The Great Gilly Hopkins (8 page)

“Dust?” Trotter spoke the word as though it were the name of an exotic and slightly dangerous game. “I guess not.” Her gaze slid back toward the screen. “Whyn't you wait till we're through watching TV, though?”

Gilly jiggled her foot through a Central American earthquake and the bribery trial of a congressman from who cared where.

She couldn't stand waiting. She ran into the kitchen. She now knew how she could get the money on her own and every minute seemed to matter. Under the sink were some old rags—and could you believe it?—a quarter bottle of furniture polish. She poured some on one of the rags which she had carefully dampened just as Mrs. Nevins always did and proceeded to clean the never-used dining room with its dark, heavy table and six chairs.

One side of the rag was black in two swipes, but Gilly turned it over and poured out more polish. The steady wiping and polishing with the “clean, dry cloth” fell into a rhythm that began to calm her inner frenzy. By the time she got to the picture over the buffet, she not only cleaned out the niches of the carved frame but she hunted up Windex and paper towels to wash the faces and so forths of the baby angels who were tripping around on clouds with only a ribbon or a stray wing to cover their private parts (as Mrs. Nevins used to call them).

Meantime in the living room, the volume of Trotter's voice told Gilly that Walter Cronkite had called it a day, but she no longer needed to rush. Gently she wiped off the last streak of Windex.

By supper the next night she had finished cleaning everything but the living-room chandelier. And how could one do that without a stepladder?

“Oh, forget it, Gilly, honey. The place looks beautiful. No one's going to notice the chandelier,” said Trotter.

“I will,” said Gilly. “I gotta have a tall stool or a stepladder or something. Then I could do the top kitchen cabinets, too.”

“Mercy. Next thing I know you'll be wiping me right out with all the rest of the trash.”

William Ernest looked up from his meat loaf in alarm.

Mr. Randolph was chuckling. “There is no danger of that, Mrs. Trotter.”

“Well, you know what the Good Book says, Dust to dust…”

“No!” squeaked William Ernest. “You ain't dusty!”

“Oh, bless you, sweetheart. I was only talking crazy.”

“Nobody will take away William Ernest's Mrs. Trotter; now, will they, Miss Gilly?” Mr. Randolph reached out and felt for the boy's head and patted it.

“Of course not,” said Gilly sharply. “I just want something to stand on to finish my job.”

“My, my,” said Mr. Randolph, “You really have yourself a prize helper here, Mrs. Trotter. Young people nowadays hardly…”

“If you want, Mr. Randolph…” She would have to be careful—talk slowly as though the idea were just occurring to her—“I could maybe do your house when I finish here. Course I'd have to have a stepladder, probably—”

“Didn't I say she was a prize, Mrs. Trotter?” Mr. Randolph was beaming. “I might even have a ladder in my basement…”

Gilly jumped up from the table, then caught herself—slow down, slow down. Her heart was pumping crazily. She made herself sit down.

“Maybe after supper I could take a look. I'd sure like to finish that chandelier tonight.”

Trotter and Mr. Randolph nodded and chuckled happily. People were so dumb sometimes you almost felt bad to take advantage of them—but not too bad. Not when it was your only way to get where you had to go.

The stepladder was old and rickety, but it would beat trying to climb those bookshelves of Mr. Randolph's, which looked as though they might come right over on top of you if you pulled at them. She set the ladder up under Trotter's chandelier, and as she painstakingly wiped each piece of glass with her ammonia-water rag, she would have to grab the ladder from time to time, dizzy as she was with the smell of the ammonia and the thought that by tomorrow night at this time she'd be on her way to California.

Late that night she packed the brown bag and shoved it far under the bed. Tomorrow from the school pay phone, she'd call the bus station and find out how much the ticket cost. Then all she had to do was get the rest of the money.

Gilly was coming out of the phone booth the next day when Agnes appeared demanding her money. She pretended to be grumpy about the five dollars Gilly gave her, but there was a greedy gleam in her eyes. She was pleased, all right.

“Can we get more?” she asked.

Gilly shook her head. “That's all there was. I split it three ways.”

“Looked like a lot in your pocket yesterday.”

“Yeah, but the rest was all in ones.”

“I don't see why you split equal with that weird kid. He wouldn't know the difference.”

“He's not as dumb as he looks.” Gilly looked Agnes straight in the eyes. “He acts stupid, maybe, but if he thought you and me were cheating on him…”

Agnes shrugged. “Well,” she said, “next time, let's not use him.”

“OK, sure, next time,” Gilly agreed, knowing happily that there would be no next time with creepy Agnes the Stoke. Tonight she would be bound for her new life—her real life.

She got rid of Agnes at the front gate with some lie about Trotter forcing her to scrub all the dirty pots in the house. Agnes said she'd go on home. She wasn't too crazy about cleaning pots and pans.

The stepladder was in the hall. Gilly put her schoolbooks down on the table and went right to it. As she was leaning to pick it up—“Gilly, honey, want some snack?”

She straightened up quickly. It would be better to eat while she had the chance. She gave the ladder a pat and went into the kitchen.

Trotter was sitting at the table. She seemed to have finished her daily Bible reading, for the Good Book, still open, was pushed to one side. Right before her was a piece of notebook paper, half filled with her square, laborious script. She had a nineteen-cent ball-point clutched tightly in her right hand. When Gilly came in, the huge woman smiled shyly at her over the top of her reading glasses.

“Writing one of my old children. I do miss 'em when they grow up and leave me, but the Good Lord knows I ain't much at writing.” She looked down at her letter and sighed. “There's more of them cookies in the tin box next to the refrigerator.”

Gilly poured herself a twelve-ounce glass of milk and took four of the cookies.

“Sit down, Gilly, honey. I ain't really busy.”

Gilly sat down at the far side of the table.

“Things is going better for you now, ain't they, honey?”

“OK.”

“I been meaning to say to you how much I appreciate the way you've been making friends with William Ernest.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“Like Miz Ellis says, you're a special kind of person, Gilly. It makes me praise the Lord to see you so busy helping stead of hurting.”

Shut up, Trotter.

“You got so much to give. Mercy, what most of us wouldn't give for half your brains.”

Shut up, Trotter, shut up!

The silent commands were obeyed because just then William Ernest, honey, appeared, and Trotter roused her great hulk from the table to get him his snack.

Trotter, baby, if you had half my brains you'd know to let the boy do things for himself. If I were going to stay here, I'd teach him how. You want to so hard, and you don't know how. Even the birds know to shove the babies out of the nest. If I were going to be here, I'd make a man of your little marshmallow. But I can't stay. I might go soft and stupid, too. Like I did at Dixons'. I let her fool me with all that rocking and love talk. I called her Mama and crawled up on her lap when I had to cry. My god! She said I was her own little baby, but when they moved to Florida, I was put out like the rest of the trash they left behind. I can't go soft—not as long as I'm nobody's real kid—not while I'm just something to play musical chairs with…

An elbow pierced her rib cage.

Gilly jerked awake. What the hell? W.E. was trying to attract her attention without getting Trotter's, mouthing some words through a full load of cookie crumbs.

Huh? She asked the question by raising her eyebrows.

He swallowed. Then “Surprise,” he mouthed, pointing his head in Trotter's general direction.

She shook her head with exaggerated vigor. “Not yet!” she mouthed back. “Later.”

A little grin escaped and danced around his face.

Gilly sighed. If she didn't watch herself, she'd start liking the little jerk. She excused herself. “I'm going to get on to my dusting over at Mr. Randolph's.”

W.E. made as if to follow.

“Naw, William Ernest. You better watch
Sesame Street
today. I'm going to help you with your reading later on, and you have to be real sharp. Right, Trotter?”

“You better believe it.”

She knocked several times at Mr. Randolph's door before he opened it, his tie and shirt awry and his face still clogged with sleep.

“I—uh—brought your stepladder back, Mr. Randolph.”

“Oh? Oh, thank you, thank you. Just put it down out there on the porch.”

“But—but—I thought since I was here and had the ladder and all, I might come on in and—uh—start to work.”

“Oh, Miss Gilly. You don't have to worry. I was just talking the other night. What I can't see isn't likely to hurt me.”

“I don't mind. I want to help.”

“Every week or so my son over in Virginia comes and brings a lady to vacuum a little. It's really all I need.”

“But I want to”—god—“What I mean is, I want to help Mrs. Trotter, and you know how she is, she really doesn't need my help. But I figured if I do something for you, it will be like doing something for her…”

“Bless you, you sweet little lady. How can I say No to that?”

It worked. He stepped aside for her to come in and shuffled along right behind her into the living room. Was he going to stay in there, his sightless eyes following the sound of her?

“Why don't you just go up and finish your nap, Mr. Randolph? I feel bad waking you up like this.”

He chuckled and stretched out in the worn blue plush armchair, his feet up on the equally worn stool. He closed his eyes.

“Wouldn't you rest better up on your bed or something? I'm—I'm going to be working in here. Making a lot of noise.”

“Mercy, Miss Gilly, I can rest in heaven. In the meantime, it is human company that I treasure. It won't bother you if I just sit here, will it? I promise not to make suggestions.”

“Why don't I come back later? I don't want to bother you.”

“Bother me? I'm delighted.”

She kept her eyes on the little man as she carefully set up the stepladder at the far end of the bookcase wall. The blue plush chair was exactly where she'd shoved it two days earlier, cater-cornered three feet from the place she'd have to set up the ladder in order to reach “Sarsaparilla to Sorcery.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Randolph.” Her voice barely squeaked out. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Randolph!” Now she was yelling. “I'm going to have to move your chair.”

He got up like an obedient child. Gilly shoved and pushed and tugged the heavy chair to a place opposite the red encyclopedia. She arranged the chair and then the stool, and then took Mr. Randolph's elbow and led him to them.

“Now your chair's just opposite from where it was before.”

“I hope you haven't strained yourself, Miss Gilly.”

“Right between the end of the couch and the corner of the desk. Couple of feet on either side, OK?”

“Fine, fine.” He sat down and stretched out again.

Gilly went back to the stepladder, climbed the first step, and then backed down.

“I guess I'll begin with the windows over the desk.”

He smiled his funny little blank-eyed smile. “You're the doctor, Miss Gilly.”

She did the windows and the desk, then moved the ladder around Mr. Randolph to the smaller of the two giant bookcases. She went back and dusted the picture over the couch, which was of fancily dressed white people in another century having an elaborate picnic in a woods. She kept looking over her shoulder at Mr. Randolph, who lay motionless with his eyes closed. Since he'd been known to sleep on Trotter's couch with his eyes wide open, there was no way under heaven to tell if he were wide awake or dead asleep. But he wasn't snoring. That was worrisome.

But, hell. The man was blind and half deaf. Why should it matter in the least that he was sitting right there in the room while she robbed him of money he was too old to remember having? Still—the closer she got to “Sarsaparilla” the more her heart carried on like the entire percussion section of a marching band doing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

At last she moved the stepladder directly in front of the place and took a step up, glancing sideways at Mr. Randolph. He didn't move. She eased up the ladder trying not to make any noise, but it creaked and swayed under her weight. From the next to the top step she could reach “Sarsaparilla to Sorcery” without stretching. She braced her left leg hard against the cold metal of the ladder, took out the now familiar volume, and laid it gently on the ladder top.

Nothing was visible except dust. She took out books on either side, dusting each one with a kind of fury. Still nothing.

Mr. Randolph was shifting in his chair across the room. She looked into his blank white eyes. Oh, god. Maybe he could really see. Maybe it was all a trick to fool people. She froze.

“You certainly are doing a beautiful job. So careful. My, my, I don't know when this room has been so thoroughly cleaned before.”

“I—I—I'm sort of straightening up the book shelves.”

“Fine, fine.” He was bobbing his head. “Now if there were just some way you could straighten up this old brain of mine as well….”

She was not going to panic. He couldn't see. Of course, he couldn't see. It was really better that he was in the room. Nobody would suspect her of stealing right from under his nose. She dusted the space and then moved “Sarsaparilla” down to the shelf that held the rest of the encyclopedia set. On the shelf from which it had come, she proceeded to remove, one by one, all the other books, wiping carefully behind each one to the dark-stained wood at the back of the case. With every book her hope rose and fell, rising a little less and falling a little more each time. At last she knew that her lie to Agnes had proved all too true. There was no more money.