Molly looked strangely relieved. “That’s nice to know,” she said.
After all that talking, it felt good to run down the fire escape with the wind in my face and the thud of my feet on the stairs. I kept a hand lightly on the railing, but I took each floor fast, whipping around corners. It felt like flying.
At the bottom I shot straight out into the alley, Molly behind me. She was smiling again. Soon we were at the fair poster, staring at its bright colors.
“Fell’s Point,” I read from the poster. “Is that far?”
“I don’t know,” said Molly. “But a taxi driver is sure to. Look,” she added, pointing to the list of attractions. “There’s a fortune teller!”
“And a mermaid,” I said, scanning the list. “That can’t be real.”
“Probably not,” said Molly.
We headed down the alley to the big avenue, where we’d seen taxis two days before. But when we spotted a policeman blocking the sidewalk, we nodded at each other slowly and turned right at the intersection instead of left, away from the Woolworth’s, as fast as we could hustle.
“We’ll go back with the money when he’s not there,” she said. “After the fair. All right?”
“Sounds good to me!”
After a few blocks, we passed a large square brick building with a paved courtyard. Sitting around it were lots of girls wearing simple brown dresses. A few of them played jacks. Mostly they talked quietly in small groups. “Must be recess,” I said.
Off to one side, two girls about my age were doing a hand clap, quickly but in hushed voices. One wore her hair in tight dark braids, the other in a mousy bob. I tried to listen but couldn’t make out the song, so I walked into the yard with Molly a step behind me. When the clappers saw us, they stopped clapping.
“No, don’t stop!” I said. “Keep singing. Please?”
They began again, slowly at first, then picking up speed. The one with the bob sang:
I am a pretty little Dutch girl,
As pretty as I can be, be, be,
And all the boys in the neighborhood
Are crazy over me, me, me.
My boyfriend’s name is Fatty,
He comes from Cincinnati,
With turned-up toes and a pimple on his nose,
And this is how the story goes.
Molly burst into cheerful laughter when they were done. “How terrific!” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl with the bob. “Who doesn’t know how to clap?”
“I don’t,” said Molly.
I hadn’t done a hand clap in about a year myself. There was an unwritten law of the schoolyard that girls graduated from hand claps to cheers when they started fifth grade. I’d moved on from “Eenie Meanie Bopsabeanie” to “Be Aggressive.” But now my hands itched with wanting to join in. I rubbed them on my skirt.
That was when the girl with the braids looked up at me and held out her hands in a questioning way. “You vant?” she asked. She had a strong accent and a shy smile.
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Thanks!” I sat down on the grass opposite her as the girl with the bob stood up. “You want to do that one again, or do you maybe want to learn a new song?” I asked.
The girl smiled eagerly, and as we began to clap, I sang:
Miss Lucy had a steamboat,
The steamboat had a bell.
Miss Lucy went to heaven,
and the steamboat went to
HELLO, operator,
When I got to that line, a small group of girls tittered behind me. I glanced back and realized we were attracting a crowd. Molly was beaming. I sang:
Please give me number nine.
And if you disconnect me,
I will chop off your …
More girls had joined us. This time, when I got to the punch line, the girls behind me chorused the obvious.
BEHIND the ’frigerator,
There was a piece of glass.
Miss Lucy sat upon it
And cut her big fat …
I was caught up in it now, having such a good time, singing and clapping. I kept going.
ASK me no more questions,
I’ll tell you no more lies.
The boys are in the bathroom,
Zipping up their …
Now the girl opposite me was blushing, but she was also still clapping, so I sang on, a little faster.
FLIES are in the meadow,
The bees are in the park.
Miss Lucy and her boyfriend
Are kissing in the …
DARK is like a movie,
A movie’s like a show,
A show is like a TV set
And that is all I know!
I finished, breathless. The girl with the braids grinned and Molly burst out laughing. The other girls around us broke into light applause. In the grass a few feet away, another pair was already attempting a slightly messy version of “Miss Lucy.” When they got to the words TV set, they said it like one big word: “TEEVEESET!” The way I sang the songs I learned in French class: “FRAYERAJOCKAFRAYERAJOCKADORMAYVOODORMAYVOO.” Memorized sounds, not words. “TEEVEESET!”
I chuckled.
“Vat is funny?” asked the girl opposite me.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Thanks, that was really fun. Do you want to do another, or will recess be over soon? It’s funny you have school in the summer.”
“School?” The girl looked puzzled.
“No, Annie, look,” said Molly, pointing to a plaque on the building. “This isn’t a school.”
I looked up. “The Baltimore Home for Girls,” I read out loud.
“Excepting it’s not a home, not really,” called out a voice. A girl a little older than the rest was standing off to one side. She had blond hair and pale blue eyes. She stared at me, hands on hips. “It’s instead of a home. Which isn’t the same at all. Who’re you?”
“I’m Annie,” I said. “Who’re you?”
“Geneva.” She didn’t add anything, and she didn’t take her eyes off me.
“Wait, so is this an—” I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Orphanage?” Geneva spat the word out. “Sure is.”
“An orphanage,” echoed Molly beside me.
“That so hard to believe?” asked Geneva.
Molly said, “I just always thought there would be a fence at an orphanage. Like in Dickens. Also—you don’t look hungry.”
I stared at Molly. I couldn’t believe she’d said that, but I had to admit, it was sort of what I’d been thinking too. These girls looked fine to me. Clean clothes, and they seemed happy, with their jacks and their hand claps. Not the way I’d pictured orphans at all.
Geneva shrugged. “Why would they need a fence? They’d be happy if I left. They’d give my spot to the next girl, and I’d be sorry. My folks brought me here for a reason, you know?”
I was confused. “Folks? You mean, you have parents?”
“Not much parents,” snorted Geneva. “But Pa would thrash me if I ran off. I’m not hungry because I’m here.”
“I don’t understand.” Molly’s eyes were wide. “Your parents brought you here? So you aren’t actually an orphan?”
Geneva shrugged. “There were eight of us, a couple too many. Belle has a mom and pop too, right, Belle?” She sneered faintly at the girl with the braids sitting in front of me so quietly.
The girl sighed. “My name … it is Bayla, not Belle.” She said this gently but firmly. I didn’t think she liked Geneva very much. I didn’t think I did either.
Geneva tossed her head, as if to say “Whatever.” She stalked off.
“Bayla?” I said, turning back to my new friend. “Am I saying it right?”
She nodded happily. “Is correct.”
“It’s a pretty name,” said Molly. “I’ve never heard it before. Bayla.”
“It vas my grandmother’s.”
“That’s nice,”
I said.
“Yes,” said Bayla. She paused a moment, then motioned after Geneva. “It is true, vat she says. My parents, dey are alive, I tink.”
“You think?” Molly asked. “How can you not know?”
Bayla shrugged. “I’ve not heard from home in two years. Dey sent me to America, to be safe. Only my aunt dat I am living wit, she dies of a fever.” Bayla’s dark eyes were huge. “But I am not an orphan. Dey vill come. I know.”
“You came here to be safe?” I asked. “Safe from what?”
She shook her head. “My country. Is bad now. Very bad.”
I wanted to say the right thing, but I had no idea what that might be, or what she meant, really. “I’m sorry,” I offered.
“Is not your fault,” said Bayla. She waved goodbye and turned toward the building. All the girls seemed to be filing inside now.
Molly and I headed slowly back to the street, then walked a few blocks in silence.
“It’s incredible,” Molly said at last. “That they can laugh and play like that. That they can be happy, even though …” Her voice trailed off.
“I wonder,” I said, “what was so bad that Bayla’s parents had to send her away.”
“On the radio they say a war is coming,” said Molly. “In Europe.”
Dim pictures flashed through my mind, muddy gray images of men in uniforms, fighting in trenches. Tanks rolling through towns. “Oh,” I said. “Yeah. It must be World War Two, huh? That’s awful. I can’t even imagine.”
“World War Two?” Molly stopped walking.
“Yeah, didn’t you already have World War One?”
“I don’t know what that means. Do you mean the Great War?”
“I—I’m not sure.” I didn’t remember much from our world history unit, and anyway, it didn’t seem like something Molly wanted to know about the future. “Either way, it’s sad for Bayla.” I started walking again, away from the conversation.
After another minute Molly cleared her throat. “Annie, I’ve been thinking … do you remember how you asked what would happen if Papa caught us?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Well, I think that might be what would happen. That place.”
“You’re nuts,” I said. “He’d never turn you out. Why do you say things like that? Yeesh. Drama queen.”
“Oh, not to me,” Molly said, looking flustered. “To—you.”
“Me?” I stopped walking. “But … I’m not an orphan.”
“I know you have a mother, but she isn’t here now. And those other girls weren’t really orphans either, not the way I think of orphans.”
“Ugh,” I said. “Can we please not talk about this anymore?”
“All right,” said Molly. Then she suddenly jerked her head up, shouted “Hey, hey!” and started waving both hands in the air like a maniac. Moments later a big car, black and boxy, pulled up. The sign on top read TAXI.
Molly stepped up onto the running board beneath the passenger side door and looked into the open window. The driver leaned over and stretched an arm across the seat. “Out on your own this sunny morning? Just the two of yous?”
“Yes,” said Molly. “It is sunny, isn’t it? The wind is dying down.”
The driver nodded. “Well, then, climb on in. An’ where’ll you be heading?”
“To Fell’s Point,” said Molly, opening the door.
“Fell’s Point?” The driver looked surprised.
“There’s a fair,” said Molly. “We think.”
“Ahh.” He relaxed. “Sure is, an’ I’d be pleased to give yous a ride.” He began to whistle. “It’s just not a place I generally take young ladies.”
Molly held up some paper money. “Is this enough?” she asked. The driver’s eyes grew wide. “By all means,” he said. “Welcome, welcome!”
Molly climbed in and I followed her, settling on the wide seat, still thinking about the home that wasn’t a home but trying not to. Idly, I ran my finger along the silky black fringe beneath the window. I’d been in taxis a few times, but I’d never seen one like this.
“Neither of us has ever been to Fell’s Point,” chattered Molly. “Is it nice? Is it near the water?”
The driver turned around. “You can’t get much nearer the water,” he said. “But nice isn’t quite the word I’d choose. Rough types down by the docks.”
“Oh,” said Molly, sounding worried.
The driver looked back and laughed. “Don’t worry. When the fair comes to town, it’s different. It’s grand!”
In a heartbeat we were speeding along, bumping down the road. There were no seat belts in the car, so Molly and I jounced as we zoomed along a brick street lined with stately homes. I couldn’t ponder anymore, not bouncing and jumping and jerking like that. I couldn’t help laughing. We passed a small park, where some little boys were throwing rocks into a fountain. I craned my neck to see the building above them, a tall white tower with a statue at the top. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Why, that is the Washington Monument!” the driver proclaimed.
Then I had a thought. “Sir,” I said, “you seem to know a lot about the city.”
“I’m sort of an expert, it’s true,” he said. “And you can call me Frank.”
“I wonder, Frank, do you know why sometimes it smells like cinnamon?”
“Ahh,” Frank said. “That’s the spice factory, down along the water. Some days the whole city smells like the perfume of the Orient, don’t it?”
“I guess,” I said. “That or an oatmeal cookie.”
Frank laughed. “Fair enough.”
Molly winked at me. “Is it the oldest spice factory in America, by any chance?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I think it is,” said Frank. “Oldest in the nation, tallest too. George Washington slept there hisself, as a matter of fact. Mighty famous, it is.”
“Oooh. And what’s that?” asked Molly as we turned, pointing to a huge gleaming square building with white columns and a grand archway.
“Our new library,” said the man proudly. “Just rebuilt it! My cousin worked on the job. Don’t it have more books than any library in the world? Or my name ain’t Frank Callahan! Over there’s the cathedral, oldest one in the country!”
“Hmm,” I said.
“That’s quite impressive,” said Molly.
After that we stared out the window at the world speeding by. Whether or not everything was in fact the biggest and the oldest and the best like Frank seemed to think, there was a lot to see. All around were beautiful churches and statues. Then we turned down another street and rumbled through a neighborhood with smaller buildings, littler houses. There were more people on the streets here. We passed tiny storefronts and what looked like warehouses. In one place, a long line of people snaked around a corner.
“Why do you think they’re standing in line?” I asked Molly. “What are they waiting for?”
“I don’t know,” said Molly.
Frank heard us and looked over his shoulder with surprise. “They’re waiting for bread, of course,” he said.
“Bread? Is it that good, the bread?” asked Molly.
“It’s free,” said Frank. “That’s the best bread of all, for some folks.”
“Oh,” said Molly, sitting back. Her hand crept over her bulging pocket.
From part of yet another history lesson, a picture surfaced in my mind of men in a line, with hats pulled low over their faces, coats tight against the cold. The Great Depression, I thought to myself. The Great Depression was happening in 1937. Locked in the hotel, full of creamed chicken, I hadn’t even considered what was happening outside. Funny how being shut away could make you forget everything else, like being sick for a week and coming back to school. While everyone who could afford to be in the hotel was dancing and drinking and wearing fine clothes, life outside was … different. I was only now getting to see it.
Molly hung over the front seat. “But why are those people so poor?” she asked. “Why don
’t they get jobs?”
“Well, surely you know it’s been hard times for many.” The driver looked bewildered by Molly’s question. “Hard to find work.”
Molly stammered. “I—I’ve been ill. I don’t go out often. Until just recently.”
“But you’re better now?” asked the driver. “You look fit as a fiddle to me.”
“Yes,” said Molly thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I am much better.”
Then the taxi was pulling up to a curb. Quick as a wink, Frank was out of his seat and dashing around to open our door, as though we were royalty. I climbed out as Molly paid him.
“I’d get you closer if I could, but this time of day the market stalls block the road,” said Frank.
“That’s all right,” said Molly. “We don’t mind walking!”
“Hey, girls, I’ll tell you what,” Frank called out as we walked away. “I’ll be back here in this very spot in two hours’ time, or as close to that as I can make it. In case ya need me. Watch the clock.” He pointed to a church tower a few blocks away. “I don’t like the idea of yous girls having no way to get back uptown.”
“Thank you,” said Molly brightly, turning and smiling. “That’s kind of you.”
Frank looked at the money in his hand. “Sure. I’m a kind feller.”
We watched his car disappear, and then we turned around, toward the water. What a sight it was! Down at the end of the street was the harbor, full of men unloading boats onto an old pier. Seagulls soared and screeched. Off in the distance we could just make out the noise and color of the fair, and the Ferris wheel rising above a row of houses.
But between us and the fair was something else—a building a block long, surrounded by stalls and carts and horses and stands. Two stories tall, with great glass windows, it was swarmed on all sides by people selling things. BROADWAY MARKET, read the sign above the great doors.
There were fish and fruit and flowers. One man was hammering at the sole of a shoe while his customer stood waiting on one leg. I saw a dentist pulling a man’s tooth, while right beside him a woman was buying bananas. There were butchers hacking pieces off of animals right there in the street. I watched as one of them swept the extra bits—the ears and tails—into a basket. At the stall beside him, a woman was wringing a chicken’s neck.
Seven Stories Up Page 9
