by Devon, Gary;
Bracing one foot against the wall, turning and pulling the big brass doorknob, they got the heavy door open and ran out into the cold afternoon, then fled down the sidewalk, the icy snow catching in their eyelashes.
At the intersection, they swung across the street in a slant and ran along the outer fringe of parked cars where the slush had been packed down by traffic. Up ahead, they could see the waterfall of the marquee lights. As he ran, Walter took the picture out, unfolded it, and then ran harder to catch up, following Patsy down the gritty brick alley beside the theater until they reached the exit door in back. “What if they won’t let us in?” Walter asked her. “We forgot to get money.”
“The other kids do it,” Patsy told him. “Now, be quiet. Be real quiet. You go first.”
“No, you go,” Walter said. “I’m too scared.” So while Walter studied the photograph once more, trying to memorize it, Patsy forced her fingers into the crack beside the door and got it open. Suddenly, she pushed him into the warm dark and stepped in herself, drawing the door shut behind them.
The movie cast a strange glow like moonlight on all the seats and faces. Patsy clutched at the stitch in her side while Walter held the picture, looking everywhere to see if anybody matched it, because Patsy said their father would be sitting in the audience. She had laughed at him and called him “cuckoo” when he had told her what he believed—that this was where the train would arrive, that the hundreds upon hundreds of cheering people came down from the newsreel and went out with the happy crowd. Trying to look at all the moonstruck faces, they went up the aisle and heard the woman speak to them. But the movie was ending; the people were standing up, putting on their coats, and if everybody left how would he ever match the faces? They darted across the inner lobby to the door on the other aisle, only to find themselves in a sea of legs.
In minutes, the crowd trickled to a few stragglers. They were too late. Walter slumped against the water fountain and covered his eyes, sobbing with defeat.
9
Most of the crowd had left before Leona stood up, feeling restored. It was quarter of five. Momentarily she scanned the gaudy trappings of the large sloping room; as the movie ended, she had lost sight of the two children, and she wondered what had become of them, if the ushers had caught them and run them off. I could have paid their way, she thought, sorry that she hadn’t realized it sooner. She adjusted her coat around her, took Mamie’s hand, and headed up the ramp. As they entered the lobby on their way out, they saw the children again—the little girl and boy standing together near the water fountain. The boy was crying and the girl appeared to be trying to comfort him. Still refusing to speak, Mamie nonetheless looked at Leona and tugged at her hand, pulling her toward the children. The little boy was holding a large creased photograph in his hand. When Leona asked them what was wrong, they said they were looking for their daddy.
“Where is your daddy?”
“In the picture,” the little boy said.
“You mean here in the picture show? Where is he now?”
“Right here,” the girl said, and showed her the man’s face in the photograph.
The lobby had emptied to three teenage girls buying licorice at the candy counter, and the few uniformed employees. Mamie pointed at the little boy’s hurt fingers and the Band-Aids, then grasped Leona’s coat sleeve and pointed to the bloody places on the boy’s shirt. Leona thought, he must remind her of someone in her own family.
“Did he hurt himself?” she asked the little girl.
“Uh-huh,” the child replied. “Taking the picture.”
Talking to them—children who were lost and hurt—came to her so naturally that Leona didn’t realize at first she could be risking everything. The sense of possible danger came only when she noticed they were making themselves conspicuous simply by remaining in the deserted lobby; the ushers were looking at them. And yet these children were so pitiful and helpless, how could she deny them a moment’s kindness? She asked the little boy about the blue welt she could see under his hair; with a pang, she thought, He’s really been hurt. His ear looks bruised. “Did you hurt your head?”
“No,” he said. “Davy hit me.”
“Who’s Davy? Is he your daddy?”
He held his breath, then let it go all at once. “Nahh … he’s just this guy.” Looking at his feet. “He comes to our house sometimes. He comes to our house to sleep.”
“But why’d he hit you?”
“Don’t know.” The little boy shrugged. “He said I keeped him awake. That’s what he said.”
“Now, tell me the truth,” Leona said. “Does your ear hurt?”
“No,” he said, and shook his head. “It don’t hurt any more.”
Leona looked through the glass front of the lobby. Low in the evening sky, the sun going down behind clouds created long, deep shadows; the angle of the light magnified the falling snow into fluttering white ribbons. It was time to take Mamie and go. She knew she couldn’t get any more involved with these children; there was too much at stake. “Do you live nearby?” she asked them, and they nodded. “Then you should go on home.” They looked at her doubtfully. “Really you should. Your mother and father will be worried about you. Mamie, come with me.” She didn’t wait for the children to reply; she had to remove her concern for them from her mind. “Go on home, now. That’s the best thing to do.”
She started to take Mamie’s hand, but all of a sudden Mamie turned and put her arms around the little boy. “Why, Mamie,” Leona said, “what’re you doing?” And Mamie said, “No, they can’t go. There’s no more home.”
It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was small and rich. A thrill went through Leona. That’s Mamie’s voice. “Oh, Mamie,” she said gently, taking her in her arms, “we can’t stay here.”
Once more, looking back at the children, Mamie said, “But there’s no more home.” She’s thinking of that terrible fire, Leona thought, and she felt the depth of Mamie’s loss.
She carried her down the sidewalk toward the Buick, parked five or six cars away. It was almost five o’clock, almost suppertime. In another half hour, the sky would be completely dark; in four hours, she would have to start looking for a place to spend the night. Leona dreaded getting back in the car, setting off again in the snow with night coming on. Across the street next to the corner, she saw a neon sign blink and softly begin to glow; SUGAR BOWL CAFE, it said. FAMOUS ICE CREAM.
Determined to keep the two children out of her mind, she fixed her concentration on the sign. I should at least get a cup of coffee, she thought. And Mamie needs something. “Umm,” she said. “Ice cream. Doesn’t that sound good? Let’s get some before we go.” Mamie looked up at her but otherwise didn’t respond. There was no one in sight, nothing really to worry about. They crossed the street, the wet snow blowing around them.
The restaurant was in its late-afternoon lull. Two waitresses in red-and-white checked uniforms lolled against the cabinet behind the counter, chatting and painting their fingernails. Leona steered Mamie in front of her to the second table back in the long L of booths. She helped Mamie up in her seat and sat down across from her. It was chilly in the room and they would be here such a short while Leona decided they should unbutton their coats but leave them on.
“Well, Mamie,” she said softly. “I know you can talk, because you just did. So you really will have to tell me what kind of ice cream you like.” The gray-green eyes remained passive, looking away somewhere. “Which do you like best, chocolate or strawberry? I think I’d rather have chocolate myself.”
Blowing on her spread fingers, the waitress, a very plain sixteen-year-old, came to take their order. She held the pencil with the utmost care. Leona ordered a cup of coffee, black, then a single dip of chocolate ice cream in one cone and a dip of strawberry in another. The waitress sidled away. Two women from a back booth squeaked by in galoshes and went out.
Leona had tried to position them strategically. Over the rim of Mamie’s hair, she
could see the front of the room, the door they had come in with its number, 211, the reverse of what it was outside, and the plate-glass window, its sill—halfway up the back side of the empty booths—lined with wilting Boston ferns. If anything suspicious happened on the sidewalk or street, she would see it in time to act. She watched passersby hurrying along outside the window. And the snow continued to fall. Somewhere a fly buzzed and it made her think of sound, snoring sleep. On the street, a car lumbered by and the errant sun’s reflection on chrome blazed in her eyes. She winced, a streak of red on everything. Mamie’s chin was just barely level with the tabletop. “We’ll ask them to bring you a cushion,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.
In the self-created darkness, the red streaks receded and dissolved. The bell on the door jingled. When she opened her eyes, she saw the two children from the theater standing inside the door. They followed us here, she thought. They’ll come over here, maybe want to sit with us. I can’t have this … but what’ll I say?
But they didn’t. They looked about uncertainly for a moment and then climbed up side by side in a booth by the large window. Rising to her knees, Mamie peered at them over the top of the booth; then she waved at the little boy, who was sitting closer to her across the open corner of the L, and the little boy waved back. Who’s going to look after them? Leona thought. As she fretted about them, the children looked at her and smiled. When the waitress went by, Leona said to her, “Give them whatever they want. I’ll pay for it.”
Only a few minutes had passed before a woman in her late twenties came through the door and walked unsteadily toward the children. “So there you are,” she said, and Leona thought, That must be their mother. Blonde, blue-eyed, the woman might have been pretty if she hadn’t looked messy and disarranged. The little girl was undeniably her daughter; there was no question about that now. The child was a small duplicate of her mother, except for her dark red hair. “Why don’t you sit down, Adele?” the waitress said, delivering the Cokes the children had asked for. “Have a cup of coffee.”
Without saying a word, the woman sat down across from the children. Her daughter said something, squirmed and shifted, her thighs squeaking on the plastic seat. “Don’t lie to me,” the woman said. Her voice was a surprise—hoarse, harsh. Her fingernails ticked on the table. Lifting her head, she looked for the waitress.
Three high-school boys slummed in, scuffing their heels as if they were trying to walk without lifting their feet. Suddenly they began punching each other on the shoulder, laughing, and one of them went up for an imaginary hook shot. At the counter they ordered a cherry Coke, a chocolate Coke, and a vanilla Coke. They flirted and made eyes at the waitresses. They played the jukebox. Then each of them seized a pinball machine. Everything was transformed. The air grew dense with the music and the crash-clatter-clang of the pinball machines. One of the boys started to dance with his machine, hips swaying, and now and then, he swung himself loose from it, his arms open wide in musical expression as he mouthed the words to the jukebox song: “Baalue moon, you saw me standin’ alone, you knew just what I was there for, you heard me sayin’ a prayer for …” Then he attacked the pinball machine again.
The waitress brought the ice-cream cones. Leona took both cones and asked for a cushion. Reluctantly the waitress brought one, lifted Mamie, and slid the cushion under her. It wasn’t much of an improvement. “Your coffee’ll be right up,” the waitress said.
The blonde woman was sitting ramrod straight, hands folded in front of her, and the children were talking to her, but Leona couldn’t hear what was being said. The street was darker now, the sunset all but gone, and in the different light Leona could see the woman’s trembling fingers as they touched the tips of her hair, the vein that bounced in her tense throat. The waitress noticed that she was staring. “Don’t mind her,” she said, serving the coffee. “She drinks a little.”
Embarrassed, Leona lowered her gaze. The jukebox had stopped playing. “Okay,” she said to Mamie, “which do you think is best, the chocolate or the strawberry?” Again, Mamie leaned to the side until she could peek at the two children. “Then I’ll choose. Let’s see. I think I’ll have the … the chocolate,” but Mamie reached and took the chocolate cone. Leona had never before seen such determined contrariness in a child. Mamie heard everything she said, understood everything. Leona lifted the strawberry cone to her lips to conceal her smile.
Across the way, the little boy was having the same problem Mamie had had—he was swallowed up in the booth. Holding the glass of cola out like a torch, he drew one leg up under him and was bringing the other one up so he would be kneeling and tall in the seat, when the glass tipped in his hand and spilled.
There was a flash in the air; then, like the flick of a whip, the woman’s hand came down and struck the little boy’s face very hard. At the crack, Leona flinched, upsetting her coffee; it splashed into the saucer. No sooner did the boy cry out than he began to choke and fight back his tears.
The woman said, “I have told you and told you!” The cruelty in her voice bit into the air. “Now look at me! A goddam mess. And I spent hours.”
“Mommy, we’re sorry,” the little girl said.
“It’s a little late for your sorrys,” the woman said, and her hand flew out and down. The boy was defenseless; the blow caught him broadside and he screamed and kept screaming. Mamie had come up out of her seat and was standing motionless in the aisle. “His ear!” the boy’s sister pleaded. “Mommy, it’s his ear! Don’t hit his ear!” The woman’s hand flew up again and she struck the girl square in the face, slamming her against the booth wall. In reflex, as if absorbing the blow herself, Mamie’s hand crunched down on her cone, and the ice cream splattered on the floor. The woman twisted from the booth, splotchy with Coke, and tossed down a dollar. “You just wait till you get home!” She stalked out of the restaurant.
For a moment no one moved. In the booth, the children were crying. Leona looked at the waitresses and they stared back. One by one, the schoolboys slipped outside and were gone. It had happened so fast. The little girl huddled over her brother and then stumbled out into the room, the shape and definition of her mother’s hand now clearly imprinted across her face. She choked to find her voice. “He’s hurt! He’s hurt!” She looked at Leona. “Please!” she shouted. “It’s his ear! His bad ear!” The boy cowering in the booth still cried out.
Leona was too startled to act; tears stung her eyes. But Mamie had darted over to them, and suddenly she turned back. “Please,” she said. “You gotta come.”
“He’s hurt,” the little redheaded girl cried again. “He’s really hurt!”
“You gotta, you gotta!” Mamie climbed into the booth, bending over the little boy, who hadn’t moved. She was putting her hands around him, trying to help him get up. Leona went to them; she could hear the boy weeping and it tore her apart. She said to the waitress, “Do you have a damp cloth—anything?”
A wet dishcloth was brought to her and she said to the redheaded girl, “Now, stop crying. What’re your names?” And Patsy told her.
When Leona touched the little boy, he jerked away and drew into a tighter ball. She could still hear him crying under the protection of his arms. “Mamie, here,” she said. “Let me … let me look at him.” Mamie moved out of the way.
First Leona tried to coax him out; then quickly she tried to lift him out, but it was no use. She kept asking him, “Are you okay?” He wouldn’t budge. She sat down beside him and drew him into her arms. “There, now,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “There, now. It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll make it all okay.” She smoothed the unkempt hair and pressed the boy’s head against her body. “Don’t worry. It’s okay to cry,” and she could feel the small body give way against her; his arms came up around her and the anguish poured out of him in a long, trembling wail.
Leona had to look away to keep from being drawn into the child’s pain. She nearly wept herself. We have to go, she thought. We have to get out of
here right now.
No one else had come in. When she made a movement to get up, the small arms held on to her even tighter. Automatically her own arms responded to his; she felt the truth of that feeling spill through her. Still holding him, she put her coat around him and slid from the booth and stood.
“This is a very fine boy here,” she said, knowing the boy in her coat would hear her, too. Mamie was watching her intently, as if the words were visible as they came from her lips. “Look how fine he is.” For a moment, Leona stood gazing at the little redheaded girl, the wet cheeks and eyelashes, the blood smeared on her small upper lip; then she handed her the wet dishcloth. “Here, Patsy, let’s clean you up. We can’t have a pretty girl like you looking like this.”
“I can do it myself,” Patsy said. Slowly, Mamie tilted her body and looked at the boy, who was now hardly crying at all, his face buried in Leona’s coat. Leona looked compassionately at his sister. And then at Mamie. She took the dishcloth when it was handed to her, put it aside and went back to stroking the small head pressed into her shoulder.
“Patsy, I think you and Walter ought to come with us for now. You can ride in my car. We’ll decide what to do. Would you like that?”
“Okay,” Patsy said, excited. “Is your car very fast?”
“No,” Leona said, “not very fast.”
One of the waitresses said, “Hey, where’re you taking them?”
Leona couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m taking them home,” she said.
Ten miles out of Fielding Heights, Leona nearly lost control of the car as the enormity of what she had done struck her. From head to toe, through the very tips of her fingers, her body shook as if she had grabbed a live wire and couldn’t let go. With the last of her strength, she pulled the car off the road and covered her face with her shaking hands. “I have gone crazy,” she mumbled. “I have taken full leave of my senses and I didn’t even know it was happening. This is a terrible thing I’ve done.” And now there was nothing else she could do; she had to take them with her, at least for a while. She couldn’t just set them out on the side of the road like unwanted puppies. And yet she wanted to stop what was happening. If only I could just turn and go back, go all the way back, she thought.