All the Children Are Home

by Patry Francis

  Zaidie giggled. “Tore ’em down and paraded through the street like it was the Olympic torch. Remember that, Jimmy?”

  My eyes shifted from one face to the other as they passed stories back and forth the way they had hurled dough balls. “It’s not funny,” Ma insisted after each one, but they snickered anyway.

  Jimmy was the first to notice I hadn’t eaten anything. “What’s the matter, kid? People don’t need food on your planet?”

  Dad, who had yet to look at me, shot a dark glance at my plate. “In this house, you eat what’s in front of you. It ain’t Howard Johnson’s.”

  I wondered if he prefaced everything he said with the words in this house just like the small boy ended every sentence with right, Jimmy?

  As all eyes focused on the uneaten noodles on my plate, Zaidie leaned in close and put her hand on my knee. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you hungry, Agnes?”

  Jon waggled a finger at me. “No Chips Ahoy if you don’t eat your spaghetti. All of it, right, Jimmy?”

  Didn’t Mr. Dean or the lady in the green coat tell them I wasn’t supposed to sit at people’s tables? And I wasn’t supposed to touch their silver forks, either.

  “Agnés go pee,” I whispered, forgetting I wasn’t supposed to call myself that. My mouth watered from the sweet smell of the food. When they all continued to watch me, I was sure I was going to pee right there. I shivered like the boy had when he was cold in the yard. Jon.

  For the first time, Dad stopped eating and looked directly at me. “You sit right there till you finish. And why are you saying your name like that?”

  “It’s French,” Ma put in. “Must be a little Canuck in her somewhere.”

  “Well, in this house, we talk American. You hear that, Agg-nes?” He turned to the shadow. “What the hell’s a kid like that doing in Claxton anyway?”

  Jon appraised me with four-year-old frankness. “What kind of kid is she, Jimmy?” No one answered, but I knew. I was the kind from TV.

  The shadow cocked her head in the direction of the bandaged hand resting on the table for Dad’s benefit, but the kids saw, too. “All I know, Lou, is they had to get her out of the last home fast.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Jon persisted.

  “Be quiet, Jon.” Zaidie kicked him under the table as she returned her hand to my knee.

  I pushed her away. If I thought about the cast or the hand throbbing inside it, Mr. Dean’s face would rise before me more clear than it already was. And I would remember the bad thing I did. Worser than touching Mrs. Dean’s Jean Naté. His voice, too. You wanna piss on the floor like a filthy animal? In my house? Answer me, Agnes!

  Inside, I had tried to say no as loud as I could. No, I didn’t want to be a filthy animal. I didn’t want to be a dirty whore like yourmother. No. Inside I wanted to tell him how I’d taken my stick and knocked on the floor of the attic the way I was supposed to when I needed to pee, but him and Mrs. Dean were yelling so loud no one heard me.

  If I came down without permission, if I interrupted, Mr. Dean would get so mad he’d scare the asthma. But I had to pee. I had to pee and I couldn’t wait anymore. I knocked a little harder and then harder than that. I banged my stick on the floor till my insides ached and I felt oily water oozing down my cheeks and then, with horror, but relief, too, a burning stream of yellow leaked down my legs onto the floor.

  As soon as I saw Mr. Dean coming through the door, I knew he had been drinking from the glass with the gold letter on it the way he did before he yelled at Mrs. Dean. Long before I learned my blues and greens, I knew the color of mean and his face was dark with it.

  Jesus Christ, Agnes, what’s the racket up here? he said. Then he took in the stain on my pants, and he stopped in the middle of the room. His hands rested on his hips the way they did and his eyes were narrowed to a little black spark and the mean color got meaner. That’s when he saw the hammer he’d left behind when he came up to fix a loosened floorboard. You wanna piss on the floor like a filthy animal in my house? Is that what you wanna do?

  I squeezed my eyes hard to make Mr. Dean go away, and when I opened them, I was stunned by the messy table and the faces around it, a dog barking in the distance—Princie, the greatest thief in the world—but above all, by the smell of the canned spaghetti.

  Dizzy with hunger, nauseous with it, I fisted the Franco-American and swallowed it in one clump. Then I shoved the Sunbeam into my mouth before anyone could take it away. I was licking grease and the color orange from my fingers when I realized that all the arguing and laughing and eating at the table had stopped; even the sounds outside the house stilled as the family stared at me.

  The dog barked again, as if to restart the world, and they all spoke at the same time.

  “Wow.” Jimmy sounded as if I’d done something as impressive as tearing down the neighbor’s morning glories and parading them through the street.

  “Is that how people eat where she comes from?” Jon cast a quick glance at his brother before returning to me.

  Zaidie’s hand hovered protectively close, but she had already learned not to touch me. “Leave her alone, all of you. Just leave her alone.”

  But Ma’s face rose above the others. It was as if she was seeing me for the first time. Or maybe it was the first time anyone had seen me. And I was seeing her, too. No longer a shadow. Her.

  “Someone get her a cookie,” Louie said.

  Chapter Four

  Shamrock Barrettes

  ZAIDIE

  THE TROUBLE WITH EMERGENCIES WAS THAT SOMETIMES THEY stayed so long we started to think they really belonged to us. A month, three weeks, and six days after Agnes arrived, we heard the ominous click of Nancy’s heels coming up the walkway. I touched the shamrock barrette I’d been wearing ever since the day I’d pinned its match onto Agnes’s hair and prayed to the man whose picture hung on the wall. Please don’t let her take my little sister away, I told Nonna’s Pope.

  Since Agnes came, the most commonly used word in my vocabulary was See?

  Every time I said it, I saw more myself.

  This is hot cocoa. You stir it up and add marshmallows, and then you drink it.

  See?

  When the clock says seven on Sunday night, it’s time for Lassie. My favorite show. It’s about a dog.

  Can you tell time? Do you know what a clock is?

  Have you ever watched TV? With Agnes, I took nothing for granted.

  Look, this is how you turn it on. Do you want to try? Like this. See?

  Agnes watched silently, but the next day Ma caught her switching the knob on and off, her eyes opening wide every time the images on the screen appeared.

  “Where Lassie? Agnes want to see Lassie,” she said, which made everyone laugh—including Agnes herself.

  “I. I want to see Lassie. When you’re talking about yourself, that’s what you say, see?” I thumped my chest.

  Agnes, giggling, did the same. “I. I. I!”

  “Jon’s going to Jeffrey’s birthday party today,” I told her one Saturday. “This is the present. Ma wrapped it up to make it look pretty.” (I grimaced as I looked at the lumpish gift.) “You’re supposed to put a ribbon on it and a boy’s present shouldn’t have ballerina paper, but Ma ran out of money. See? When it’s your birthday, you get a cake with candles and everyone sings to you.”

  “Candles?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Um, little sticks with fire on them. You blow like this.”

  Agnes blinked as if she could see the tiny fires winking out one by one.

  “Then your friends give you presents and everyone tries to pin the tail on a donkey.”

  “A donkey?” She shook her head vigorously. “Agnes not stick no donkey.”

  “Not a real donkey, silly,” I said, laughing. “A paper one you tape on the wall. Like this. See?”

  “You think we torture live donkeys for fun, kid?” Jimmy said, looking up from his comic book. “I told you she was from another planet.”

  But h
e, too, had gotten into the act. “This is bubble gum. Bazooka. First you look at the comic, then you chew. Like this. Don’t swallow it, though, or they’ll have to cut your stomach open with a knife.” He picked up a stick and pretended to operate. “If you do that, I’m not responsible.”

  Agnes chewed her gum so solemnly we all laughed. “Agnes do it right like Jimmy say. See?”

  “I. I do it right,” I said. “I. I. I.”

  When she smiled, we all did, too. It was just that kind of smile.

  WITHIN THE FIRST week, Jimmy had taught her to blow bubbles and throw a ball with her good hand. She chucked it so hard we didn’t find that ball till spring. And with every new accomplishment, she laughed the way she had the first day she played in the snow. Like no one on earth had ever done it before.

  Even Jon had picked up my new favorite word. “These are my toy men. The green ones are cowboys; they’re good ones. And the red ones are Indians. They’re bad. See?”

  Jimmy was at the card table helping Ma put together Big Ben. “Jeez, Jonny, can’t you see who you’re talking to?” He inserted a piece of the clock Ma had been looking for all week. “She probably doesn’t even know what an Indian is anyway; do you, kid?”

  “Do too know,” she said, leaping up from the couch the way she did when she was eager to demonstrate her knowledge. She picked up one of the red plastic figures. “These the bad ones. See?”

  Ma removed her glasses the way she did when she wanted to see in a different way. “Who on earth told you that—Mr. Dean?”

  Agnes glanced briefly toward the picture window and then plopped back down on the couch. “What time Lassie come on?” There was no mistaking the shadow that crossed her face.

  Ma tried to return to Big Ben, but her eyes kept drifting to the picture window, as if she, too, were seeing the yellow station wagon that haunted Agnes. “I never met your Mr. Dean, but I know his type and let me tell you this. Every word they say is a lie, Agnes. Every single word.”

  “Every. Single. Word,” Jon repeated, shaking one of his toy Indians. “See?”

  AS THE WEEKS passed and Agnes settled in, Ma reminded her of her temporary status almost daily. Sometimes, to make the point, she pretended to dial the department. We knew she was faking because she always spoke in an extra-loud voice.

  “Well, hello, Nancy. What? You’ve found a family for Agnes? A week, you say? Yes, I’ll make sure she’s ready. Did you hear that, Agnes?” she’d say cheerily, after she’d hung up the phone. “It’s good news.”

  Agnes put her jacket on and went into the backyard to toss the stick to Princie.

  Even though we’d been through it countless times, we were always stunned when the call really came. Nancy would be here to pick up Agnes Thursday morning at nine. “A nice family named the Dohertys,” Ma gushed. “And they have a little girl right around your age so you’ll have a friend—just like Zaidie. Isn’t that wonderful, Agnes?”

  “This Thursday?” My voice was so small I was surprised anyone could hear me.

  “Don’t make this any harder than it already is, Zaida,” Ma warned as Agnes headed for the backyard again.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL Wednesday night that Agnes acknowledged what she’d been told. “I not go to that house,” she said, crawling into my bed when she thought I was asleep. “Not going,” she corrected herself.

  While I breathed quietly beside her, she allowed her claim to grow louder and more emphatic until it filled the room: “I staying here. This house. Miss Holdsman’s class. Zaidie’s bed. I staying right here.”

  I didn’t even bother to remind her that she’d forgotten am.

  THE NEXT MORNING she had been up and dressed for school as if it was an ordinary day. Ma had made Bisquick pancakes. It was supposed to be a treat, but Jimmy called it the “kiss of death breakfast” because she always served it to kids on their last morning.

  When she saw that Agnes had dressed for school, she held the spatula aloft, as if poised for battle.

  “This is the big day, Agnes! Did you see the bag I packed for you?”

  Agnes poured more syrup on her pancakes. “Sorry, can’t go today, Ma.”

  Ma turned around. Again, the spatula was in the air. This time, though, it looked like a shield. “What did you say? Of course—”

  “Can’t,” she repeated, cutting her pancakes into neat squares the way I’d taught her to do.

  “What do you mean you can’t? Your case worker’s coming whether—”

  “Miss Holdsman teaching letter Z today,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Z for Zaidie.”

  Ma returned to the stove and flipped the last batch of pancakes.

  By then Agnes’s determination had grown so fierce it was giving off sparks. It seemed to be fueling her hunger, too. I’d never seen her eat so ravenously.

  “They teach the alphabet at the Grainer School, too,” Ma said, still facing the skillet. “And they have such a nice playground. Jimmy rides his bike over there almost every day. Right, Jim?”

  “Only reason I go over there is to see Debbie D’Olympio. Playground’s a dump.”

  Dad, who had focused on the newspaper until that moment, stood up abruptly, leaving his plate of half-eaten pancakes. “Two brake jobs and a tranny,” he said. “Don’t expect me early.”

  After he’d put his work boots on, he looked back at the girl with the shimmering black braid, one shamrock barrette pinned optimistically to her hair, wondering if he should say something to her. Then he shook his head and left without another word. The first rule is don’t get attached, he’d told me when I cried after one of the newborns left.

  “I hear the Dohertys have a nice backyard, and your new sister is named Kathy,” Ma continued in her saleslady voice. “She can’t wait to meet you.”

  Agnes slid her chair closer to mine, the metal legs grating against the linoleum. “Already have a sister.” She looked to me for approval when she used the word I’d taught her the other day.

  “Nancy says it’s a very good family. It’s not going to be like . . .” Her voice trailed off. “You got lucky this time, honey. I promise.”

  I winced. The only time Ma called kids honey was when they were leaving. It obviously grated on Jimmy, too.

  He pushed his chair backward. “Why don’t you tell her the goddamn truth for once?”

  “James!”

  “I don’t care. People have been lying to this kid since the day she was born—if they bothered to talk to her at all.”

  “Enough, Jimmy. Please.”

  “Tell her the Grainer School playground has three swings and one’s busted. In the spring you can’t even play ball there cause it turns into a mud pit. Tell her the new family ain’t gonna be any better than the five she was in before and most likely they won’t want her neither. The kid hasn’t got a chance of seeing happy till she’s eighteen and busts out of the system for good, and by then, she’ll be so messed up, it won’t matter.”

  Agnes leaped up so abruptly she knocked her milk over. She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Ma glared at Jimmy as she reached for a dish towel. “Now see what you’ve done. You can clean up the mess, too.”

  “I’m not the one who made the mess; you are. I thought you said you were done takin’ in kids.” He slammed out of the house, leaving his books on the table.

  “You might as well go, too, Zaida,” Ma said. “The last thing we need is another scene.”

  “But I want to say goodbye and my school doesn’t start till—”

  “Goodbyes only make it worse; you know that. Now, while she’s in the bathroom. I don’t care when school starts.”

  Unconsciously, I rubbed the top of my hand where Agnes had held it so tight her nails left marks the first day she went to school. Though they hadn’t punctured my skin and the little red indentations disappeared in an hour, I could still feel them.

  “But I’ve been trying to tell you I—I think I have a fever.” I put the back of my hand to my forehe
ad. “And I’m going to throw up. And—”

  “And you’re getting the bubonic plague, polio, and the mumps all at once,” Ma muttered, clearly too overwhelmed to argue. “Take your brother and go up to his room, then. I don’t want to see either of you until this is over; do you understand?”

  After I shepherded Jon to his room, I sat at the top of the stairs and watched Ma retrieve her menthols from the shelf where she hid them.

  YOU KNOW HOW you can tell when things are really bad around here? Jimmy had told me in my early weeks. Ma gets out her old pack of Newports.

  “What’s bad about that?” I wondered aloud. I had vague memories of my first mother and her friends, filling ashtrays and sipping drinks with cherries in them, as they giggled in the kitchen. That was a long time ago, before she got sick, but sometimes I could almost hear their laughter.

  “Ma hasn’t smoked for ten years. That’s what’s bad,” he said as if it was obvious. “Doesn’t even light ’em up. But every now and then she takes one out and sucks on it like her life depended on it.” Eyes narrowed, cheeks drawn in, he demonstrated. “When you see her doing that, well—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I retreated to Jon’s room, where I found him rocking back and forth on his bed, eyes closed, a thumb jammed in his mouth, comforting himself as Ma did with her Newports. He was what they called my real brother, and sometimes when I saw him doing things like that, I could almost feel myself back in those rooms where we’d lived with our first mother. It was no good to think of that too much, though.

  I slammed the door behind me. “Do you want me to set up the train for you?”

  Dragging out the box, clicking the pieces of track together, and lining up the cars had a calming effect on me. But as soon as I plugged it in, all I could see was Agnes’s face as she watched it spin around the track. What if Jimmy was right and this home was no better than the previous ones? Who would sit with her when she tried to run and fell into an asthma attack? Who would lead her back to bed when she got up in the middle of the night to watch for Mr. Dean?

  I stood by the window, taking in the view of the street where Agnes had often kept watch. At ten thirty, with still no sign of the case worker, I felt myself puffing up with hope.