Getting Rid of Mabel

by Keziah Frost

  “She’s a little smarty, that one,” said Lorraine in a low tone. “Anybody could see that. I have a feeling she’s gonna change things around here. She’s the new generation. We need her. Because you know what, Carlotta? I’ll tell you what: Life goes on. I’ve lost people, you’ve lost people…”

  Carlotta did not like where this was going.

  Lorraine, ever-sensitive to Carlotta’s moods, made a U-turn. “And here we still are, and life goes on. Not to mention, this is not an ordinary kid. I taught fifth-grade, remember. I know a gifted child when I see one. First time I met her, I’ll be honest with you, that’s the impression I got. This kid is way up there.”

  Carlotta felt very pleased, as if Queen’s brightness were, in some way, to her credit.

  “Wait,” said Lorraine. “Where is she?”

  Lorraine stood and peered toward the kitchen. Then, stepping lightly, she walked swiftly back toward the bathroom and bedrooms. Carlotta remained on the couch.

  From Lorraine’s bedroom, Queen’s voice bellowed, “I hate you! I’ll shoot you! I’ll kill you!”

  Carlotta stood and hurried toward the commotion.

  Queen was seated on Lorraine’s bedroom floor with Lorraine’s open wallet. Before Queen, on the rug, were bills and coins, stacked in neat denominations.

  “You gonna shoot me?” asked Lorraine. “Whaddaya—gonna shoot me with your finger?”

  Queen was stuffing the money back into the wallet. “I was just counting it. It’s $37.42. You scared me.”

  “Oh, so now I scared you? While you’re taking money outta my wallet I scared you? So I should be ashamed of myself? Or what?”

  “Lorraine!” Carlotta found her voice at last. “Let’s not talk about this right now. Let’s get all the money back in the wallet, and just calm down first.”

  “Calm down? Calm down? I am calm. I don’t need to calm down. What? I don’t have a right to say, whaddaya doing, getting into my wallet? I shouldn’t say that? What?”

  “People don’t like to be cornered, Lorraine. It’s humiliating.”

  “Whadda you? Crazy? The kid was going through my wallet!”

  “Oh! You just love to find people out, don’t you? That’s one of your faults, Lorraine. You should work on that.”

  -59-

  Carlotta and Queen walked from Lorraine’s house to Carlotta’s in silence, letting their emotions settle. Once inside, Carlotta said to Queen, “Let’s have a little heart-to-heart, dear.”

  “Uh oh. Here we go,” said Queen, flopping onto the couch, with Toutou lying supportively at her feet.

  “‘Here we go’—where?” asked Carlotta.

  “Here we go, back into the system,” sighed Queen.

  Carlotta regarded Queen, whose downcast eyes gave her a look of defeat.

  “My, how you dramatize things,” said Carlotta. “We simply need to talk, that’s all. No need to bring ‘the system’ into it.”

  “Oh,” said Queen. “You say that now. I know how this goes.”

  Carlotta reflected. Did Queen know how this would go? Would the child inevitably go back into the foster care system? But she hadn’t done anything so awful. She had misbehaved, but every child does that.

  “I wasn’t trying to steal—you know that, don’t you, Mrs. Moon? I wasn’t. I said I was counting the money, and I was counting it.”

  “But why?”

  “I just like to know what people have.”

  Carlotta nodded. We all like to know that.

  “But you do understand—that’s not allowed? Just because we ‘like to know,’ that doesn’t mean we can get into people’s purses.” Carlotta thought it more tactful to use the first person plural, rather than put Queen on the defensive with the pronoun “you.” “And another thing. Whenever we may be embarrassed or upset, we don’t threaten to kill anyone. That really puts people off, you know.”

  “Mrs. Andretta hates me now. And Hope will, too, when she finds out. Because you’re going to tell Hope, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Andretta does not hate you. She knows children are not good all of the time. And as for Hope….” Carlotta realized that Hope would be swayed by Carlotta’s own attitude toward the incident. “Well, I’ll explain to Hope that you are sorry and that you apologized to Mrs. Andretta. Because that’s what you are going to do: call her and apologize, and tell her you will never do anything like that again.”

  Queen’s temper ignited.

  “Apologize? I --wasn’t --stealing! Ooh, you all love apologies, but I don’t ever hear any of you apologize for anything you do. Grown-ups lie and do all kinds of things, and never ever say sorry.”

  Tears of rage trembled in Queen’s eyes, before spilling forward and trickling down her face, and dripping from her chin. She held the heels of her hands up to her eyes to try to stop the flow. Her mouth was contorted as she gasped to hold back the sobs that wanted to burst from her. Her nose began to run, and Carlotta handed her a tissue.

  She realized that this child had had a volatile past, of which Carlotta was ignorant. She wondered how much Hope knew about Queen’s previous life.

  Queen, gaining control of her tears and straightening her back, challenged, “I bet you don’t ever apologize, Mrs. Moon.”

  “Of course, I do, Queen. All the time,” Carlotta lied. “It’s the most natural thing in the world. I apologize, and so do you. All right-thinking people do.”

  Queen sniffed and hesitated. She wiped her nose with the tissue.

  “Am I a right-thinking person?”

  “You will be, when you apologize,” assured Carlotta.

  -60-

  Hope stood over the recycling bin with the mail: pizza coupons and flyers from local stores. On the counter, she laid the bill from the sanitary district. And there was a handwritten envelope, addressed in a flowing cursive hand to Miss Queen Serafina Jones. Hope read the sender’s name: Dahleeya Jones, Inmate #4482023. The letter came from the Compton Walker Correctional Facility in Shelton, New York.

  The social worker that Hope secretly called “the Wish Fairy”—the nice one—had told her a little bit about Queen’s mother. She was serving a twelve-year term, of which she had already served four years. Still, by the time she would be released, Queen would be seventeen. Ms. Jones had given up her parental rights so that all three of her daughters could be adopted and have some stability. The two younger ones had their forever family, but Queen had been harder to place. The Wish Fairy encouraged Hope to take Queen to see her mother, saying that it was important for the child’s emotional health, but added that it was not a requirement, and maybe was a lot to ask. The prison was two hours away from Gibbons Corner.

  Hope turned to find Queen watching her from the kitchen doorway.

  “Is that for me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Hope, holding the envelope out to her.

  Hope wanted to be the mother of this child, but the child already had a mother.

  Queen opened the envelope carefully, making a jagged split with her finger down the side and sliding out two folded sheets of notebook paper which she opened and set on the table, smoothing out the creases. It was not a letter, but one blank page, and one sheet that displayed the tracing of a hand. In the palm of the hand were printed the words: “Remember me.” Each of the five fingers contained a message: “Forever in my heart,” “Do good in school,” “You are smart,” “Your mama loves you, always will,” “Write to me.”

  Queen ran her own fingers along the drawn fingers, and then pressed her left hand against the larger left hand on the page. She looked up at Hope.

  “My mama, every year, around the start of the school year, she sends me her hand. Then I trace mine, on the other paper, and send it back to her. She collects them, to watch how my hand is growing. She’s making a scrapbook. It has all my letters to her. She says it makes her feel good to read them over and over. Do you have an envelope and a stamp you could give me?”

  -61-

  The next day, Que
en, jostled by the throng of liberated children, emerged from Central School to see Mr. Zelenka waiting for her with his little white Chihuahua, Ivy, in his carrying bag. Tuesdays were his day. She would walk with him to the Good Fortune Café, where Hope would be bustling around. She would sit at a booth where he could keep an eye on her while she did her homework, and he would read fortunes with cards. People came from all over to get a reading from him. He was like that Madame Fifi on late-night TV.

  Queen’s last foster mother had been a fan of Madame Fifi, whose show came on at 2 a.m. From her bedroom door which was right across from the blaring living room TV, Queen would observe that foster mother smoke cigarettes, take little sips from a small glass with a golden colored liquid in it, and watch the “amazing television psychic that everyone is talking about,” as the announcer asserted. Madame Fifi was a heavy woman with lots of black eyeliner and a French accent that seemed to come and go. She took calls from around the country. The callers asked questions like, “Is he cheatin’ on me?” and “Am I coming into a lot of money soon?” After half an hour, sadly, Madame Fifi would tell her audience that she had to go off the air now, but they could—and should—still call her tonight, at the number on the screen. One night, Queen watched as her foster mother dialed. She heard as her foster mother read the numbers off her credit card.

  Then she listened in.

  “Is this Madame Fifi? …. It don’t sound like you, Madame Fifi…. It is? You sure? Okay….” The foster mother stabbed out the stub of a cigarette in an ashtray and breathed out a stream of smoke. “Well, here’s what I want to know, and if you’re a real psychic, and I do believe you are, you should be able to tell me this: ‘Where is my boyfriend right now?’”

  Queen couldn’t hear Madame Fifi’s response, but she could tell that her foster mother was getting very mad, so she slipped back to bed. Wrapping herself in the thin covers, she lay awake, and imagined having the super power of knowing everything about everyone. Yes, that would be the super power she would choose for herself, if she could choose.

  Today, as they walked together, Mr. Zelenka pointed out the trees and told her what kind they all were. They gathered a fallen, colored leaf from each species. He showed her the veins in the leaves, and said they were like the veins in a person’s hand, carrying sap, which was like blood to a human. Queen noticed the veins on the back of Mr. Zelenka’s hand, which stood out because he was old.

  Queen asked, “If trees have blood, then where’s their heart?”

  Mr. Zelenka did not laugh, but paused to consider.

  “Now, that is a very good question,” he said, and Queen felt proud of herself for thinking of it.

  Mr. Zelenka continued, “That question shows your mind is busy working.” He tapped his temple. “Actually, trees don’t have a heart muscle, like we do.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said Queen. “I was just playing.”

  Then he began to tell her about photosynthesis.

  Queen was not interested in photosynthesis. She would have preferred to think of trees with beating hearts. While he spoke, she felt the kindness in his voice and she thought that he was a nice man, probably, and that he was not like the foster dads and granddads she had met so far.

  At the café, Hope lit up with happiness when she saw Queen, and tried to give her a kiss, but Queen turned her face away, as she always did. She didn’t need foster mothers kissing on her.

  Then Hope brought her an avocado on rye sandwich and a glass of juice, and rushed away, busy with customers.

  Norbert didn’t have a customer, so he and Queen played rummy with a spare deck he had in his bag.

  “That Ivy’s looking at me,” said Queen, with a giggle. “She’s like, ‘who are you?’” Queen waved her index finger at the little dog.

  Mr. Zelenka was smiling. One thing Queen noticed about him: he was always smiling, no matter what was going on. Did that mean he was always happy? Or was that just what his face did? She thought that was just what his face did. To know how he felt, she would have to look past the smile for another clue.

  “Do you like your job?” asked Queen, conversationally, arranging the cards in her hand according to suit.

  “Fortune telling? Why, yes, I do. I used to be an accountant, you know. I helped companies with budgets and taxes and things.”

  “That sounds boring,” commented Queen.

  Mr. Zelenka agreed, “I guess it does. I did like it at the time. I like things that make sense.”

  Queen nodded vigorously.

  “But this—” He waved to indicate his booth in the café, “This is much better. I feel like I help people with their lives.”

  “Mr. Zelenka.” Queen lay her cards down on the table. “What’s it like, to know everything about everyone?” She rested her chin in her hands, the better to focus on his answer.

  “Oh, my!” Mr. Zelenka, smiling, looked with interest into Queen’s eyes, and set his cards down, as well. “Is that what you think? That I know everything about everyone? Oh my goodness, no.”

  Queen was disappointed.

  “Then, you’re a fake?”

  Mr. Zelenka’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, not that, either!”

  Queen twisted her mouth and looked at him skeptically.

  “Let me explain. A customer comes in and we lay out the cards in the horseshoe spread. While they are shuffling, handing me cards, and maybe telling me why they came, I am getting a sense of what they want or need in their lives, what would be good for them.”

  Queen folded her arms and pursed her lips, listening.

  “It’s not magic,” Norbert went on. “It’s not even ESP. I notice their clothes, their attitude, their posture—everything I can see. I listen to their words and their tone. It’s just paying really good attention—plus the fact that I have lived a long time, so I’ve seen a lot of things before. It’s like each person is a puzzle and I try to put them together while we sit here and look at the cards. And my goal is to help them see what they need to see, and to feel better in some way, to feel encouraged.”

  “So you are too a fake.” And Queen had thought Mr. Zelenka was a nice man. “You say you are a fortune-teller, but really, you’re just reading people.”

  “I am reading people—in order to help them. I’m helping them see things that they themselves are not paying attention to. When they sit with me and think that I have the answers from the Universe or something, they somehow become more honest with themselves. They tune into their own answers. I always tell them that—all their answers are already within them. But they never believe me.”

  Queen considered this.

  “So what you do—you try to help people by having a conversation…. So, you’re like a social worker, except instead of a laptop, you have a deck of cards.”

  “Something like that,” agreed Mr. Zelenka.

  In the front of the café, Hope was greeting a small blond lady who had just come in. She was wearing a brown tweed coat and tall boots, and looked like a white Skipper doll with freckles. It was Summer Moon, Hope’s cousin and Mrs. Moon’s granddaughter. Queen called her Miss Moon, because she wasn’t married.

  “Mr. Zelenka, hello! And Queen! How are you, honey?”

  Mr. Zelenka, nodding toward Queen, said, “I’m keeping an eye on the little lady today,” and he seemed proud to say it. “I was just thinking of closing for business and heading to the park with her. It’s too beautiful of a day for a child to be sitting in a café.”

  “Ah, but first, you have a customer to read for.”

  Mr. Zelenka looked toward the counter, where customers had to sign in to reserve a time slot with him.

  “Me! I’m your customer! Don’t you remember last winter; you promised me my second reading?”

  Mr. Zelenka shook his head.

  “My first reading for you had such unintended consequences. To tell you the truth, I’m nervous to try again. If I do read for you, you have to promise not to do anything impulsive this time.”


  “Okay, I promise!”

  Miss Moon slid into the booth opposite Mr. Zelenka and held out her hand for the deck of cards. Then she turned to Queen.

  “Uh, this is a private reading. You don’t need to be listening to us. So, why don’t you move a couple of tables away, honey, and work on your homework while I’m talking to Mr. Zelenka. Get it all done, so you’ll be able to go play at the park.”

  Queen didn’t like this Miss Moon’s attitude. She wasn’t in charge. She was a bossy pants. Queen didn’t like so many people acting like they could tell her what to do. She had all the bossing she could stand, between Hope and the old Mrs. Moon, and on Tuesdays Mr. Zelenka. Of the bunch of them, Mr. Zelenka pretty much let her do anything, as long as it was safe. But she didn’t need for anyone to be in charge of her.

  “I’ll stay right here, thank you. I got all my stuff set up already. I’m not trying to hear what you all are talking about. Got my own work to do.”

  And without looking up to check if that was okay with Miss Bossy Pants, Queen went on about her own business. She had math homework to do, and it wasn’t easy.

  Of course, being a snoop, she kept her ears open. That was how you found things out about people. One of the ways. Miss Moon lowered her voice, but Queen’s hearing was sharp. Miss Moon asked Mr. Zelenka about guys: this guy, or that guy, or maybe the other guy was better?

  Queen sure was glad that Hope wasn’t thinking about guys. Or was she? This inspired Queen to pull out her notebook and do a little writing.

  If you are a forster kid reading this, one thing you do NOT want is your forster mother to get a boyfreind. Beleive me. Almost every forster mother always wants to get a man in the house. I do not know why because when he gets in the house life gets worst for everybody. When she gets a boyfriend they fight and he makes her cry. He might be nice but he probly won’t. I never seen a nice one. He can do stuff to you and she’ll be on his side. So you just stop him from getting into the house & I am serius. Serius as a harder tack.