held for me, I awoke to a thin chilly morning and the sound of Mrs. Klevity
moving around. She had set the table for breakfast, a formality we never had
time for at home. I scrambled out of bed and into my clothes with only my
skinny, goose-fleshed back between Mrs. Klevity and me for modesty. I felt
uncomfortable and unfinished because I hadn't brought our comb over with me.
I would have preferred to run home to our usual breakfast of canned milk
and Shredded Wheat, but instead I watched, fascinated, as Mrs. Klevity
struggled with lighting the kerosene stove. She bent so close, peering at the
burners with the match flaring in her hand that I was sure the frowzy brush of
her hair would catch fire, but finally the burner caught instead and she
turned her face toward me.
"One egg or two?" she asked.
"Eggs! Two!" Surprise wrung the exclamation from me. Her hand hesitated
over the crumpled brown bag on the table. "No, no!" I corrected her thought
hastily. "One. One is plenty," and sat on the edge of a chair watching as she
broke an egg into the sizzling frying pan.
"Hard or soft?" she asked.
"Hard," I said casually, feeling very woman-of-the-worldish, dining
out—well, practically—and for breakfast, too! I watched Mrs. Klevity spoon the
fat over the egg, her hair swinging stiffly forward when she peered. Once it
even dabbled briefly in the fat, but she didn't notice, and as it swung back,
it made a little shiny curve on her cheek.
"Aren't you afraid of the fire?" I asked as she turned away from the stove
with the frying pan. "What if you caught on fire?"
"I did once." She slid the egg out onto my plate. "See?" She brushed her
hair back on the left side and I could see the mottled pucker of a large old
scar. "It was before I got used to Here," she said, making Here more than the
house, it seemed to me.
"That's awful," I said, hesitating with my fork.
"Go ahead and eat," she said. "Your egg will get cold." She turned back to
the stove and I hesitated a minute more. Meals at a table you were supposed to
ask a blessing, but—I ducked my head quickly and had a mouthful of egg before
my soundless amen was finished.
After breakfast I hurried back to our house, my lunch-money dime clutched
securely, my stomach not quite sure it liked fried eggs so early in the
morning. Mom was ready to leave, her shopping bag in one hand, Danna swinging
from the other, singing one of her baby songs. She liked the day nursery.
"I won't be back until late tonight," Mom said. "There's a quarter in the
corner of the dresser drawer. You get supper for the kids and try to clean up
this messy place. We don't have to be pigs just because we live in a place
like this."
"Okay, Mom." I struggled with a snarl in my hair, the pulling making my
eyes water. "Where you working today?" I spoke over the clatter in the Other
room where the kids were getting ready for school.
She sighed, weary before the day began. "I have three places today, but the
last is Mrs. Paddington." Her face lightened. Mrs. Paddington sometimes paid a
little extra or gave Mom discarded clothes or leftover food she didn't want.
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She was nice. "You get along all right with Mrs. Klevity?" asked Mom as she checked hershopping bag for her work shoes."Yeah," I said. "But she's funny. She looks under the bed before she goesto bed." Mom smiled. "I've heard of people like that, but it's usually old maids
they're talking about."
"But, Mom, nothing coulda got in. She locked the door after I got there."
"People who look under beds don't always think straight," she said."Besides, maybe she'd like to find something under there."
"But she's got a husband," I cried after her as she herded Danna across thecourt.
"There are other things to look for besides husbands," she called back.
"Anna wants a husband! Anna wants a husband!" Deet and LaNell were dancingaround me, teasing me singsong. Kathy smiled slowly behind them.
"Shut up," I said. "You don't even know what you're talking about. Go on toschool."
"It's too early," said Deet, digging his bare toes in the dust of the frontyard. "Teacher says we get there too early."
"Then stay here and start cleaning house," I said.
They left in a hurry. After they were gone, Deet's feet reminded me I'dbetter wash my own feet before I went to school. So I got a washpan of waterfrom the tap in the middle of the court, and sitting on the side of the bed, Ieased my feet into the icy water. I scrubbed with the hard, gray, abrasivesoap we used and wiped quickly on the tattered towel. I threw the water outthe door and watched it run like dust-covered snakes across the hard-packedfront yard.
I went back to put my shoes on and get my sweater. I looked at the bed. Igot down on my stomach and peered under. Other things to look for. There wasthe familiar huddle of cardboard cartons we kept things in and the familiardust fluffs and one green sock LaNell had lost last week, but nothing else.
I dusted my front off. I tied my lunch-money dime in the corner of ahandkerchief, and putting my sweater on, left for school.
I peered out into the windy wet semi-twilight "Do I have to?"
"You said you would," said Mom. "Keep your promises. You should have gonebefore this. She's probably been waiting for you."
"I wanted to see what you brought from Mrs. Paddington's." LaNell and Kathywere playing in the corner with a lavender hug-me-tight and a hat with greengrapes on it. Deet was rolling an orange on the floor, softening itpreliminary to poking a hole in it to suck the juice out.
"She cleaned a trunk out today," said Mom. "Mostly old things that belongedto her mother, but these two coats are nice and heavy. They'll be good coverstonight. It's going to be cold. Someday when I get time, I'll cut them up andmake quilts." She sighed. Time was what she never had enough of. "Better takea newspaper to hold over your head."
"Oh, Mom!" I huddled into my sweater. "It isn't raining now. I'd feelsilly!"
"Well, then, scoot!" she said, her hand pressing my shoulder warmly,briefly.
I scooted, skimming quickly the flood of light from our doorway, andsplishing through the shallow runoff stream that swept across the court. Therewas a sudden wild swirl of wind and a vindictive splatter of heavy, coldraindrops that swept me, exhilarated, the rest of the way to Mrs. Klevity'shouse and under the shallow little roof that was just big enough to cover theback step. I knocked quickly, brushing my disordered hair back from my eyes.The door swung open and I was in the shadowy, warm kitchen, almost in Mrs.Klevity's arms.
"Oh!" I backed up, laughing breathlessly. "The wind blew—"
"I was afraid you weren't coming." She turned away to the stove. "I fixed
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some hot cocoa."
I sat cuddling the warm cup in my hands, savoring the chocolate sip by sip.She had made it with milk instead of water, and it tasted rich and wonderful.But Mrs. Klevity was sharing my thoughts with the cocoa. In that brief momentwhen I had been so close to her, I had looked deep into her dim eyes and wasfeeling a vast astonishment. The dimness was only on top.Underneath—underneath—
I took another sip of cocoa. Her eyes—almost I could have walked into them,it seemed like. Slip past the gray film, run down the shiny bright corridor,into the live young sparkle at the far end.
I looked deep into my cup of cocoa. Were all grownups like that? If youcould get behind their eyes, were they different too? Behind Mom's eyes, wasthere a corrid
or leading back to youth and sparkle?
I finished the cocoa drowsily. It was still early, but the rain wasdrumming on the roof and it was the kind of night you curl up to if you'rewarm and fed. Sometimes you feel thin and cold on such nights, but I wasfeeling curl-uppy. So I groped under the bed for the paper bag that had myjamas in it. I couldn't find it.
"I swept today," said Mrs. Klevity, coming back from some far country ofher thoughts. "I musta pushed it farther under the bed."
I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the bed. "Ooo!" I said."What's shiny?"
Something snatched me away from the bed and flung me to one side. By thetime I had gathered myself up off the floor and was rubbing a banged elbow,Mrs. Klevity's bulk was pressed against the bed, her head under it.
"Hey!" I cried indignantly, and then remembered I wasn't at home. I heardan odd whimpering sob and then Mrs. Klevity backed slowly away, still kneelingon the floor.
"Only the lock on the suitcase," she said. "Here's your jamas." She handedme the bag and ponderously pulled herself upright again.
We went silently to bed after she had limped around and checked the house,even under the bed again. I heard that odd breathy whisper of a prayer and layawake, trying to add up something shiny and the odd eyes and the whisperingsob. Finally I shrugged in the dark and wondered what I'd pick for funny whenI grew up. All grownups had some kind of funny.
The next night Mrs. Klevity couldn't get down on her knees to look underthe bed. She'd hurt herself when she plumped down on the floor after yankingme away from the bed.
"You'll have to look for me tonight," she said slowly, nursing her knees."Look good. Oh, Anna, look good!"
I looked as good as I could, not knowing what I was looking for.
"It should be under the bed," she said, her palms tight on her knees as sherocked back and forth. "But you can't be sure. It might miss completely."
"What might?" I asked, hunkering down by the bed.
She turned her face blindly toward me. "The way out," she said. "The wayback again—"
"Back again?" I pressed my cheek to the floor again. "Well, I don't seeanything. Only dark and suitcases."
"Nothing bright? Nothing? Nothing—" She tried to lay her face on her knees,but she was too unbendy to manage it, so she put her hands over her faceinstead. Grownups aren't supposed to cry. She didn't quite, but her handslooked wet when she reached for the clock to wind it.
I lay in the dark, one strand of her hair tickling my hand where it lay onthe pillow. Maybe she was crazy. I felt a thrill of terror fan out on myspine. I carefully moved my hand from under the lock of hair. How can you finda way out under a bed? I'd be glad when Mr. Klevity got home, eggs or no eggs,dime or no dime.
Somewhere in the darkness of the night, I was suddenly swimming towakefulness, not knowing what was waking me but feeling that Mrs. Klevity was
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awake too.
"Anna." Her voice was small and light and silver. "Anna—"
"Hummm?" I murmured, my voice still drowsy.
"Anna, have you ever been away from home?" I turned toward her, trying inthe dark to make sure it was Mrs. Klevity. She sounded so different.
"Yes," I said. "Once I visited Aunt Katie at Rocky Butte for a week."
"Anna . . ."I don't know whether she was even hearing my answers; her voicewas almost a chant ". . . Anna, have you ever been in prison?"
"No! Of course not!" I recoiled indignantly. "You have to be awfully bad tobe in prison."
"Oh, no. Oh, no!" she sighed. "Not jail, Anna. Prison—prison. The weight ofthe flesh—bound about—"
"Oh," I said, smoothing my hands across my eyes. She was talking to asomething deep in me that never got talked to, that hardly even had words."Like when the wind blows the clouds across the moon and the grass whispersalong the road and all the trees pull like balloons at their trunks and onestar comes out and says 'Come' and the ground says 'Stay' and part of youtries to go and it hurts—" I could feel the slender roundness of my ribs undermy pressing hands. "And it hurts—"
"Oh Anna, Anna!" The soft, light voice broke. "You feel that way and youbelong Here. You won't ever—"
The voice stopped and Mrs. Klevity rolled over. Her next words camethickly, as though a gray film were over them as over her eyes. "Are youawake, Anna? Go to sleep, child. Morning isn't yet."
I heard the heavy sigh of her breathing as she slept. And finally I slepttoo, trying to visualize what Mrs. Klevity would look like if she looked likethe silvery voice in the dark.
I sat savoring my egg the next morning, letting thoughts slip in and out ofmy mind to the rhythm of my jaws. What a funny dream to have, to talk with asilver-voiced someone. To talk about the way blowing clouds and windymoonlight felt. But it wasn't a dream! I paused with my fork raised. At leastnot my dream. But how can you tell? If you're part of someone else's dream,can it still be real for you?
"Is something wrong with the egg?" Mrs. Klevity peered at me.
"No—no—" I said, hastily snatching the bite on my fork. "Mrs. Klevity—"
"Yes." Her voice was thick and heavy-footed.
"Why did you ask me about being in prison?"
"Prison?" Mrs. Klevity blinked blindly. "Did I ask you about prison?"
"Someone did—I thought—" I faltered, shyness shutting down on me again.
"Dreams." Mrs. Klevity stacked her knife and fork on her plate. "Dreams."
I wasn't quite sure I was to be at Klevity's the next evening. Mr. Klevitywas supposed to get back sometime during the evening. But Mrs. Klevitywelcomed me.
"Don't know when he'll get home," she said. "Maybe not until morning. If hecomes early, you can go home to sleep and I'll give you your dime anyway."
"Oh, no," I said, Mom's teachings solidly behind me. "I couldn't take it ifI didn't stay."
"A gift," said Mrs. Klevity.
We sat opposite one another until the silence stretched too thin for me tobear.
"In olden times," I said, snatching at the magic that drew stories fromMom, "when you were a little girl—"
"When I was a girl—" Mrs. Klevity rubbed her knees with reflective hands."The other Where. The other When."
"In olden times," I persisted, "things were different then."
"Yes." I settled down comfortably, recognizing the reminiscent tone ofvoice. "You do crazy things when you are young." Mrs. Klevity leaned heavilyon the table. "Things you have no business doing. You volunteer when you're
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young." I jerked as she lunged across the table and grabbed both my arms. "But
I am young! Three years isn't an eternity. I am young!"
I twisted one arm free and pried at her steely fingers that clamped the
other one.
"Oh." She let go. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
She pushed back the tousled brush of her hair.
"Look," she said, her voice almost silver again. "Under all this—this
grossness, I'm still me. I thought I could adjust to anything, but I had no
idea that they'd put me in such—" She tugged at her sagging dress. "Not the
clothes!" she cried. "Clothes you can take off. But this—" Her fingers dug
into her heavy shoulder and I could see the bulge of flesh between them.
"If I knew anything about the setup maybe I could locate it. Maybe I could
call. Maybe—"
Her shoulders sagged and her eyelids dropped down over her dull eyes.
"It doesn't make any sense to you," she said, her voice heavy and thick
again. 'To you I'd be old even There. At the time it seemed like a perfect way
to have an odd holiday and help out with research, too. But we got caught."
She began to count her fingers, mumbling to herself. 'Three years There,
but Here that's—eight threes are—" She
traced on the table with a blunt
forefinger, her eyes close to the old, worn-out cloth.
"Mrs. Klevity." My voice scared me in the silence, but I was feeling the
same sort of upsurge that catches you sometimes when you're playing-like and
it gets so real. "Mrs. Klevity, if you've lost something, maybe I could look
for it for you."
"You didn't find it last night," she said.
"Find what?"
She lumbered to her feet. "Let's look again. Everywhere. They'd surely be
able to locate the house."
"What are we looking for?" I asked, searching the portable oven.
"You'll know it when we see it," she said.
And we searched the whole house. Oh, such nice things! Blankets, not
tattered and worn, and even an extra one they didn't need. And towels with
washrags that matched—and weren't rags. And uncracked dishes that matched! And
glasses that weren't jars. And books. And money. Crisp new-looking bills in
the little box in the bottom drawer—pushed back under some extra pillowcases.
And clothes—lots and lots of clothes. All too big for any of us, of course,
but my practiced eye had already visualized this, that, and the other cut down
to dress us all like rich people.
I sighed as we sat wearily looking at one another. Imagine having so much
and still looking for something else! It was bedtime and all we had for our
pains were dirty hands and tired backs.
I scooted out to the bath house before I undressed. I gingerly washed the
dirt off my hands under the cold of the shower and shook them dry on the way
back to the house. Well, we had moved everything in the place, but nothing was
what Mrs. Klevity looked for.
Back in the bedroom, I groped under the bed for my jamas and again had to
lie flat and burrow under the bed for the tattered bag. Our moving around had
wedged it back between two cardboard cartons. I squirmed under farther and
tried to ease it out after shoving the two cartons a little farther apart. The
bag tore, spilling out my jamas, so I grasped them in the bend of my elbow and
started to back out.
Then the whole world seemed to explode into brightness that pulsated and
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