Strays Like Us

by Richard Peck

  I chanced a glance to see her fingernails were bright, and so was her lipstick. She was made up like a doll.

  “Are your medicines in the kitchen?” Aunt Fay asked her.

  “For all the good they do,” Mrs. Voorhees said.

  “I’ll just run down there and check them over, and I’m going to have to call your doctor.”

  “If you can get him,” the old lady said. “He doesn’t return my calls.”

  Then Aunt Fay was gone, and it was just me in the center of the room and the little old Barbie doll woman in the bed with her eyes trained on me. They seemed bigger than they really were. She’d drawn in large lashes over eye shadow. “You going to be a nurse when you grow up?” she said.

  That was the last thing in this world I’d ever want to be. “I don’t know yet,” I mumbled.

  “Just taking it a day at a time, are you?”

  I nodded. That was exactly what I was doing.

  “And speak up,” she said, “so a person can hear you.”

  “I bit my tongue, so I talk funny.”

  “You look funny,” she said. “Do you own a dress?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t think even Aunt Fay owned a dress. “Just jeans for school and shorts for summer.”

  “At your age I wouldn’t walk out of the house without wearing a dress. And petticoats. I bet you don’t know what a petticoat is.”

  “Some kind of coat?”

  “It’s a half-slip, real frilly with lace.” Old Mrs. Voorhees stroked the little jacket she was wearing over her nightgown. It was satin with lace around the collar and cuffs. I’d never seen anything like it. “I’d haul off and wear two or three petticoats to make my skirt twirl. You better make yourself useful.” She had a strange ringing voice. “Tuck in my sheets. My feet feel a draft. Do you know how to do hospital corners?”

  “What are they?”

  “If you don’t know what they are, then you don’t know how to do them. You can pull up a chair and sit over here by the bed.”

  Then I knew she couldn’t really see me. I was just a blur. Even when I pulled up the chair, she had to squint. She needed her glasses but wouldn’t wear them. Too vain. Right from the start I seemed to know things about her and how her mind worked.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I can read your mind. You’re wondering what I was like as a girl, wearing all my petticoats.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So many men in this town wanted to marry me that I told them they’d just have to take their turn and I’d get around to them all.”

  I must have stared, “how many did you marry?”

  “It was just a joke,” she said. “Three.”

  Still, I stared, I guess.

  “Can you do manicures?” Her hand came out, and it was like a little paw, with spots and blue veins and these long, red nails. A ring hung loose on one finger, and the diamond in it looked like the headlight off a car.

  “I chip off the paint,” she said. “What else do I have to do? Reach in that drawer and get out the polish remover and that Jungle Red.”

  So I gave her a manicure, my first.

  “Do you know what cuticles are?” she said. “Be real careful with mine.”

  I rubbed away on the old polish with Kleenex and the remover, and I knew I better get every speck. The polish wasn’t that chipped. She wanted somebody to hold her hand. Her fingers were brittle as old paper. I missed some places with the Jungle Red and had to go back, but she was more or less patient.

  When Aunt Fay finally came back, she found me bending over Mrs. Voorhees’s hands, giving her a manicure, the two of us in the circle of light from the crooked shade. Aunt Fay stood in the door, watching the two of us there together.

  §

  “Ever see anybody so prissy?” she said in the car on the way home.

  “Behind the makeup, is she real old?”

  “Edith?” Aunt Fay said. “She’s not old. She’s my age. Her and Marlene Bledsoe and Wilma McKinney and me were in the same class.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Was she pretty back then?”

  Aunt Fay lifted her big shoulders. “Pretty is as pretty does. I’ll tell you one thing. She was boy crazy.”

  “She married three,” I said.

  “At least,” Aunt Fay said.

  “Is she rich?”

  “She’s feathered her nest right well for somebody who never done a day’s work in her life. The money come from Voorhees. He was old when she married him, and he left her pretty well fixed. The house alone would be worth something, if it was in a better town.”

  Now Aunt Fay was aiming the Dart at the garage. “I’m going to look in on Wilma McKinney,” she said. “You skin up to the house. Later on I’ll rustle us up some supper.”

  So I went on in the house and gave myself a manicure, my first – without the Jungle Red.

  I’d never been next door to the McKinneys’ place, and I’d hardly set eyes on Will’s grandma since that first day in the tree. I pictured her living her whole life in that nightgown. And I didn’t even know if Aunt Fay liked Mrs. McKinney or not. You couldn’t really know that kind of thing about Aunt Fay. I didn’t know if she liked me.

  ∨ Strays Like Us ∧

  Five

  Halloween came and went, and the leaves were falling fast. Will ate lunch up nearer Nelson Washburn’s table now, and something happened to me that looked like a miracle. I met Tracy Pringle. It was one of those miracles that only last a moment.

  To keep from coming straight home every afternoon, I’d found the public library. It was almost downtown, a little old stone building with CARNEGIE carved over the door, I holed up in the reading room there because I didn’t have a desk in Arlette’s room, and I’d taken to doing homework. I thought maybe I could teach myself some math, and I wanted a good social studies grade to show Mr. Russell I was civilized. And I liked doing language arts for Ms. Lovett. Who knew what kind of school I’d be in next? I kept my notebook handy.

  Then one day at the library a voice spoke over my shoulder. “Are those drops of blood?”

  I looked up, and she was like a girl in a Back-to-School catalogue. Her wool skirt was plaid, and she wore a sweater with buttons over a snow-white blouse. The barrettes in her hair were a little bit grade school, but she seemed older than I was. I looked away to keep from being blinded because she was so perfect. “They used to be blood drops, but now they’re flowers.”

  “I’ve seen you in here before.” She settled on the edge of the chair beside me and perched there. “Sometimes I’m just leaving when you get here.”

  But why? I came here right from school.

  “I’ve been looking things up about the Internet,” she said. “I’m getting a computer. Do you have one?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t even seen a computer at school. “Are you in eighth grade?”

  “I’ll be fourteen Friday,” she said. “Should I have a party and invite you?” She spoke as if she’d just thought of it, in a rush like she didn’t have much time.

  “Sure,” I said, though she couldn’t mean it. I didn’t know how to talk to a girl like this. Will would. He’d think of something.

  “My name is Tracy Pringle,” she said. “I don’t go to school.”

  There were times I hadn’t either, but…

  “I’m home schooled.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My mother teaches me, at home. So many bad things happen at schools.” Her eyes traced the blood spots on my notebook cover. “I’d better be going now. My mother will be by to pick me up.”

  “Do you live way out in the country?”

  “No, just up the hill.” She meant the hill where people like Mrs. Voorhees lived in big houses. “See you tomorrow?” I nodded, not wanting to sound eager. “My name’s Molly Moberly.”

  “I know. It’s on your notebook.”

  Then she was gone, and I sat there in the shadowy reading room, wondering if I’d dreamed he
r.

  §

  All my memories of that week are of meeting Tracy after school. I’d make a run for the library, throat tight for fear I’d miss her. She was always there, though she never stayed long. Every day she wore a different outfit. I pictured her laying out everything the night before, matching everything. Her sneakers were the cleanest I’d seen.

  At the library we sat side by side, elbows touching. Her handwriting was small, like an adult’s, and she outlined the notes she took on the computer manuals. She used different colors to highlight. Her pages were like rainbows.

  You could talk in the reading room. We were usually the only ones there, but Tracy didn’t think we should. It gave us a chance to write notes, like the girls in class.

  Do you like school?

  one of her notes asked. I wrote back,

  So so. Ms. Lovett’s nice.

  Do you like home school?

  She drew a smiley face for an answer. Her notes were from a tiny notepad with pink pages. I wrote on scraps. On Wednesday she wrote.

  Do you know any boys?

  I wrote back,

  One.

  She wrote,

  Is it Nelson Washburn?

  That made me laugh because I didn’t know how to giggle. “He’s a neighbor of ours,” she said in a small, breathy voice like Ms. Lovett’s, without waiting to write it out. “I know him, but he doesn’t know me.”

  I wrote,

  I know him too – sort of.

  I guess I know two boys.

  I left out Rocky Roberts. On Thursday she wrote,

  Why don’t you ever take notes in your notebook?

  I just smiled. Some girls would have reached over and grabbed it, but Tracy wouldn’t.

  Just as she was leaving, I slid a scrap of paper across to her. She hadn’t noticed how I’d been sneaking peeks at her. I’d drawn a quick sketch of her, how her hair fell, framing her profile as she pored over the computer manuals. It was only her head and shoulders because I couldn’t do hands.

  When she saw the picture, she caught her breath and brought her hands up in a steeple that brushed her lips. “Can I keep it?” she whispered.

  “A present for your birthday tomorrow,” I said. Then she had to go, but as she left, she scooted a pink note across to me:

  Now I know what’s in your notebook.

  On Friday a big car was parked outside the library. But I was only looking for Tracy, and there she was waiting for me in the door to the reading room. She was hugging her manuals and her notes in front of her. Her perfectness still made me blink. “Mother’s outside,” she said. “We’ll go up to my house.”

  “Does she – ”

  “No. You’ll be a surprise.”

  I followed her out. Would I have followed her anywhere? Then we were all three in the front seat. I was between them, but there was plenty of room.

  “Mother, this is Molly Moberly, so now I can have a party.”

  When I looked at her mother, to be polite, she was perfect too. Her hand rested on the steering wheel in such a graceful way that I ached because I couldn’t draw it. Her sudden smile lit up the car.

  “How nice,” she said, “but – ”

  “Mother, couldn’t we cut just two slices out of the cake? Please?”

  Tracy waited while her mother thought. Then with another sudden smile at me, Mrs. Pringle said, “Of course. Why not?” The car slid silently away, around the square and up the Lee Boulevard hill.

  I knew the house before we turned into the drive. It was snow white with two bay windows and the last of the roses over the door. A perfect house without a leaf in the yard. Tracy’s house.

  Inside, it was better, everything pale, everything in place. A tinkling chandelier hung over the diningroom table. I thought we’d go straight up to Tracy’s room. I was already drawing it in my head. But Tracy followed her mother into the kitchen. I supposed she wanted to be sure about the cake. It was a kitchen out of a dream, with marble counters. Her mother took three place mats out of a drawer that rolled out as quietly as the car. Then the three of us were at the dining-room table, Tracy across from me, her mother between us. We had milk with our cake, and there were napkins with lace edges that reminded me of the jacket Mrs. Voorhees wore to bed.

  I copied Tracy to see how big a bite to fork out of the slice. Then I couldn’t taste it. Mrs. Pringle’s eyes were moving over me, scanning.

  “Mother, Molly drew my picture,” Tracy said. “For my present.” So she hadn’t shown it to her.

  “Are you an artist, Molly?” Her mother had given herself a napkin but no cake, and she was folding it into neat pleats, like her skirt.

  “I just draw,” I said, looking down at the lace over my jeans knees. One of my hands rested on the table. I wanted her to see my manicure.

  “And where do you live?”

  I looked across at Tracy, wishing it was just the two of us. But she was looking back at me with her mother’s eyes.

  “With my great-aunt. Mrs. Moberly.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Pringle said. “I don’t think I – ”

  “She’s a practical nurse. She nurses old Mrs. Voorhees.”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Pringle said. “On Park Place.”

  I was a rough-edged jigsaw-puzzle piece, and she wondered how to fit me in.

  “And where are your mother and father?”

  A clock ticked somewhere in the house while they both waited for an answer.

  “My mother’s in a hospital.”

  “How very sad.” But Mrs. Pringle was looking at Tracy. “I believe your guest could manage another small slice of cake. Go out to the kitchen and get it. Use the server, and bring it in on a dessert plate, one that matches these.”

  I watched the whisk of Tracy’s skirt as she went through the kitchen door. And I wondered what to do with Mrs. Pringle’s next question, the one about my father, because I didn’t have one. I had a question of my own. Could she really be Tracy’s teacher in every subject? Did they put on gym shorts and divide up into two teams for P.E.? But no. It looked like Tracy and her mother were on the same team.

  “Can I see Tracy’s room?” I asked. The question popped out of nowhere, but I knew her bed would be made. I pictured stuffed animals on it.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” But one of her sudden smiles changed Mrs. Pringle’s face. “Yes, of course you may, and it gives me a very good idea.”

  Did I eat the second slice of cake? I don’t remember, but then I was following them up the carpeted stairs to Tracy’s room. There was a white canopy over a bed layered in white flounces, and again I thought about Mrs. Voorhees, her petticoats. It wasn’t quite a girl’s room. There weren’t any stuffed animals, and the pictures on the walls were framed flowers. I’d supposed she’d have a phone of her own, a white one, but I didn’t see it.

  Mrs. Pringle opened up the doors to a wall of closets while Tracy stood back, looking away. My eyes jumped. There were so many clothes in there, all Tracy’s, all on padded hangers and lots of them preserved in plastic. I didn’t care about clothes, but I didn’t know anybody had that many.

  But then I saw they were all the clothes that Tracy had ever had. Some of them were a little girl’s dresses, neatly arranged through the years. Mrs. Pringle stood back and touched her chin. Then her hand went forward. It was a plaid skirt, for autumn, a Tracy skirt.

  “Tracy, turn your back,” her mother said, “while Molly tries this on for size.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I thought I could pull it on over my jeans, but her mother wouldn’t let me. I didn’t know if it fit or not. When had I had a skirt?

  “You can turn around now, Tracy,” Mrs. Pringle said. “Yes, I thought that one would suit you, Molly. Tracy’s a little too tall for it now, and I couldn’t do anything with the hem, not with those pleats.”

  I could feel them brushing my bare knees. Bare knees felt like summertime. I was wearing some sweatshirt, which was all wrong. Mrs. Pringle pointed at it. “But n
ot bad,” she said, “with a blouse under it.”

  Her fingers got busy going through the blouses. They were all white or pastel with careful little collars. Tracy was ahead of me in blouse size too. Mrs. Pringle took one out. “Are you wearing underwear under that sweatshirt?” I nodded, so she helped me pull it over my head to try on the blouse. Then the sweatshirt went on again over it. She came up behind me, and I felt her hands at my neck, fixing the collar. She was dressing me. Did she dress Tracy every morning, in the clothes laid out the night before? Tracy hung there in the room, watching. It wasn’t her party now.

  Mrs. Pringle chose another skirt and two more blouses. She had a quick, neat way of folding them in the air. When she folded up my jeans too, I knew I was going to wear this skirt home. She was giving me these clothes, and that’s why she’d let me see Tracy’s room. “I’ll just run you home in the car,” she said.

  “I can walk,” I said. “And it’s downhill.”

  “I couldn’t take the risk,” Mrs. Pringle said. “The things that go on in this town. It’s full of people nobody knows now. It’s getting to be like everywhere else.”

  On the way home I sat on the outside, not between them. I had to show Mrs. Pringle where Cedar Street was. I’d already thanked her for the clothes, though they were Tracy’s. But I still didn’t really know what had happened to me. I could only wonder at Tracy having this much mother when I didn’t have any.

  As we pulled up to Aunt Fay’s house, Will was outside, leaning on a rake about as tall as he was. He’d done his grandma’s yard. Now he was working on ours. It was almost worth it all to see his face when I stepped out of the big car in a skirt. His jaw dropped. When I turned to watch the car drive away, Tracy looked back to see this boy I knew. She smiled her mother’s sudden smile.

  “I was fixing to rake up a big bunch of leaves we could jump in,” Will said, trying to rest his chin on top of the rake handle. “But I see you’re not dressed for it.”

  “Certainly not,” I said. “Couldn’t think of it.”

  I went on up the porch steps, doing a little something extra with my hips to make the skirt whisk, though I still really didn’t have hips.