Seven Stories Up

by Laurel Snyder

  Molly was still panting, but she beamed. “Walking,” she said, “is good … too.”

  Once we caught our breath, it was nice in the sun-filled alley. We kicked pebbles and tried to ignore the stink of trash, which spilled from cans everywhere. I looked over at Molly, happily shuffling her shoes in the dust. The alley ran between two rows of narrow houses, whose backyards were only little strips of grass about ten feet wide, separated by low fences. In a few places, women were out, with mouths full of clothespins, hanging up laundry. They waved at us as we went by. We waved back.

  Just as we came to the end of the alley, a horse trotted up behind us and turned into the street beyond. Molly and I both jumped when the animal snorted and moved past us, pulling a black-and-red wagon full of vegetables. We watched horse and wagon rattle away up the street, a jostle of color, as a man’s voice, loud and deep and strong like a train whistle, sang out, “Berrrrries, berrrrries, got yer berrrrrries. Cherrrrrrries, cherrrrrries, got yer cherrrrries. Come on, all you pretty Marrrrrrrys!”

  “What’s that?” I said, staring after him.

  “He’s an arabber,” said Molly. “Don’t you have those in Atlanta?”

  I shook my head. “A what?”

  “An arabber,” said Molly. “They live with their horses in the stables and work in the streets. They come to the kitchen to sell things to Cook. Instead of knocking on the door, they sing down the alley. Cook comes out when she hears the song. Especially if it’s a man named Russell. I think she likes him.” Molly giggled. “Sometimes, before the Lonely Room, I’d run down if I heard him coming, and he’d give me a banana.”

  After that, we turned left and walked after the arabber and his song. Block by block, the street got busier. People moved past us in a hurry. On one corner, we had to step over two boys sharing a comic book in the middle of the sidewalk. Up and down the street, women were out in the sun with scarves tied around their heads, kneeling on the tiny marble stoops of their row houses with pails. Each had a scrub brush and was ferociously attacking the steps leading to her door.

  “Are they having a contest, do you think?” I asked Molly. “How do they all know to come out at the same time?”

  “I suppose it’s just wash day.” Molly shrugged.

  “Wow, I’ve never seen Mom scrub anything like that. Never.” I tried to imagine it: Mom out on the porch, scouring the Georgia red clay off the steps. I could hear her voice in my head: “I’ll show you where you can stick your scrub brush!”

  “Is the future filthy, then?” asked Molly.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “If it is, I never noticed. Maybe we just balance everything out by not having horse poop everywhere.” I pointed to a particularly huge pile as I said this. I wrinkled my nose.

  “Then where do the horses … poop?” asked Molly.

  “We don’t have horses,” I said.

  Molly considered that. “Where did they all go? The horses?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Texas?”

  We turned a corner and a sky-blue streetcar rumbled past as a man ran to catch it. Molly grabbed my arm and linked it with hers. “Let’s not lose each other,” she said. Now the houses gave way to storefronts, and the shop windows were full of prices I couldn’t believe for things I’d never heard of. What was a spat? I wondered. What was hair dressing?

  We passed a shoeshine man and a woman selling flowers. On the corner across the street, two police officers in blue uniforms were laughing. A few blocks after that, I stopped in front of a huge window and a bright red sign that read F. W. WOOLWORTH CO. “Now here’s something that hasn’t changed!”

  “Really?” said Molly. “What do they sell here?”

  “Everything, pretty much!” I said.

  “I like everything,” said Molly as she pushed the door open. “I think.”

  I followed Molly into the store. “They don’t really have everything. It’s just a five-and-dime, but Mom and I like it. On Saturdays we eat grilled cheese at the counter, then try on jewelry and stuff.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Molly, staring around.

  I inhaled deeply. The confused scent of candy and baby powder and rubber gloves and hamburgers made me homesick and happy. “It is nice,” I said. “That’s exactly what it is.” Though nice wasn’t what I’d have expected from a magical adventure, it made me smile. “Never mind Camelot.” I laughed. “I traveled back in time to take my grandma to Woolworth’s.”

  “Pardon?” asked Molly, turning to look over her shoulder.

  “Oh, umm, nothing. Nothing important.”

  Just inside the front door, a bunch of kids were huddled together around the outside of a photo booth.

  “What’s that?” asked Molly, joining their throng.

  Squeals of laughter came from inside the booth, where a voice shouted, “Hey, cut that!” One second later a small boy in a dark suit and cap shot out from behind the curtain. Just behind him, a taller, older boy snorted with laughter. Molly studied the kids carefully. When at last the small strip of photographs shot into the small boy’s hand, the crowd wandered off.

  Molly didn’t budge. “I want to do it,” she said. She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside the booth.

  “Ack, wait,” I said. “My braid is all messy! And you need money.”

  Molly conjured a coin from somewhere and slipped it into the slot with a heavy shick, then a light flashed. I looked up, blinked. The light flashed again and I smiled this time, leaned in to touch heads with Molly. Unexpectedly she turned and threw an arm around me, squeezing hard. I laughed, and without thinking I hugged her back, felt her ribs in my arms, her curls on my cheek.

  It was only while we were waiting for our pictures that I remembered the last time I’d done this, with Susie at the mall, the two of us in the arcade, sticking out our tongues, giving each other rabbit ears. We’d pretended to make out with ourselves, our own arms wrapped around our chests, backs to the camera, hands groping our necks. Wow, we were goofs.

  When the pictures fell into Molly’s hand, slightly shiny and wet, my own face staring out at me looked unfamiliar. In black-and-white, with the braid and round collar, I looked like a stranger. Molly and I were just two faces, girls who might have been sisters, in nearly identical dresses.

  “Hey,” I said, “I look almost like I belong here.”

  Molly was cupping the strip of photos in her hands and blowing on it, as she’d seen the boys do. “And I,” she whispered, “look like—you!”

  “Nah!” I said quickly. “You’re crazy. Come on, let’s look around.”

  We headed deeper into the store, and I had to admit to myself that things were different after all. Instead of counters, the room was full of big tables, and everything was pretty much just heaped on top of them. I stopped in front of a pile of pink parasols and fake flowers and music boxes. The sign above my head read NOTIONS DEPARTMENT.

  “Can I help you, young ladies?” asked a nervous-looking man who appeared out of nowhere.

  “Oh, no,” I replied as Molly wandered off into the ribbon department. “Just window-shopping.”

  “Well, if you need help with something in particular, something you’d actually like to purchase, do let me know.”

  “Okay!” I said, walking away. I could feel his eyes on my back, and when I turned my head, he was still standing there, his arms crossed over his chest. “Thanks!” I called out. “See you around!” I hurried away.

  When I found Molly, she was wearing a paper party hat covered in feathers. There was a thick strand of tinsel around her neck.

  “Doing some shopping?” I asked. “That’s a good look for you.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she answered with a deep sigh. “I didn’t bring my money, really. I just had that one quarter in my pocket, my lucky piece. Perhaps we can come back? Tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I said. “If I’m still here. But let’s not stay too long today. That guy is stalking us.” I jerked my head in the direction of th
e nervous man, who was now staring at us over an armload of boxes. I waved at him and he turned away, headed for the back of the room.

  “Five more minutes?” Molly asked, reaching for a perfume bottle.

  “Sure,” I said, coughing as she sprayed everything in sight.

  I ran from the smell of the perfume, to the front of the store, where I stopped to examine a tray of candy bars. Some sounded awesome, like the Chocolate Ice Cubes and the Milk Shake Bars. But the Chicken Dinner Bar? Blech. Even for a penny, I’d be afraid to try that one.

  I moved over to a table covered with beautiful painted glass lamp shades. They were all different colors, arranged in a carefully balanced pyramid. The Woolworth’s back home didn’t sell things like that. It was more full of flip-flops and coat hangers.

  I was kneeling to examine the pictures painted on the shades, when across the room I heard a voice call out sharply, “Miss, no, don’t—OH, NO, MISS!”

  I whirled around to see what the trouble was and found a blurred rush of color heading straight at me. It flew through the store, down the aisle. Fast!

  I heard: “Aaaaaaannieee!!!” Molly was flying at me, zipping along the dark wooden floors, still in her feather hat, and she wasn’t slowing down! The nervous man ran behind her, but his arms were full of boxes and Molly was zooming. She sped forward, windmilling, screaming. “Ayyyyyyy!”

  I threw my hands up to catch her, or stop her, or at least brace myself. It was all I had time for. I squinted my eyes and gritted my teeth and—BANG! She hit me like a freight train. I caught myself against the table and took a sharp corner in my hip. Molly grabbed my neck with both arms, and we toppled heavily against the table but didn’t hit the floor.

  Then I looked at the pyramid of lamp shades.…

  For a second or two it was a tremble, a shudder, a shiver, like a bowling pin that might tip if you wait. The stack of bright jewel-colored lamps, shining in the afternoon sun, wobbling. I held my breath.

  The lamps slipped. They fell like a house of cards. It was beautiful, explosive. One, then another, until BOOMCRASH! They hit the table, then the floor, shattered into glitter beside us. Molly and I stood frozen as shards splintered all around our feet. Colors everywhere.

  Molly let go of my neck, straightened herself up, then grabbed my arm with one hand and the table with the other. When I looked at her feet, I understood.

  “Roller skates?” I asked.

  “Oops?” she said.

  In slow motion, the nervous man arrived, a look of horror on his face. He kept his distance at first, maybe afraid of the sharp bits and splinters. Maybe afraid of Molly, that she might roll again.

  From the back of the store, a saleswoman with a bright red mouth skittered out in heels. “Can I help? Is everyone all right?”

  The nervous man didn’t answer. He looked astounded, adrift.

  “Oh my,” said the woman, her red mouth forming a vivid O.

  Molly only pulled off her feather hat and said softly, “Annie?” as though I’d know what to do.

  I took it all in. The damage. The man, who was now beginning to stutter something. The fact that we didn’t have a penny between us, that Molly was not supposed to be out of the Lonely Room, and that I wasn’t supposed to exist. This was bad.

  I stared into Molly’s face, so close to mine. “Can you run?”

  Her fingers dug into my arm. “I don’t know if—”

  “Can you?”

  She nodded faintly. “If you hold on to me.”

  “Do it,” I hissed. “Go now. NOW!”

  We bolted! Before anyone could ask any questions or grab us. I pulled Molly after me, teetering wildly. The two of us made it through the glass shards and the front of the store, past the photo booth, to the doorway.

  It took the nervous man a minute to realize what was happening. “No!” he shouted at last. When I looked behind me, he was hopping around, trying to avoid the glass. “You girls! Come back! No!” We could hear him shouting as we ran into the sun, then down the sidewalk.

  We didn’t stop. We kept going, running and rolling sloppily down the pavement. We knocked over a baffled woman walking a small dog. “Sorry!” I shouted as we passed. “Super sorry!”

  Molly half skated, half walked, with a chunking sound, and I pulled at her as well as I could. I didn’t look back again, so I didn’t know if we were being chased. Blocks behind me I could still hear the man shouting, hollering. In the end, he only bothered with one word.

  “Police!” he screamed, as we were swallowed by the crowd on the sidewalk. “Police police police police police!”

  Then, out of nowhere, a dark tunnel appeared in the brick wall beside us, a narrow space, a doorway sliced between two row houses. I didn’t know what it was, but I took a chance and ducked inside, pulling Molly with me. The tunnel stank. It was dark and narrow. The ceiling dripped.

  We made it about twenty feet in the darkness, then collapsed onto a pile of what felt like wooden crates. “Sit,” I wheezed at Molly. “Get … those … off!” I leaned over for a minute, hand to chest, to catch my breath.

  “I—I didn’t mean to,” she stammered, tears in her voice. “It was my first time. I didn’t know.…”

  “Don’t … cry. And don’t … worry. Just get … those off.”

  Molly began to pull off the skates, which were clamped to her shoes. I could hear her fingers scrambling at the buckles. As each skate hit the ground, it made a clattery metal noise.

  “Done,” Molly said at last. “Done.” She leaned against me. “I—only wanted to try them.”

  “I know,” I said. I had caught my breath again. “And now you have. It’s fine.”

  “Fine? It’s not fine. All that glass? The police?” she said. “What will happen?”

  As though in answer to our question, a police officer ran by the entrance to our tunnel at that very second, his club waving, his feet beating the pavement. He paused briefly to squint down our way. We held our breath, both of us. Silent.

  “Anyone there?” he shouted into the darkness. “Hello?”

  We waited, frozen.

  At last he ran on ahead and I let out my breath, gasping painfully for air. Molly did the same. Then we stood up. “Okay,” I said. “Now we scram. Home?”

  “But—we stole the skates! And all those lamps broken! We have to go back.”

  I thought that over. “We will,” I said. “When we have the money.”

  “But …”

  “Look, we can’t talk to the police. The minute they know who you are, they’ll go to your dad for the cash.”

  “Oh,” said Molly. “I hadn’t thought about that. You’re always right, aren’t you?”

  “Usually,” I said.

  Molly smothered a laugh.

  I didn’t want to pop back out into the street, where people were on the lookout for two girls in a hurry. So we headed the other way, back between the row houses, deeper into the tunnel, which grew narrower and danker. Beneath our feet the ground was sludgy.

  Somewhere, something squeaked.

  Our tunnel ended in a splintery wooden door, but when we creaked it open, we found our way blocked by a clump of overgrown bushes. I squinted and pushed through the scratchy foliage. Molly followed, and we both stumbled into a small fenced yard.

  Full of chickens!

  The birds were as bewildered to see us as we were to see them. They jumped and rustled and clucked. Most of them ran to the other side of the small dirt patch. But one huge bird separated itself from the rest. Fearless, he flew at me, screaming. Screaming!

  I froze.

  Molly yelled, “AGHHHHH!”

  The rooster turned when it heard her and charged. He jumped at Molly’s head, squawking and scrambling his feet in the air.

  “AGHHHHH!” Molly yelled again, hands over her head, body bent double as claws and feathers raked the air around her curls. The big bird leaped straight onto her head.

  “AGHHHHH!” she screamed again as he ran down her ba
ck, flapping his wide wings. He stretched himself.

  “Go, go, go!” I shouted at her. “Stand up! Run, Molly! MOVE!” I dashed over and waved my arms at the bird on her back. “GET!” I shouted at him. “SHOO!”

  “BRAWK!” he shouted back, mouth open. He had lizard eyes.

  “FRIED CHICKEN!” I bellowed, slapping at his chest. “EXTRA CRISPY!”

  He screamed, “RAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  Finally Molly shook herself and ran for the back of the yard. The rooster sprang away as she dashed, and the two of us pushed through the other birds. “MCNUGGETS!” I shouted as I ran, waving my arms and kicking my feet to keep the chickens off me. I pushed open the latch on the gate and we ran through.

  We collapsed on the gravelly ground of an alley and leaned against a garage wall. Molly, pale and panting, looked over at me with the hugest eyes I’d ever seen. Her neck was scratched.

  I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. Then I couldn’t stop.

  “It’s not funny,” Molly said. “That was horrible.”

  I only laughed louder. “Ha—ha—ATTACK CHICKEN!” I shouted.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, it didn’t scratch you, so you don’t know how it felt. It hurt.”

  I wiped away a tear from laughing. “Heh. Sorry. It was pretty funny from where I was standing.” I stood up and did an imitation of her, bent over, the chicken dancing on her back. “AGHHHHH!” I shouted.

  Molly smiled.

  Then she grinned.

  I reached out a hand to pull her up. I looped my arm through hers as we walked down the alley. “That,” I laughed, “was quite an afternoon. You sure made up for lost time.”

  Molly grimaced. “I feel terrible about the lamps.”

  “It was worth it for the crash.” I grinned. “And you should have seen yourself on those skates.”

  “But, Annie, we stole them.”

  I shrugged. “We didn’t mean to, and we’ll pay for everything, right?”

  Molly nodded slowly. “I suppose so,” she said. “Yes, of course we will.”

  “Then it all works out,” I said. “No reason to feel too bad. Okay?”