What Happened on Fox Street

by Tricia Springstubb

  Mo’s eyes searched the hillside, looking for a hole. Oh, they were so smart—so foxy! If a den was nearby, it was perfectly camouflaged. Though a fly landed on her knee and a mosquito buzzed in her ear, Mo didn’t move. The mother would be watching. She’d be sizing Mo up, deciding whether to trust her or not.

  You can. Mo shut her eyes and concentrated, sending her thoughts out into the dusty air. You can trust me. I promise.

  She kept her eyes shut as long as she could, then slowly opened them.

  Nothing. The hillside stared back at her, empty as far as she could see.

  Motherless. Mo remembered that dumb-butt secretary’s sad-eyed look when Mercedes said that. Half orphans.

  A gulping sound shook out of her. Mo bit the inside of her cheeks but couldn’t stop the tears. How dare that secretary pity them! The thought made Mo furious, which was why she was crying, no other reason. If that secretary felt so sorry for them, why didn’t she do something to help? Not that Mo needed any help!

  Wait. She swallowed salt, choking back her tears. She’d heard something in the distance. A quick barkish sound, but musical, singing a high-pitched harmony with her crying. There—again! As if trying to tell her something important.

  Lift your head. Look around.

  And now, wiping her eyes, she saw—what did she see? And how could she have not seen it before?

  Just beyond her nose, caught in the thicket, a red-gold tuft glinted in the sun’s spotlight. It weighed no more than a snippet lying on Mrs. Petrone’s kitchen floor after a haircut. Mo laid it in her palm. The strands of fur were like rough silk, shading from red to creamy white. They were lush and electric at the same time. They felt alive. Like one of Mrs. Steinbott’s roses, only more beautiful. Mo closed her fingers around the fur.

  The sign she’d been waiting for.

  Back home, holding her breath, she set the fur on a bit of dark blue tissue, which she carefully folded into a square.

  “Is that a present?” Dottie appeared out of nowhere, and Mo quickly slipped the dark blue square into her pocket. “Who’s it for?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to never find out as long as you live.”

  Dottie slid her thumb sideways into her mouth, something she did only when she was really tired, or confused, or hurt. What a long day this had been!

  “Ashley never got out of the compost. She’s dead and gone.” Dottie chewed her thumb. “Why’d she do that?” She looked at Mo as if Mo would have an answer.

  “She…she couldn’t help it.”

  “That’s no excuse.” It was what Mo always told her, when Dottie claimed she couldn’t help eating cookies before dinner, or running through the Baggotts’ sprinkler with her good shoes on. “Right?”

  “Hey, come on,” Mo answered. “Let’s go get Daddy.”

  At the corner, a passing bus belched a black cloud. Dottie slipped her hand into Mo’s without being told. They crossed the street and walked past the Tip Top Club, which breathed its sweet smoky breath out onto the sidewalk, past Abdul’s Market, where the sidewalk was peppered with scratched-off lottery tickets, past the drawn pink curtains of Madame Rosa’s Fortunes Told Closed for Vacation, past the empty lot where they’d once found a dead dog, which still made Dottie hum loudly every time they passed it, all the way to the middle school, where practice was winding down. Mo and Dottie climbed up in the bleachers just as Mr. Wren stepped up to the plate. When Dottie shouted, he swept off his cap and bowed to them, then gave their private signal—two fingers touching his brow, then pointing to right field. That meant this hit was just for them.

  Whack.

  “Yaaaay, Daddy!” screamed the Wild Child. “You the man!”

  He hit another, and another, the ball arcing straight and true from the edge of his bat. His teammates high-fived him, and grinning, he clapped them on the back.

  Look how happy he was. From head to toe. One big human happiness. A completely different person from the angry man in the water department uniform or the nervous man in the knotted tie.

  Sitting in the bleachers, Mo imagined him happy all the time. Behind the bar of the Home Plate, serving cheesy omelets and juicy burgers and ice-cold beer, joking and talking with the customers. His own naturally happy self. The way he was meant to be. The way he’d been, before.

  When happiness was his domain.

  All day long Mo had struggled to think, and not succeeded, but now her thoughts tugged her down a dark road, leading her somewhere she didn’t want to go. Her father would never be happy if things went on the way they were. His dream would wither and wilt like all of Fox Street’s unwatered gardens and grass, all the lovely green life gone out of them.

  What’d I tell you about thinking too much? You’re going to get yourself in big trouble one of these days.

  She slid her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the square of dark blue paper.

  To leave their house and move away would be to abandon everything, everything she knew and loved, everything that made her feel safe. Not just feel, that measly word. Made her safe. Made her Mo.

  To go would mean leaving behind her fox. That, most of all. Just when Mo was getting closer, when what she’d longed and waited for so patiently had given her a true sign. How could Mo abandon her?

  It was unthinkable, even for a thinker.

  “Who’s that present for?”

  Mo hadn’t realized she was clutching the packet of fur in her pocket, but Dottie had. Her X-ray vision penetrated Mo’s shorts.

  “Me? Huh? Me, right?”

  “Mind your own business,” Mo told her, in a tone so harsh that, miracle of miracles, Dottie grew quiet.

  Another Gift, If That Was What You Wanted to Call It

  “SO. THE FACTS AS WE KNOW THEM. B and B want Fox Street, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get it. They’re targeting your dad.” Mercedes tapped her chin. “My guess is they’re counting on the domino effect. Meaning, one falls and all the others can’t help but follow. If he sells…”

  “Which will never happen,” Mo said automatically.

  The two of them hunkered on the floor of Da’s porch, out of Starchbutt’s sight. They’d swept it clean of winter dirt, but still you had to arrange yourself carefully in order to avoid splinters in certain tender body parts. What Mo really needed now was a refreshing glass of Da’s extra-tart lemonade—just the thought of it made her pucker up. But Da was inside, napping on the couch.

  Mercedes peeled off a sliver of wood and regarded it. She cocked her head in that familiar, quizzical, hungry-bird way. “Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that your dad gets struck by lightning, and when he comes to, he begins speaking in Japanese, and when we find a translator, she explains how your dad is saying he wants to sell the house to Buckman.”

  “Ha! So funny I forgot to laugh. Never. He’ll never—”

  “Mo! We have to examine all the possibilities!”

  “Okay, okay, but even if he did.” Mo swallowed. She gently pushed a ladybug corpse through a crack in the porch floor, down into the cemetery below. “There wouldn’t be a domino effect. Because Mrs. Petrone wouldn’t sell out. Mrs. Steinbott wouldn’t, unless he pays in solid gold. And…” Mo paused for emphasis. “For sure, Da wouldn’t.”

  She waited for Mercedes to agree. Seconds ticked by.

  More seconds.

  “We’re talking Da!” Mo said at last. “Who’s lived on Fox Street even longer than me! Who had to face discrimination and all kinds of bad juju to buy her house! Da, who stands taller on six toes than most people do on ten!” Mo shouted these last words, causing the sparrows to burst out of the old lilac with indignant peeps.

  As if Mo’s words gave off a bad smell, Mercedes wrinkled her fine-tuned nose. But before either could say anything more, her phone rang. She wiggled it out of her jeans pocket.

  “Cornelius! Just what I need.”

  “Don’t answer.”

  “He’ll just leave a pompous, boring
message. It’s easier to answer and try to annoy him.” Mercedes pressed the phone. “Wazzup, dawg?”

  She stood up but immediately wheeled about and fled inside. Peeking around the porch railing, Mo beheld Mrs. Steinbott at the bottom of the porch steps.

  “You!” Her voice was loud and accusing.

  “Yup. It’s me again.” Mo lumbered to her feet. How in the world had she gotten into this go-between role? Stationed on the crumbly front walk, Mrs. Steinbott wore a black suit that stunk of mothballs. On her feet were black shoes so tiny, Cinderella might have trouble wedging her feet in. She looked headed for a funeral, except that she was…wait.

  Was Mrs. Steinbott smiling? One corner of her mouth had gone up but not the other side, as if the mechanism were rusted.

  “Wow,” Mo said. “You’re…you’re all dressed up. You look very, very…”

  “The time has come. Where did she go?”

  “She had an important phone call.”

  Mrs. Steinbott clutched a handbag the size of a microwave. An uncertain look stole into her eyes. In spite of herself, Mo added, “But she said to be sure and tell you hi.”

  Just then a stampede of Baggotts pounded down the street. Armed with Super Soakers and dirt bombs, they went into slo-mo at the sight of Starchbutt. An evil grin spread across the face of Leo, possessor of the reattached finger. He raised his gun to his shoulder and took aim.

  “Wicked witch alert!” he yelled to his brothers. “Prepare to fire!”

  Mo ran down the steps and leaped into the space between the Baggotts and Mrs. Steinbott. “Just try it!” she yelled. “I’ll tell my father you’ve been playing with the hose all week, and your mother will get slapped with a fine so fast you guys won’t see daylight for weeks!”

  Mo knew this wasn’t true—the Baggotts never got punished for anything—but it sounded good. The other Baggotts threw their hands into the air. Leo Baggott sneered but slowly lowered the gun.

  “Mo Wren and the witch. Nya nya nya-nya nya. Takes one to know one!”

  One definitely lame dirt bomb landed at Mo’s feet, and the boys reverse-stampeded up the street.

  “Don’t worry.” Mo cocked her thumb toward the Baggott dust cloud. “I’ll get their big brother to read them the riot act.”

  To Mo’s bewilderment, Mrs. Steinbott’s brittle edges all seemed to soften. “Boys will be boys,” she said. “My own could get up to some mischief, especially when he was around her.”

  Mo’s own heart turned over.

  “I’m…I’m sorry about your son, Mrs. Steinbott.”

  The knuckles gripping the monstrous purse went white.

  “By now he’d be a grown man.” Her face was like a piece of paper somebody’d balled up in their fist, then felt bad about and tried to smooth back out. “Ten years older than the last time I saw him.”

  A lump rose in Mo’s throat. “Think of that.”

  “Oh, I do. I do, every day.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mo said again.

  She lifted her hand, almost as if she meant to give Mo a pat, but then thought better of it. Instead she reached into the big purse and tugged out…another purse, nearly as big. For a moment Mo feared she’d open that and pull out another one, and then another one, like something in a nightmare.

  Instead Starchbutt pushed it toward Mo. Her face was full of urgency.

  “This could be the last summer,” she said.

  Dread got Mo in its clutches. “What are you talking about?”

  “What if I hadn’t opened it? Something made me open it.”

  The poor thing really is demented, Mo told herself. Just be nice to her. Don’t get her any more upset.

  “She has to have this!” She pushed the purse into Mo’s hands. “Right away.”

  “Okay.”

  “You promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  Mrs. Steinbott continued to stand there, her mothball smell rising in the heat. Mo was afraid that she meant to wait till Mercedes finally came back out, but at last, as if she’d convinced herself she could trust Mo after all, she turned around. On the edge of the curb, she wavered. Mo rushed forward and caught her arm. Mrs. Steinbott stared across the street as if she’d lost track of where she was.

  “Do you know how long it’s been since I crossed this street?” she asked Mo.

  “Long.”

  “Longer than the Mississippi.” She smiled again and this time managed to get both corners of her mouth in sync. “Headed my way?” She crooked her arm.

  Arm in arm, each carrying a big purse, they looked both ways, then stepped out into Fox Street.

  Demolition

  CORNELIUS CHRISTIAN CUNNINGHAM had somehow gotten the idea that the only way to truly ascertain the facts of Da’s situation was to see it with his own eyes. Somehow he found Mercedes’s detailed reports vague. Confounding and confusing. Not to mention puzzling and perplexing. Possibly phony and fake.

  “The man can’t keep his big ugly nose out of our business!” Mercedes complained.

  “Child, he’s married to your mother now. You and I are his business, like it or not.”

  Da was on the couch again, a blank crossword on her lap. They made the puzzles too easy these days, she complained. Not enough of a challenge. She shifted, rearranging her legs, which, thank heavens, ended in a pair of closed-toe sandals. Da clenched her jaw.

  “You okay?” Mo asked her.

  “These poor old feet of mine itch up a tempest every night. And then just as I drift off to sleep, toe pain will shoot through me and startle me awake.” Da put a hand to her brow. “It’s always in a toe that’s not really there. Phantom pain, the doctors call it.” She let her crossword puzzle slip from her fingers. “Give me strength, I’m a walking haunted house.”

  “How about some tea?”

  “Tea’s for sick folk.” She ran her tongue over her lips and sighed. “Just a small cup. What would I do without you two? My crown is in my heart, not on my head.”

  Mercedes and Mo slipped into the kitchen.

  “I’m seriously worried,” Mercedes said, filling the kettle. “If Corny sees Da lying on the couch, muttering she’s haunted…” She gave the faucet handle a shove, but it kept on dripping. “Not to mention how much work this house needs.” She banged the kettle onto the stove. “Not to mention, did you notice Da’s not exactly protesting his meddling?”

  Mo pressed her fingers to her temples.

  “I’m having trouble thinking straight these days,” she said. “I—”

  A commotion outside the front door cut off any possibility of thought whatsoever.

  “Mo! Mercey!” Dottie shrieked. “Help! Save it!”

  Mo ran outside. A crowd was gathered at the end of the street, where a yellow machine with thick rubber treads occupied the front lawn of the A.O.L. House. Its steel arm dangled an enormous, menacing claw over the roof.

  “What’s going on?” Mo demanded.

  Mr. Duong, the fix-it man, polished his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “My guess is they’re not here to landscape the place, Mo,” he said. At that moment, the claw rumbled to life. “Uh-oh.”

  Crash. The closed claw punched into the mossy little roof, caving it with one blow. Shingles flew, wooden boards splintered. Who knew a roof was so flimsy? The claw reared up, landed another blow, and there were the house’s innards, splat, on display for all to see. Strips of bent metal, dangling wires. That was how fast things could change. With a whoop, Gem Baggott hurled a rock at the front door. Mrs. Petrone grabbed him by the neck of his T-shirt.

  “Don’t you dare!” she scolded. “Show some respect!”

  “It’s just a beat-up old rathole anyway!” he protested, wiggling free.

  The claw punched the house again. Mo had to cover her eyes. It was as if they were watching a bully beat a helpless person to a pulp, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

  “Someone has plans for this property,” Mr. Duong told Mrs. Petrone. He crossed his arms and
rocked back on his heels. “We are witnessing capitalism at work.”

  Mrs. Petrone scratched her head, which today was styled into curls that stuck to her cheeks like uppercase Gs.

  “I get a very bad feeling about it, whatever it is,” she said.

  Now Mercedes came rushing up, followed by Mrs. Baggott, her flip-flops going flop but not flip. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez, who owned Tortilla Feliz, showed up, their hands covered with flour, and Ms. Hugg ran as fast as her tight red dress allowed. Before long, someone from every house but Mrs. Steinbott’s and the Kowalski house was watching.

  “I wish Daddy was here,” Dottie said. “He’d make them stop, right? He’d stop those doo-doo heads, right?” She slid her thumb into her mouth, popped it back out. “Right, Mo?”

  “Buckman.” Venom dripped from Mercedes’s voice. “He means business, all right.”

  A dump truck backed down the street, inching between the parked cars. Its rear fender collided with the guardrail, adding yet another dent. The driver jumped down, scowling.

  “Mister!” Mrs. Petrone waved him over.

  The driver took off his yellow hard hat, as if out of respect for the crowd. He had a ponytail and kindly eyes.

  “Sorry about your guardrail. Backing a rig in here is like threading a needle with a…” He scratched his head, searching for a good comparison. “A…a…”

  “Never mind!” Mrs. Petrone waved a hand. “What we want to know is what’s going on here? What do you know about all this?”

  “A hippo, maybe,” the driver said.

  “You’re funny,” Dottie told him. She helped herself to his hat and settled it on her head.

  “We’re demoing to the ground,” he explained. “Everything’s slated for teardown, that’s what I hear.”

  A silence fell. They all stared at him. He scratched his head some more and nudged a rock with his boot toe.

  “I hear office park.”

  They continued to stare.

  “Maybe a little light industry? But all green, you know. All nice and up-to-the-minute.” He tapped Dottie’s hard-hatted head. “Anybody home?”