“Peppering him?” asked Donna. “Peppering him with what?”
“Peppering him with pepper. She had him on her lap and she was shaking the pepper jar over him as if he were a pizza. I don’t think any got into his eyes. But I wanted to strangle the bitch.” Pam bit her lip and bent her curly head.
“What happened next?” Donna mildly inquired.
“I said, ‘Please stop that, Concepta. You can’t hurt people here.’ And I sat down beside her and she handed the kid over with a giggle. ‘We were only having fun,’ she told me. I dandled him and he stopped crying and after awhile I handed him back. What else could I do?”
“Not a thing,” said Beth softly, her plump little hands stirring in her lap.
“Not a damned thing,” said Donna.
Reporting incidents to the authorities was out of the question. Donna’s Ladle rarely knew the last names of its guests, nor even their real first names if they chose to glide in under a nom de guerre. Their addresses, if they had any, were their own business. This peppering was thus far an isolated event. Concepta usually came in alone, drunk but not drinking. (“You can’t drink here” was another rule. Shouting and doping were also forbidden. All four rules were frequently broken.)
“Did you suggest the Children’s Room?” Donna asked Pam.
Pam lifted her narrow shoulders. “I’d suggested that earlier, before she decided to season him. But Concepta didn’t want her niño anywhere near Ricky Mendozo, and Ricky was in the Children’s Room that morning. ‘Might catch it,’ Concepta said.”
Ricky Mendozo’s mother had AIDS. Ricky himself was a sickly child, often hospitalized. Donna and Pam and Beth understood Concepta’s reluctance to let her grandchild play with the runnynosed, frequently soiled Ricky. As far as the staff knew Ricky did not have AIDS. But the staff didn’t know very much.
Some things they did know. They knew that the little kids who came in liked stuffed animals and trucks and toys you could ride and toys you could climb into. They liked crayons and paint. They didn’t like to put things away. They liked to hurl things around; and to hurl themselves around; and to sit on laps. They enjoyed ice cream, though they were fearful of getting themselves dirty. They were loud and possessive and self-centered; but they had learned somewhere that when you grabbed a toy from another child you had to shout “Share!”
But when their mothers or aunts or grandmothers or father’s girlfriends retrieved them after lunch, something frightened could be felt to uncoil within certain of these stained, smelly little persons. The children did their part in the rough ceremony of reunion—“Where the fuck’s your cap?” “Did you make a mess like always?”—by producing an article of clothing or feinting at mopping some milk. But the staff felt their hearts sink, and the Maeves claimed that theirs broke in two, at the premonition of outrage that might follow, back in the welfare motel, or the scabby apartment, or the room grudgingly loaned by a sister-in-law, places where even the bare-bones rules of Donna’s Ladle did not prevail. “He had such a nice morning,” shuddered a Maeve one mild November afternoon, as the voice of Nathaniel’s mother shot through an open basement window from the sidewalk: “You do what I say, hear? Or else!”
“‘Or else’ may mean no more than a slap,” said Donna to the worried girl. “And he did have a nice morning. That’s important.”
It was important to keep the Children’s Room open, even though maintaining the play area meant that there were fewer hands making lunch in the kitchen. Some children had become regulars—Nathaniel, Cassandra, Africa, Elijah. Others visited from time to time. These days—because of the Helping Hands’ clothing drive—the Ladle’s youngest guests wore outfits that had originated in Neiman-Marcus and Bloomingdale’s.
But the erect and solemn girl of about seven who appeared one December morning was not wearing the castoffs of a Godolphin child—not of a twentieth-century child, anyway. Her long dress of gray flannel might have belonged to an early citizen of Massachusetts Bay if it had not had a back zipper. The woman who accompanied the child was garbed also in a long plain home-sewn dress. They wore identical brown capes. Each had a single braid, thick and fair. The child’s straight-browed gray eyes resembled her mother’s. But the girl lacked the scar that ran down the left side of the woman’s face from the lower lid to the middle of the cheek.
When they arrived Beth was circulating through the large basement dining-room with a tray of knishes. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Beth.”
A silence followed. “Yes,” said the woman at last.
At Donna’s Ladle the staff restricted its questions to matters of food and comfort. And so: “Would you like a meat pastry?” said Beth, bending down to the child. “Take two.” But the child, with murmured thanks, took only one.
Beth straightened up. “We’re glad to have you with us,” she said. “Please feel at home. We serve lunch at noon. Sit at any table. Breakfast fixings are on the buffet against the wall. The Quiet Room is behind you,” and she pointed with her free hand. “The Children’s Room is next to it.” She backed away. “Feel at home,” she repeated weakly, realizing that this couple would not feel at home anywhere.
Beth reported her encounter to Donna, who was concocting a sweet-and-sour sauce in the kitchen. Donna handed the wooden spoon to a volunteer and moved to the pass-through, from which vantage point she could see the entire dining room.
“On the right,” said Beth.
Donna was distracted by the sight of twenty-year-old Bitsy crooning to a stuffed animal. “Off her meds?”
“Yes. Says they addle her.”
Donna shifted her gaze to the next table. She saw the new guests. They were seated side by side. The child’s hands, clasped, rested on the table. The mother’s hands lay in her lap. Each was attentive to the space in front of her eyes . . . to the vision of some New Jerusalem, Donna suspected.
“Adventuresses, do you think?” said Beth. “I’ll go have a chat with poor Bitsy.”
“Actresses on their lunch break,” suggested Pam, at Donna’s other shoulder. “What’s that Arthur Miller play?”
“The Crucible,” said Donna. Pam moved off.
“They’re like from another world,” breathed a Maeve who had replaced Beth.
And Josie had replaced Pam. “Weirdos.”
Donna didn’t reply. These newcomers were not the poor she had always with her. She was used to cheats and crazies, drunks and dealers. She was fond of little retired chambermaids whose voices still shivered with brogues; they relied on the Ladle to augment their pitiful pensions. She liked hot-tempered sisters from the South and the South Bronx; she viewed with puzzled respect magic-mongers from the Islands; and she was even accustomed to certain outspoken religious zealots—Shrews of Christ, Josie called them. But plain-living Puritans—what were they doing in her facility?
The pair didn’t look needy. But the Ladle’s policy must hold: no prying. Among the guests were a few batty gentlewomen who might well possess million-dollar trust funds, who probably lunched at the Ritz on the days that the Ladle was closed. They were served without question. So too would this mother and daughter be served. It was the rule.
In the months that followed, Donna and Beth and Pam learned a few facts about the mother and daughter, facts which they shared at the weekly staff meetings. The woman’s name was Signe. The child’s was Rhea. Signe was separated from Rhea’s father, a clergyman. Signe and Rhea lived in two basement rooms, just over the line in Boston. They received a monthly check from the clergyman. It met their wants. “But only barely,” said Signe to Donna. “We are grateful to the Ladle for our breakfasts and lunches.”
“I’m so glad. But there are other sources you could tap, too,” Donna responded. “The state government supplements inadequate incomes, and the city itself . . .”
“No.”
After a few minutes Donna said idly, “We sometimes hear of jobs. Tailoring work.”
“Rhea is my work.”
Donna looked at the sever
e little girl, who was reading a thick book. The Bible? Donna wondered, craning her neck.
“It was Grimm’s,” she reported that week. “In the Modern Library edition. No pictures. Impressive.”
“Signe teaches her at home,” said Beth.
“Isn’t that against the law?”
“No,” said Pam; and then looked down at her hiking boots. She was terrified of seeming to show off.
“Tell us,” Donna laughed.
Pam ran both hands through her curls. “There’s a law that even provides for home schooling, sets down regulations. But the person who teaches has to take a test, and a curriculum has to be followed, and materials . . . Signe would probably meet the requirements.” Pam shrugged. “I doubt she’s deigned to apply.”
Signe and Rhea spent most mornings in the Children’s Room. Shortly before lunch they selected places at a table in the dining room. Before they ate they bowed their heads in silent prayer, and then quietly and with perfect manners dispatched whatever was set before them; then they returned to the Room. There Rhea sat on a low chair beside her mother with her book, turning pages, rarely looking up.
A Maeve named Michelle—the fifth of seven children—took a sisterly interest in Rhea. She offered to play with the girl. She offered to walk with her to the park. On one occasion she offered to tell Rhea some Navajo fables. “I’m minoring in Folklore,” she confided to the Children’s Room at large. “I’m majoring in American Women. I’m writing my senior paper on Donna.”
Donna was scraping dried oatmeal from the easel. She raised her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, it’s almost finished,” said Michelle.
Michelle’s invitations to Rhea were always met with a polite refusal—from the child; the mother listened without comment.
“There’s a lovely pulpit upstairs,” said Michelle one morning. “Shall we have a look at it together?”
“No, thank you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see my dormitory? It’s just a few blocks away.”
“No, thank you.”
Donna had to take Michelle aside. “I think perhaps—if you’re just nearby, like an old tree, she’ll eventually come to you.”
“She’s so lonely,” wailed Michelle.
“Little Cassandra would love to build a block tower.”
“Cassandra’s no challenge.”
“Yes, well, but,” murmured Donna. “Okay?”
When Rhea did play she played by herself: arranged the doll house, or drew elaborate diagrams that looked like plans for lace tablecloths. Meanwhile Signe actually did crochet, her hands and hook converting a ball of wheat-colored thread into a long loose fabric. The ball of thread lay in a canvas sack, and the fabric she made dropped slowly into the sack too, and so none of the staff knew whether Signe was making afghan strips or dresser scarves or just yards of trimmings. The woman was as silent and as absorbed as her daughter. Once in awhile, though, when one of the toddlers became difficult, she would put down her crocheting, rise from the chair, and pick up the whining or bawling or flailing child. The child grew instantly quiet, either borrowing Signe’s composure or becoming paralyzed with terror. After a few minutes Signe set the youngster down and returned to her work, her scar glistening like the trail of a tear.
The winter wore on. There were two fist fights. There was a fight with knives; the police had to be called. Concepta was caught drinking in the bathroom and was barred for a week. An elderly guest was found dead in her rented room. Another was found almost dead in an alley. Pam began to lead after-lunch discussions on subjects like Self-Esteem and Expectations. Cassandra and her mother stopped coming to the Ladle. Over dessert one afternoon Donna wondered aloud what had become of them. Her table erupted with answers.
“They went South.”
“They went to New York.”
“The gran took them back.”
“She married that sonofabitch.”
Donna was impressed by this group confabulation. She lit a rare cigarette. Cassandra and her mother would return. Or else they would not.
“But all those explanations can’t be true,” said Michelle to Donna as she took away the dishes.
“Sure they can. Seriatim. It’s not our business, toots.”
“Whose business is it?”
“The parole officer’s. You’ve got to take some things as you find them, Michelle.”
Michelle wheeled furiously away. She deposited her stack of dishes in the pass-through. Noisily scraping a chair, she sat down beside a guest who had once practiced law. Donna heard the girl enthusiastically propose that the former lawyer write down some of her experiences. The delighted guest understood this as an invitation to dictate her autobiography. “I am born,” she began.
Donna considered rescuing her acolyte, thought better of it, took refuge in the Children’s Room. Within a few minutes she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Ricky Mendozo was sniffling in her lap. Nathaniel and Elijah were lining up trucks, squabbling lightly. Bitsy lounged in the doorway, a teddy bear under her arm.
“The sauce on the fish was funny today,” said Bitsy. “Did you make it, Donna?”
“Josie made it.”
“The volunteer that looks like a parrot?”
“She has red hair and dresses colorfully,” Donna sidestepped.
“What’s in that sauce, huh?”
“Yoghurt and mayonnaise.”
“Where’s my Nathaniel!” said Nathaniel’s mother, bursting past Bitsy.
“I prefer lemon butter,” said Bitsy.
“You, Nathaniel. Ain’t you ready?”
Nathaniel ran toward Donna. Ricky, still in Donna’s lap, gave him a feeble kick. Nathaniel yelled and punched Ricky. Nathaniel’s mother slapped Nathaniel. Elijah threw a truck at Bitsy.
The trouble swirled and then settled. Donna got help from Michelle, who thereby escaped from the lawyer’s reminiscences. By three o’clock most of the children and their mothers had been bundled out. Beth and some volunteers were putting the kitchen to rights. Michelle was singing to Africa. Pam was managing to calm Elijah’s gorgeous turquoise-eyed mother, who claimed that her social worker had recommended prostitution as a career. Donna was mopping the dining room.
“Good-bye,” said a low voice: Signe’s. She was carrying her sack and several books. Rhea too had books within each elbow. Their capes, widened by their burdens, looked like bat wings.
Many guests made use of the public library. Free toilets, a choice of periodicals, chairs to snooze in. But Signe and Rhea actually borrowed and returned books. They patronized the museum, too; a volunteer had spotted them at a lecture on Dutch Interiors. And Pam had once seen them at the State House, listening to a debate on the budget. Those events were probably part of Rhea’s schooling. They were Fine Arts and Social Studies field trips, just like the ones taken by schoolchildren, but uncomplicated by questions of who would sit next to whom on the bus. Rhea would end up better educated than her cohorts. “She’ll get into Harvard,” Pam had predicted. “That’s more than I did.”
But Donna thought that the girl would be better off in a classroom, learning to tolerate and interact and share. Schools weren’t meant only for the likeable. There must be a place for this scarily self-possessed miniature of her mother. Let Signe crochet in the corridor if the two couldn’t bear separation. Let them practice their queer habits somewhere else.
“Good-bye,” Donna said.
She watched them go. She leaned on her mop, letting her distaste for the pair flood her cheeks. The motherly slaps and threats and insults she countenanced every day at the Ladle didn’t bother her as much as Signe’s austere silence. She wondered if Signe controlled her girl by means of some drug undreamed of by the street-smart clientele of the Ladle—brimstone, maybe, bubbling on the stove in their basement apartment.
“Am I glad them two is gone,” Africa’s aunt said, finally coming out of the john. She tied Africa’s knitted hat so tightly that the child’s face bulged bene
ath it.
“Which two?”
“Which two? The devil and her child. They give me the creeps. And is you the cutest cookie God ever made?” she inquired of Africa, who burbled something in return.
“Isn’t the devil a man, Ollie?”
“He can put on a dress, honey. Do you happen to have an extra buck or two? Pampers is so expensive.”
Pampers were indeed expensive. They were regularly stolen from stores and resold on the street; the entrepreneurs involved made a tidy supplemental income. Donna gave Ollie both money and pampers; and was rewarded by a mammoth embrace that made her grin—it was so easy, so emphatic, so momentarily sincere, so ultimately meaningless. “Hug me again,” demanded Donna.
Ollie complied. Then: “How about another pamper?”
Donna gave her the rest of the box of diapers. Ollie and Africa jounced away. “You’re the devil,” Donna called after them, laughing. As for Signe—she was merely a visitor from a strict, drear world.
Donna turned her thoughts to current problems. The Helping Hands had dropped the Ladle in favor of Animal Rights. The Maeves’ attendance had slackened, though Michelle remained faithful. The price of vegetables was going up; even broccoli was almost out of sight. Mice were running free in the pantry. Tomorrow, Thursday, might be a nightmare. Pam was to lead an after-lunch discussion of Empowerment; and who knew what would ensue? Last month the Empowerment session had ended in disarray: the former lawyer had lengthily cited cases; Bitsy in disgust had poured iced tea down a new guest’s back. Perhaps tomorrow’s meeting would be more orderly. A representative from the Governor’s office had promised to drop in. Donna hoped he wouldn’t get the iced tea.
In fact, the Empowerment discussion went well. The guests who attended drafted a petition protesting budget cuts. Bitsy caused no trouble: she stayed in the Children’s Room with Michelle and Elijah. In the dining room Elijah’s mother sat next to the Governor’s representative and with judicious obscenity explained exactly how this State had failed her. A knapsack containing all her belongings lay on the table in front of her; she punched it for emphasis. The Governor’s representative jotted down some notes, but mostly he stared hungrily at Elijah’s beautiful mother—at her glossy hair, braided like an Indian bride’s; at her ivory skin; at her long blue-green eyes.
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