Mo Wren, Lost and Found

by Tricia Springstubb

  “Get me that extra-strength stuff,” he told her, and when Mo brought the medicine, he gulped a couple of tablets. Gripping Mo’s arm, he tried to swing his legs onto the floor but fell back against the cushions.

  “Not going to happen,” he said.

  He hadn’t switched on a lamp, and the room was dark and chilly. Mo pushed up the thermostat. Fat, airy flakes filled the window. It was the kind of snow that made you think of ballerinas in white tutus—bits of lace, downy feathers. As they pressed against the glass, Mo could see each flake’s starry little points, its intricate beauty. Beauty—talk about stubborn things.

  When she turned back from the window, her father’s face was the face of someone waving good-bye, trying to keep the place he was leaving behind in sight as long as possible.

  “I can’t cook. Go downstairs,” he said. “Put the CLOSED sign up.”

  Mo thought of her flyers, flapping in the wind all over the neighborhood. What if they couldn’t open for days? All the expensive fresh food they’d bought would go bad. Their customers would find other places to eat.

  Mo feared if she sat on the bed it might hurt him, so she knelt down instead. A cold draft swept across the floor. They were out of money. It was now or never. Her father turned his face away, as if the sight of her made him feel worse.

  “This isn’t how things were supposed to go,” he said.

  “I know! You never get hurt! You’re strong!” The floor was so cold. Mo trembled, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re the strongest person in the world! It’s the curse! It has to be!”

  “Not that again.”

  “You worked so hard! You gave it your heart and soul and all our money too! You did so much good stuff, but only bad’s coming back!”

  Mo was never going to stop shivering. Putting her arms around herself didn’t help at all. The cold was too deep inside her.

  “No curse did this to me, Mo,” her father said. “Unless working harder than you ever knew you could, unless that’s a curse.” His voice grew stronger with every word. “Or chasing a dream with everything you’ve got, and then some, unless that’s a curse.”

  Outside, the snow made a ghostly, whooshing sound.

  “You’re shivering,” he said. “Where’s your sweatshirt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He turned his face away again. Defeat hovered, cloudlike, over his head. Careful not to jostle him, Mo plumped his pillow and smoothed his blanket.

  “Do as I say.” He closed his eyes. “Tell Kelvin and Daisy to be careful driving home, and I’ll make it up to them for coming in. Make sure your sister gets something to eat.”

  “But—”

  “Go on. I need you to be my partner. You can handle this. I’m trusting you.”

  The hallway was graveyard cold. Her window—she’d left it open! The sill and floor were dusted white. When Mo yanked it shut, the flakes spattered against the glass, angry they couldn’t get in.

  Mo sat on her bed. So what? she tried to tell herself. So what if we can’t open? So what if the Wren House is a failure, just like all those other businesses? Did she really want to live here anyway? This street without a real name? This stubborn old place, that skinny sidewalk tree, a school full of unfamiliar kids? Some of them really nice? And neighbors who wished you well, and a woman with eyes like candles, who just the thought of her made you happy and sad, both at once? So what, so what, so . . .

  Mo pulled her blanket over her head. Underneath, it was itchy and dark. Nothing at all like nestling inside the yellow sweater, cradled in moonbeams, sheltered and loved. That was lost. Lost lost lost, for good.

  “Mo.” The corner of the blanket lifted. “Come out.”

  “No.”

  But Dottie inched the blanket higher, and Mo didn’t try to stop her. Up the blanket rose, like a stage curtain. There was Dottie’s chin. Her nose. Her eyes. A potato peel stuck in her wild red hair.

  “There,” Dottie said. “There you are.”

  She scratched her stomach through her too-tight dress. And then she climbed into Mo’s lap. Toasty as she was, it was like having a giant baked potato nestle against you. The warmth rolled off her, making its way inside Mo, spreading, glowing.

  “Daddy can’t get up,” said Mo.

  “So it’s just you and me? My my my.” Dottie pondered for a moment, then jumped off the bed. “You need to brush your hair, Mo. Waitresses have to look neat.” And then she was down the stairs.

  Slowly Mo climbed off the bed. Picking up the brush, she discovered her hair was long enough to tuck the end in and make a bun. Stepping into the hallway, she paused to listen outside her father’s door. Putt putt putt. That was the sound of his snore, like a small boat making its way through deep waves. The medicine had helped him sleep. Good.

  Trying not to think, Mo started for the stairs, but halfway down, her brain got the best of her. She stopped, resting a hand on the wall crazy with cracks. What did she think she was doing? Just because Dottie didn’t question that they’d open. Just because their father had worked harder at this than at anything else in his whole life. Just because the rest of her family was so brave, so hopeful, did that mean that she . . .

  Her feet were moving. The rest of Mo nearly tripped trying to keep up with them. She pushed open the PRIVATE door just in time to watch Dottie perform a deep curtsy for their very first customers.

  “Welcome to the Wren House. Enjoy your dining experience!”

  “Why, thank you,” said Sarah. She set Min down on the floor and looked up. Her rosy face dimpled. “Look, Min! It’s Mo!”

  The Grand(?) Opening

  Stiff armed, the baby sped forward. But the room’s slope was too much for her short legs, and she toppled backward, landing on her bottom. Grabbing the leg of a chair, she shook it and laughed uproariously.

  “Tch tch.” Dottie smoothed the skirt of her hostess dress. “That baby is wild.”

  “We called the other day.” Tim set Min back on her feet and wrestled her out of her jacket. “Your dad told us about the opening. We were afraid our old beater wouldn’t make it through the weather, so we took the number eighteen. We loved the bus, huh, Min?”

  “Round and round,” she sang.

  Dottie clucked her tongue, then hurried to greet their next customers, who turned out to be Shawn’s mother and sister. They both had lively hair and inquisitive faces, just like Shawn, and they looked around with approval.

  “I could tell you were cute,” the sister told Mo, “from how shy Shawn acts when he says your name.”

  “And he says it a dozen times day,” his mother put in. Under her coat she still wore her nurse’s uniform. “Thanks for letting him make himself at home here, Mo. My friend Carmella told me what good folks you all are.”

  “Where is that bro anyway?” asked the sister.

  “Yo!” On cue he dashed out of the kitchen, waving a spatula, wrapped in an apron that went around him three times.

  “Good thing you’re not cooking for real!” His sister gave a hoot. “I’m not spending my night in the emergency room!”

  “Ha ha,” said Mo. “Ha ha ha.”

  “What can I get you ladies to drink?” Kelvin called from behind the bar. “All drinks are on the house tonight, isn’t that so, Ms. Wren?” He jerked his head toward the kitchen, and said in a low voice, “Do I smell something burning?”

  Mo ran. Tugging the oven door open, she found the meat loaves transformed into smoking bricks.

  “This is serious!” she cried. “People are coming! We have to feed them!”

  “Mashed potatoes.” Shawn was carving potatoes into strange, blobby shapes. “Everyone loves mashed potatoes.”

  In the refrigerator she found her father’s special burgers, seasoned and ready to grill. She could do that. The fry-o-lator—that she’d never tried. The oil got so hot, it popped.

  Dottie darted in, flouncing her hostess skirt. “Your friend Megan and her family are here! Min spilled her milk. Your sister�
�s not ugly, Shawn! Sarah says can they have some bread or something. Uh-oh—I hear the door!” She ran back out, skirt flying.

  “Maybe we can scrape these meat loaves,” said Shawn. “Like when you burn the toast.”

  Mo tore open a big bag of rolls, filled some baskets, and carried them out to the dining room. The front door kept on opening. People stamped their feet, brushed the snow from their heads, and looked around with pleasure, as if a nice neighborhood restaurant was just what they needed on a night like this. Dottie introduced the shaved-head guy from Pet Universe; and here came the old couple who ran the Pit Stop, and a distinguished-looking man she’d never seen before, accompanied by—could it be? Gilda, the actress from the Soap Opera, a little tiara of snowflakes glittering in her hair.

  “Look!” cried Dottie, waving her arms. “It’s a real restaurant!”

  Except that nobody had any food.

  As Mo set the bread on tables, people began giving her orders. Kelvin, handing out drinks all around, pushed a pen and pad into her hands.

  “Daisy just called. She’s not going to make it. It’s me and you, sink or swim!”

  “Mo!” Megan was waving. “Come meet my parents. I made them come, even though the roads are extremely treacherous.”

  “I’d like the cheese omelet with extra cheese.”

  “The Mojo, well done. Not rare, not medium. Well done.”

  “Can I get both fries and mashed potatoes with my meat loaf?”

  “Mo! Your hair looks so cute in a bun!”

  “Pierre and I had reservations for the Elegant Persimmon.” Since last Mo had seen her, Gilda had dyed her white-blond hair midnight black. “But Carmella swore if I didn’t come here instead, she’d shrink all my clothes!”

  “Two dry martinis,” said Pierre. “And an order of pommes frites.”

  “That’s French for fries,” said Gilda.

  “All right! Sure! Coming right up!” Mo wrote it down and wheeled back to the room. Hungry mouths were everywhere. From every side, people fixed her with ravenous looks. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. She’d been wishing, and now look! This was worse than closing down. She’d made things much worse. Who’d ever come back here after tonight? At least her father couldn’t see what was happening. All these customers who’d made their way through the weather would go home hungry and disappointed, the very opposite of his dream.

  “Could we have some more water, at least?”

  “How about butter? Could I at least have some butter?”

  Min toddled over and flung her arms around Mo’s knees. Outside, a harsh sound, like the surface of the world being scraped away, started up. Shawn poked his head out of the kitchen, took one look, and dove back inside. It was hopeless.

  Sarah picked up Min. Her usually dimply face was full of concern.

  “Mo? Is everything okay? Where’s your father?”

  “He . . . he hurt his back.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Badly?”

  “He . . . well . . . yeah. It’s bad.”

  Sarah and Tim looked as upset as if one of them had gotten hurt.

  “He can’t cook?” Sarah’s hands flew to her cheeks. “There’s nobody in the kitchen? With this crowd?”

  A look darted between Sarah and Tim. “Let’s get out of here,” no doubt. They both nodded.

  But instead of the door, Sarah headed for the kitchen.

  “Bye-bye, Mama,” called Min.

  “What’s she doing?” Mo stared at Tim.

  “Sarah’s had a million jobs, including short-order cook in a diner,” he said as Min draped a napkin over his head. “She’s great,” he said from under it. “Don’t you worry.”

  The Craziest Thing

  Some moments in your life stand out clear and sharp as something snipped with brand-new scissors. Others blur, like the view from the Tilt-A-Whirl. Those moments are nothing but color and light, the edges of one thing melting another.

  Tonight had both kinds of moments.

  Within minutes of Sarah disappearing into the kitchen, Shawn rushed out and thrust two burger platters at Mo.

  “This one’s rare, this one’s medium.”

  Thus commenced the blurry, Tilt-A-Whirl portion of the night.

  Menus, water, drinks, bread. Dishes, dirty dishes, wipe that table. More ketchup coming right up. The meat loaf is unavailable tonight, but please enjoy a complimentary salad instead. Shooed out of the kitchen, Shawn moved so fast, he might have been on Rollerblades. His talent for being everywhere at once had never come in handier. Dottie seated the pigeon men and their wives at a window table. Four orders of Dottie’s Delight, hold the meatballs. They were all veginarians, she explained. Kelvin ran the cash register, helping Mo make change.

  “Where is Carmella, anyway?” asked Gilda when Mo served their onion rings. “I thought for sure she’d be here! Something must have happened.”

  Mo’s heart gave a twist. In spite of yesterday, she’d hoped Carmella would come. But as the night sped by, Carmella was the one person who didn’t appear.

  At last customers stopped coming in, but those already there lingered, reluctant to go back out into the night. Homer—when had he gotten here?—made a trip to the Robin’s Egg, where he bought out all the day’s leftover sweets. Dottie served sugar cookies and fruit tarts all around. The scraping sound stopped and in came Al, wearing his big rubber galoshes. He leaned his snow shovel in a corner, and Kelvin served him something called a hot toddy, which made Al very cheerful.

  “Au revoir!” called Gilda, throwing kisses.

  Tim sat pinned in a booth, Min asleep on one side of him and Dottie on the other. Shawn and his family pulled on their coats.

  “Thanks, Shawn,” said Mo. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Look.” He held out his wrist. His watch had started back up again, just as strangely as it had stopped. “All the times are wrong,” he said. “But I can fix that.”

  “He’s a good boy,” his mother told Mo. “Not everybody sees that, but he is.” She tapped him on the head. “Where’s your new hat? Don’t tell me!”

  “Tonight was off the hook,” Kelvin said. He gave the bar one last swipe. “Can’t wait to see what tomorrow’s like!”

  Tomorrow. There’d be a tomorrow, after all.

  At last Sarah came out of the kitchen, folding up her apron.

  “I left you a colossal mess,” she apologized. “But I’m afraid if we don’t get going, we’ll miss the last bus.”

  “Thank you,” said Mo. “I mean, that doesn’t even cover it. You saved us!”

  Tim pulled Sarah tight. They touched foreheads. Mo could just imagine them doing that in the kitchen on Fox Street, while Min banged the pots and pans. She could see them sitting by the window, looking out at the plum tree.

  “We always hoped to get the chance to pay your dad back.” Tim was trying to fit Min into her jacket, but, sound asleep, she flopped around like a doll. “At least a little.”

  “You don’t need to pay us back,” Mo said. “You already paid us.”

  Min’s hat was violently pink and handmade—old Mrs. Steinbott’s work, for sure. Sarah pulled it over Min’s shiny black hair and tied it under her chin.

  “We still can’t believe he sold it to us instead of that other couple. They bid so much higher.” Sarah hoisted the lolling baby onto her shoulder. “We could never have matched them. No bank was ever going to loan us that kind of money.”

  She stroked Min’s cheek, and the baby’s eyelashes fluttered. Mo’s brain had a little flutter of its own.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “What’d you just say?”

  “When he called to say he wanted us to have your house—it was just the craziest thing anybody ever did. He said he knew we’d take good care of the place, and be happy there, and that was what mattered most to you Wrens.” Sarah tightened her arms around Min. “Not a day goes by we don’t feel grateful.”

  “They say you don�
��t just find a home. You make one.” Tim smiled and looked around. “Looks like you’re doing a good job of that yourselves.”

  “Tell your dad we’ll be back soon,” said Sarah. “I’m dying to taste his version of the Mojo. Tell him we plan to be your star customers, okay?”

  The sidewalk out front was shoveled clean. Overhead, wisps of cloud played tag across the black sky. The first star was so low in the sky, it looked like a diamond barrette clipped to the branches of the sidewalk tree. Mo waved as the little family walked toward the bus shelter.

  There’d never been enough money. That’s why he’d cut corners, and done everything himself, and struggled on, even as the money and his back gave out. And all this time, he hadn’t told her, because he didn’t want her to worry. Stubborn as he was, he’d stuck to his dream to make her and Dottie feel as safe and loved as if they were wrapped in moonbeams.

  The world was bright and sharp, its edges snipped with quick, silver scissors.

  Daddy. Mo pushed open the door.

  The Right People

  Dottie was still asleep, curled up like a seashell. Dirty glasses and plates littered some tables, and the floor was a mess of crumbs and slushy footprints. Rushing past the mirror behind the bar, Mo saw how, with her hair piled up, her cheekbones stuck out in a new and unfamiliar way. It looked as if she’d been snipped sharp and fresh too.

  She shoved open the PRIVATE door and there he was, sitting on the steps.

  “I made it halfway.” He rubbed the side of his face. His eyes were groggy, his beautiful curls matted to his head. “That’s progress.”

  Mo climbed up to sit beside him.

  “I overdid it on the pain meds. It was like I got hit by a two-by-four. I had some whacked-out dreams!” He sniffed the air, then cautiously turned his head. “You and your sister got something to eat?”

  “Umm, we didn’t have time.” She leaned against him, testing him out. When he didn’t flinch or yowl, she went on, “We were too busy serving everybody else.”