Oliver danced around as the fish swam through his legs. Soon they were scooped up into tubs and Oliver was left to lick the wet and empty deck.
An argument sprang up between the men. Oliver did not know what it was about. He knew only by their eyes that it had something to do with him.
Then the big one took a fish from a tub and sliced it open with his knife. Out came the fish’s bones all in a piece. “Here you go, boy,” he said, and gave the fish meat to Oliver.
Oliver did not need to be asked twice. In three bites, he finished that fish, asked for another, and got another.
This was his lucky day. He was sure to find Bertie this day. When the men were busy again at their net, Oliver went quietly below. There he found a tidy little room with cabinets and two narrow beds.
And Bertie!
Well, not in the flesh, but something of Bertie was here, or had been. Oliver put all his attention into sniffing, first along the floor, then along the beds, the smell of Bertie growing stronger as he went.
Digging his snout into a place where bed met cabinet, he found the source of the smell—a lady’s white handkerchief.
Oliver tugged it out. Dropping the handkerchief onto the bed, he sniffed it all over. Bertie, all right.
But how could that be? The delicate handkerchief, bordered with blue forget-me-nots, was not one of hers. Bertie’s handkerchiefs were all perfectly plain. They were stacked neatly in her dresser drawer, crisp and ironed. Each morning Bertie would take one out and douse it with her special water.
That was it! Bertie’s special water was on the blue and white handkerchief.
If only he had human speech and could ask the fishermen.
As the boat rocked and another load of fish hit the deck above, Oliver stretched out on the floor, laid his snout on his paws, and tried to think. But the motion of the boat was too much for his poor brain and, along with the rest of Oliver, it fell asleep.
He awoke to a scratching sound. Picking up Bertie’s handkerchief that wasn’t Bertie’s, Oliver went to investigate. The boat was back at the dock and the men were scrubbing the deck.
The big one looked up from his scrubbing. “Whatcha got there?” Frowning, he took the handkerchief from Oliver. Waving it at the other fisherman, he laughed. “This yours, Toby?”
“Nah, not mine, Ace,” said Toby, whose face had grown red.
“Some lady friend, then?” said Ace.
“Nah, nothing like that. I found it on the street. Thought I’d give it to my old lady, but I forgot.”
All this time, Oliver, understanding not one word, kept asking with his eyes, with his little yips, “Where’s Bertie? Where did you put Bertie?”
Ace tied the handkerchief around Oliver’s neck. “There you go, boy,” he said. “It’s yours now.”
Both fishermen laughed. But after a bit they were arguing again.
“You know how I feel about dogs,” Toby said. “Dogs don’t belong on boats.”
Oliver’s ears went up at the word dog.
“This one’s no trouble,” said Ace. “But he’s got a home somewhere, no doubt. Somebody waiting for him.” He gave Oliver a last scratch behind the ears. “Out you go, boy.”
“But where’s Bertie?” said Oliver with his eyes.
“Shoo!” said Toby, chasing Oliver down the gangplank and onto the dock.
As the gangplank rose, the sorrow of not having found Bertie took a bite out of Oliver’s heart. He had come so close! What now?
He loped off down the dock, the handkerchief that was not Bertie’s but that smelled like Bertie waving from his neck.
Golden Light
When the last bell of the day rang out, Maggie nearly fell off her stool. It was seven o’clock. For the past hour she had fought sleep, but at last her eyelids had fluttered and closed.
Now they opened wide, and her heart gave a lurch. Had Mr. Speak seen her fall asleep? Would this be her first and last day in the factory?
Her back was aching, her neck stiff from bending over one cuff and then another and another after that, so many that she had lost count. The minute one pile of sleeves and cuffs was finished, another appeared.
It was shortly after the midday break that Mr. Speak had whipped away one of her finished cuffs and taken it to his station. As she waited for his return, Maggie’s fingers had trembled. But he did not come back.
Had she done well, or well enough? If she had not, would she be paid for the work she had done?
All around her, workers were tidying their stations. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and the factory would be closed. A feeling of freedom danced through the stuffy air. One woman was humming, another smiled to herself, thinking perhaps of the Sunday meal she would prepare for her family or of a friend she might meet for tea.
Maggie straightened her station and put on her coat.
“Take your needle and thread, child,” said the bent lady, passing Maggie’s station. “Or someone will snatch them from you.”
Maggie did as she was told. Then she followed the bent lady and all the other ladies down the aisle that led to the back door.
“Where d’ya live?”
Startled, Maggie turned around, and there was Daniel Durch with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Perched on his haystack hair was a flat cap with a small brim. His eyes searched Maggie’s like a crow looking for food.
“I live—” Maggie was about to say that she lived with Madame Dinglebush. That of course would have been a lie, but to say she lived nowhere at all? That was somehow worse.
“I live in the Heights,” she said primly.
“And I live with President Roosevelt!” scoffed Daniel Durch. “I’ll bet a week’s pay you got nowhere to stay at all. Ain’t that right?” His beady dark eyes bored into hers.
“I do!” said Maggie. “There’s my dog. Right over there.” She pointed across the street to where that same brown dog was pushing his nose along the walkway. A bit of cloth was tied around his neck.
Daniel stood with his hands on his hips. “If that’s your dog, why ain’t he coming to you?”
“He will, in his own good time,” said Maggie.
“Come on now, Danny,” said his sister. “You know how Father is if you don’t come right home. You don’t want another whipping, do you?”
Daniel jutted his chin at the dog that had turned the corner and was heading up Down Street. “If that’s your dog, you better call him,” he said.
“Lucky!” called Maggie, the first name that came to her. To her great surprise, the dog stopped and turned his head.
Maggie clapped her hands. “Come here, Lucky! Come on, boy!”
The dog, a quizzical look on his face, came loping toward Maggie.
“I don’t like dogs,” said Daniel. Stooping, he picked up a rock and, before Maggie could stop him, flung it at the brown dog.
“No!” cried Maggie as the dog turned and ran.
“Daniel! You heard me,” said his sister. “Get on home now.”
“Stupid boy,” said Maggie, but only to herself.
Daniel and his sister went down Fortune Street, so Maggie went the other way. Wherever she stayed the night, it would be as far from Daniel Durch as she could make it.
Unbeknownst to Maggie, who had spent the day indoors, the weather had turned warm. Some of the snow had melted, dripping from rooftops, sliding down into gutters, and winding its way at last to the sea.
Maggie meandered along the wet walkway with her hands in her pockets. She followed the water, which seemed to know where it was going.
The night was starless, but windows in houses along her way provided light. The light called Maggie to come inside, to warm herself, but the people did not.
For a time, cold is endurable. Hunger is endurable. Exhaustion is endurable. But not all at once. Not when you are ten going on eleven. At ten going on eleven, a child is meant to be curled into a chair by the fire, reading her favorite book, stroking a sleeping kitten. Someone should be bringing her a cup of h
ot cocoa and patting her curls, telling her what a special little girl she is.
That is how life is meant to be, but not always what it is.
But always there is something good.
Maggie stopped before a church with a tall steeple and windows like kaleidoscopes. Just then, the door opened and out stepped a man dressed in black robes. Around his neck was a starched white collar.
Maggie had never been in a church. Madame Dinglebush had her own prayer room into which the help crowded each Sunday. While the other maids slept through interminable sermons, Maggie’s mind spun with all the questions she was never given the chance to ask. Where exactly is God? What does He look like? Is He only good to people who are always good? And the most perplexing question of all: What if He isn’t a He?
Et cetera.
The man in robes and collar looked into the night sky, then down at Maggie, who was looking at him. “Come inside for prayers, child,” he said, opening the door behind him.
Maggie scurried up the steps and followed the priest through the doors and a small foyer into the light of the church, which was as golden as her locket. As the priest made his way up the aisle, Maggie stopped and looked up, up into a ceiling where immense winged angels, pink and blue and gold, swam through her vision. Never in her life had she seen anything so beautiful. Never had she felt so small.
She made her way to the end of the last pew and, bowing her head, began to pray.
Somewhere in the middle of her prayer, Maggie fell asleep.
Which was perfectly all right with God.
For the Love of a Poodle
Oliver felt terrible, the way you do when you’ve done something especially stupid.
It had been foolish to come to just anybody’s call, especially if the human didn’t even know your name. But Oliver had seen the little girl with the round blue eyes before somewhere.
Was it down by the docks? In the marketplace? Yes, he had seen her when he got his bone. Just now, she had called “Lucky!” and he, for some reason, had run to her and nearly gotten a rock to the head for his trouble.
He was slipping, no doubt about it. Strangers were not to be trusted. He knew that.
Well, he was lonely. With Bertie by his side all those years, he’d not known the meaning of the dark, sad feeling that lived inside him now. It was worse than hunger, that feeling, and he was all too ready to be rid of it.
He must be more careful. The girl was safe, but the boy she was with was not. Best to stay clear of them both.
His bone was where he’d left it, buried deep in the damp earth beneath the bridge. Oliver dug it up, sniffing it thoroughly end to end. Only the memory of meat remained, but he chewed it anyway because his teeth really wanted to.
By the time he was finished, Bertie’s handkerchief that was not Bertie’s was covered with mud and slobber. Bertie would be horrified when she saw it.
Of course, after first hugging him, she would untie the handkerchief and wash it. But what would she think of Oliver? She had taught him to be neat and tidy, given him weekly baths using her own French milled soap. The least he could do was keep the handkerchief clean. One day it would take its place among the plain ones in Bertie’s dresser drawer. But first he would need to wash it.
Coming out from beneath the bridge, he poked his way along the shore. The night was dark, the air cold, but not as cold as the water. Oliver stepped out into it and at once began to shiver.
To heck with the silly handkerchief.
But it wasn’t just the handkerchief. It was Oliver himself. He needed a bath. The handkerchief with its flowery smell was all he had to keep the fishy odor of himself from creeping into his nose.
He took another step and the water came up to his chest.
Enough!
Oliver splashed out of the water and up onto the shore, where he shook and shook himself. And then there was nothing left but the good smell of dog. He loped off in the direction of the marketplace.
Stopping along the way to examine a very dead mouse, he did not at first notice the white poodle. Wearing a bright red collar and leash, she was standing quite elegantly at her mistress’s side, pretending to ignore the scruffy mutt making his way toward her.
Oliver scampered right up to the poodle. Their noses met, and Oliver was a goner. As he made his way to her other end, the poodle’s mistress pulled her away.
“Stop, Henrietta!” cried her mistress. “Stop this ridiculous behavior!”
Up the stone steps went the lady, pushing Oliver away with her booted foot and pulling Henrietta behind.
The door opened, then slammed shut, and Oliver stood panting on the other side.
What was happening to him? Had he fallen for a poodle? A mere poodle?
How could that be? One minute he was sniffing a dead mouse, and the next he was in love. It didn’t seem fair. He hadn’t been given any time at all to think about it. Bam, just like that, his heart said, “Go.”
Oliver stared at the door. He waited. He whimpered. A dog barked (was it her?). Oliver’s heart danced into his throat. He listened with all of his senses. Time passed in its maddening way, slowly, slowly. Oliver lay before the door, his snout on his crossed paws.
Henrietta had to come out sometime. No dog could hold its water forever. If the poodle wanted him as much as he wanted her, she would be begging to come out.
But did she want him? That was the question.
Up the stone steps came a man wearing a black top hat and overcoat.
“Scoot,” he said, pushing Oliver aside with his shiny black shoe. “Off you go!”
Oliver’s first nibble of dog love left his tongue, and the bitter bite of loneliness returned.
All in Black
“Sit up, child. The service is about to begin.”
A big woman dressed all in black and smelling of mothballs was poking Maggie’s shoulder.
Maggie sat up and blinked herself awake.
“Churches aren’t for sleeping, child. You’re meant to worship in here, not sleep. Why, it’s like thumbing your nose at Jesus!” She quickly crossed herself.
Thumbing her nose at Jesus? How terrible. But Maggie had been so very tired. She was sure Jesus would understand.
But just in case, she would never sleep all night in a church again.
She sat forward, straining her neck to see.
The priest who had let her in was walking up the aisle again. This time he was swinging a golden lantern with smoke pouring out of it.
Up ahead was a beautiful stage, a table spread with a gold and white tablecloth, and burning candles everywhere. There was soft, soft music coming from an organ that a lady played with her hands and feet all at the same time.
There were rows and rows of pews, and all of them were full of women with scarves or shawls over their heads and men without their hats on. The man in front of Maggie had a perfectly round bald spot that stared back at her like a sightless eye.
Maggie counted the people in her pew. Five women and three men, plus one tiny little woman at the end.
Maggie craned her neck around the mothball woman and stared.
The tiny woman was all in black. Long black skirt and coat, black boots buttoned onto tiny feet that didn’t come near to touching the floor. Over her silver hair was a black lace shawl.
Was it the duchess? It was!
But why was she all in black? Had someone died? Her husband, the duke? Poor duchess!
Other women, like the woman right beside Maggie, wore black scarves, too. They couldn’t all be widows, could they? Dare she ask? Instead, for the second time in just as many days, Maggie held her tongue.
Not one person in the whole church was talking. She thought there must be a rule. A rule against staring, too, but she couldn’t help herself. The duchess was so small and so perfect. Only her tiny wrinkled face showed that she was a real person and not the doll she appeared to be.
Hers was a sad face, a sweet, sad face.
The face turned. Maggie’
s heart jumped. She blinked. She swallowed hard, and she kept on staring. She could not turn away from those bright blue eyes.
Nor, it seemed, could the duchess. But at last she did, closing her eyes and bowing her head in prayer.
The priest spoke, and all the people answered, their heads bowed. The woman beside Maggie played with a string of glass beads. Maggie quickly bowed her head.
The service went on forever, people standing, then kneeling, then sitting again. A boy laid a gold-and-white shawl around the priest’s shoulders. The priest bent his head and kissed his own thumbs. Beneath the stage, candles in little red glasses flickered.
Maggie kept sneaking peeks at the duchess, who never stood or kneeled. She just kept sitting with her head bent.
Why was that? Was there some different rule for duchesses?
And then Maggie figured it out: the duchess was asleep! There she sat, nice as you please, with her tiny hands folded and her eyes shut.
Was that a drop of drool sliding down her chin? It was! And was she snoring? She was!
Maggie giggled. She quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, but not before the lady beside her turned and scowled.
The duchess went right on snoring.
The service ended with a crashing of notes from the organ. People stood; the duchess awoke with a little smile. She stood and took the arm of a tall young man standing beside her.
Maggie followed them outside. At the curb stood the duchess’s carriage, with its four black horses blowing their white breath into the air. The duchess made her way toward it alongside the young man, who patted the hand that rested on his arm.
Was the young man her son? His eyes were brown. Could a blue-eyed person have a brown-eyed son? Of course! Maggie’s mother, if indeed the lady in the locket was her mother, had brown eyes, and Maggie’s were blue.
There was so much Maggie didn’t know, so much she wanted to know. What had happened to her mother? Had she given Maggie away? Was she sad, and did she cry to see her baby go? Was Maggie stolen from her arms?
Maggie & Oliver or a Bone of One's Own Page 4