here nights.”

The word No was just about to pop out of Gilly's mouth, but one look at Trotter's eyes, and she decided to save her fights for something more important. “Which house?”

“The gray one on the right.” She waved her knife vaguely uphill. “Just knock on the door. If you do it good and loud, he'll hear you. Better take your jacket. Cold out.”

Gilly ignored the last. She ran out the door, through the picket gate, and onto the porch next door, stomping and jumping to keep warm.
Bam, bam, bam
. It was too cold for October. Mr. Randolph's house was smaller and more grubby-looking even than Trotter's. She repeated her knock.

Suddenly the door swung inward, revealing a tiny shrunken man. Strange whitish eyes stared out of a wrinkled, brown face.

Gilly took one look and ran back to Trotter's kitchen as fast as she could go.

“What's the matter? Where's Mr. Randolph?”

“I don't know. He's gone. He's not there.”

“What d'you mean he's not there?” Trotter began wiping her hands on her apron and walking toward the door.

“He's gone. Some weird little colored man with white eyes came to the door.”

“Gilly! That was Mr. Randolph. He can't see a thing. You've got to go back and bring him by the hand, so he won't fall.”

Gilly backed away. “I never touched one of those people in my life.”

“Well, then, it's about time, ain't it?” Trotter snapped. “Of course, if you can't manage, I can always send William Ernest.”

“I can manage. Don't you worry about me.”

“You probably got Mr. Randolph all confused and upset by now.”

“Well, you shoulda warned me.”

“Warned
you
?” Trotter banged a spoon on the table. “I shoulda warned poor Mr. Randolph. You want me to send William Ernest?”

“I said I could manage. Good god!” At this, Trotter's spoon went up in the air like a fly-swatter. “All right! I didn't say it. Hell, a person can't even talk around here.”

“A smart person like you oughta be able to think of a few regular words to stick in amongst the cusses.” The spoon went into the salad and stirred. “Well, hurry up, if you're going.”

The little black man was still standing in the open doorway. “William Ernest?” he called gently as Gilly started up the steps.

“No,” she said sharply. “Me.”

“Oh.” He smiled widely although his eyes did not seem to move. “You must be the new little girl.” He stretched out his right hand. “Welcome to you, welcome.”

Gilly carefully took the elbow instead of the hand. “Trotter said for me to get you for supper.”

“Well, thank you, thank you.” He reached behind, fumbling until he found the knob, and pulled the door shut. “Kind of chilly tonight, isn't it?”

“Yeah.”

All she could think of was Miss Ellis. OK, so she hadn't been so great at the Nevinses', but she hadn't done anything to deserve this. A house run by a fat, fluff-brained religious fanatic with a mentally retarded seven-year-old—well, maybe he was and maybe he wasn't actually retarded, but chances were good the kid was running around with less than his full share of brains or why would Trotter make such a big deal of it? But she could've handled the two of them. It wasn't fair to throw in a blind black man who came to eat.

Or maybe Miss Ellis didn't know. Maybe Trotter kept this a secret.

The sidewalk was uneven. Mr. Randolph's toe hit a high corner, and he lurched forward.

“Watch it!” Without thinking, Gilly threw her arms around the thin shoulders and caught him before he fell.

“Thank you, thank you.” Gilly dropped her arms. She thought for a horrible moment that he was going to try to grab her hand, but he didn't.

Boy, Miss Ellis, are you ever going to be sorry you did this to me.

“Now Mrs. Trotter did tell me your name, but I'm ashamed to say I don't seem to recall it.” He tapped his head with its short, curly gray hair. “I can keep all the luxuries up here, but none of the necessities.”

“Gilly,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gilly Hopkins.”

“Oh, yes.” He was shuffling painfully up Trotter's front steps. Jeez. Why didn't he get a white cane or something? “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Gilly. I feel mighty close to all Mrs. Trotter's children. Little William Ernest is like a grandson to me. So I feel sure…”

“Watch the door!”

“Yes, yes, I thank you.”

“Is that you Mr. Randolph?” came Trotter's voice from inside.

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Trotter, with the sweetest little escort you'd ever hope to see.”

Trotter appeared in the hallway with her hands on her hips. “How you doing in this cold weather?”

“Not my best, I'm afraid. This sweet little girl had to keep me from falling right down on my face.”

“Did she now?”

See there, Trotter? I managed.

“I guess this old house is going to be a bit more lively now, eh, Mrs. Trotter?”

“Wouldn't be surprised,” answered Trotter in a flat voice that Gilly couldn't read the meaning of.

The meal proceeded without incident. Gilly was hungry but thought it better not to seem to enjoy her supper too much. William Ernest ate silently and steadily with only an occasional glance at Gilly. She could tell that the child was scared silly of her. It was about the only thing in the last two hours that had given her any real satisfaction. Power over the boy was sure to be power over Trotter in the long run.

“I declare, Mrs. Trotter,” said Mr. Randolph, “every day I think to myself, tonight's supper couldn't be as delicious as last night's. But I tell you, this is the most delicious meal I have ever had the privilege of eating.”

“Mr. Randolph, you could flatter the stripe off a polecat.”

Mr. Randolph let out a giggling laugh. “It isn't flattery, I assure you, Mrs. Trotter. William Ernest and Miss Gilly will bear me out in this. I may be old, but I haven't lost my sense of taste, even if some folks maintain I've lost the other four.”

They went on and on like that. Mr. Randolph flattering the fat woman, and the fat woman eating it up like hot-fudge sundae with all the nuts.

What I should do, thought Gilly, as she lay that night in the narrow bed with her arms folded under her head, What I should do is write my mother. Courtney Rutherford Hopkins would probably sue county welfare if she knew what kind of place they'd forced her daughter to come to.

Miss Ellis (whose eyebrows always twitched when Gilly asked questions about Courtney) had once told her that Courtney was from Virginia. Everybody knew, didn't they, that families like Courtney's did not eat with colored people? Courtney Rutherford Hopkins was sure to go into a rage, wasn't she, when she heard that news? Perhaps the self-righteous Trotter would be put into jail for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Miss Ellis would, of course, be fired.
Yum!

She'll come to get me then, for sure, thought Gilly. Her mother wouldn't stand for her beautiful Galadriel to be in a dump like this for one single minute, once she knew. But how was she to know? Miss Ellis would never admit it. What kind of lies was the social worker telling Courtney to keep her from coming to fetch Gilly?

As she dropped off to sleep, Gilly promised herself for the millionth time that she would find out where Courtney Rutherford Hopkins was, write to her, and tell her to come and take her beautiful Galadriel home.

I
n the tiny mirror over the bureau Gilly noted with no little satisfaction that her hair was a wreck. Yesterday before the bubble gum got into it, it had looked as though it simply needed combing. Today it looked like a lot that had been partially bulldozed—an uprooted tree here, a half wall with a crumbling chimney there. It was magnificent. It would run Trotter wild. Gilly bounced down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She held her head very straight as she sat at the kitchen table and waited for the fireworks.

“I'll take you down to the school a little after nine, hear?” Trotter said.

Of course Gilly heard. She tilted her head a little in case Trotter couldn't
see
.

“If I take you down earlier,” Trotter went on, “we'll just have to sit and wait till they can take care of us. I'd as leave sit here at my own table with a cup of coffee, wouldn't you?” She put a bowl of steaming hot cereal down in front of Gilly.

Gilly nodded her head vigorously Yes.

William Ernest was staring at her, his glasses steamed up from the oatmeal. Gilly bared her teeth and shook her head violently No at him. The boy snuffled loudly and ducked his head.

“Need a tissue, William Ernest?” Trotter pulled one from her apron pocket and gently wiped his nose. “And here's a clean one for school, honey.” Trotter leaned over and tucked a tissue into his pants pocket.

Gilly craned her neck over the table as though she were trying to see the contents of W.E.'s pocket. Her head was within a couple of feet of Trotter's eyes. The woman was sure to notice.

“William Ernest got promoted to the Orange reading group yesterday. Didn't you, William Ernest, honey?”

The little boy nodded his head but kept his eyes on his bowl.

“You're gonna have to do some reading out loud and show Gilly how great you're coming along with your reading these days.”

W.E. looked up for one split second with terror in his eyes. Trotter missed the look, but not Gilly, who smiled widely and shook her half-bulldozed head emphatically.

“In Orange they use hardback books,” Trotter was explaining. “It's a real big step to be Orange.” She leaned over Gilly to put some toast on the table. “We really worked for this.”

“So old W.E.'s getting a
head
, is he?”

Trotter gave her a puzzled look. “Yeah, he's doing just fine.”

“Before you know it,” Gilly heard herself saying loudly, “he'll be blowing his own nose and
combing his own hair
.”

“He already does,” said Trotter quietly. “Leastways most of the time.” She sat down with a loud sigh at the table. “Pass me a piece of toast, will you, Gilly?”

Gilly picked up the plate, raised it to the height of her hair, and passed it across to Trotter at that level.

“Thank you, honey.”