Little Miss Strange

by Joanna Rose

  “There,” he said. “Dig one hole for each pot.”

  “What kind of flowers are these?” I said.

  “Petunias for the front row,” he said. “Pink. Bright bright pink. Then marigolds for the back row. The marigolds are taller. Taller goes in the back.”

  “What color marigolds?” I said.

  “Orange,” he said. “Orange marigolds in the back, pink petunias in the front.”

  “Orange and pink?” I said. “Orange and pink? Do you think orange and pink go together?”

  “They will be beautiful,” Erico said. “Brighten the heart.”

  He poured water into each hole I made.

  The petunia leaves were soft fuzzy leaves that curled in on themselves. Erico dug his fingers down into each pot, working a petunia out of each pot, setting a petunia in each hole.

  “Carefully,” he said. “Tender roots. If we are careful with the roots, we will have beautiful flowers soon. Just like with little girls.”

  “Little girls don’t have roots,” I said.

  Erico said, “There are always roots. Roots are where you begin. Your mama plants you carefully, and there you are, growing.”

  He filled in the dirt into each hole, over the roots, the water and the dirt closing over his fingers with mud, until there was a long row of petunias.

  I said, “My mama didn’t plant me carefully.”

  I said. “She went away somewhere.”

  “But here you are growing,” Erico said.

  I said, “Her name was Christine Jeanette Blumenthal.”

  Right out loud.

  Erico handed me the trowel.

  “Here,” he said. “Now another row for the marigolds.”

  The marigolds stood up skinny, and shiny dark leaves like fingers reaching out. I dug each hole, and Erico filled each hole with water, setting the roots into the mud, scooping the soft dirt around each marigold with his big hands, little skinny marigolds. When all the marigolds were in their row Erico poured the rest of the water into the flower box. Muddy water dripped out the bottom of the flower box onto the sidewalk, cold, wet, soaking through the knees of my blue jeans.

  “How long until they grow?” I said.

  “All the time,” Erico said. “They are growing every minute. Even now, brand new, they are growing.”

  “I mean flowers,” I said.

  “That depends,” Erico said. “On the sun. Maybe a month, maybe sooner.”

  My hands were covered with mud, all under my fingernails, and cold, cold from working the cold wet dirt, and the sleeves of my army coat were wet and muddy. Erico put the trowel in the empty pail, and he stacked up all the little pots, put them in the pail. He stood up, and his knees cracked, and he rubbed at his back. The sky had turned to dark gray clouds.

  Constanzia didn’t look up from her catnap when we went in.

  Erico said, “Sh.”

  I followed him into the back, through the striped blanket that hung down across the doorway of their house part. He set the pail down in the corner.

  It was only the kitchen in this part. The rest of their house was up the stairs. The kitchen was a big room around a table in the middle, and a black stove took up a whole corner. The shelf above the stove had jars, different shapes, red beans, purple beans, black beans. Jars of dried leaves. Jars of whole red tomatoes with long green beans and yellow seeds. Dried-out plants hung on strings from the ceiling, and long red peppers and shining white clumps of garlic. The tall window looked out back to the alley, the light mostly getting taken up by the vines and plants that grew in pots on the windowsill.

  The sink was a square metal tub. Erico steered me over to it with his warm hand on my back between my shoulders. I pushed up the sleeves of my army coat. He turned on the water, hot, cold, a little more hot, a little less hot, the water pounding down into the deep sink. I let the warm water run over my cold fingers, up onto my wrists, the water running down muddy. Erico put his hands under the faucet. There was a bar of pink soap in a dish, and he made soap lather, and soap perfume filled the sink. Erico’s hands under the faucet turned clean, brown hands, brown wrists with black hair, and soap lather. The very inside of his elbows was white, pale skin like my skinny white arms. I cupped my hands under the water and poured it onto Erico’s wrists. He shook his hands into the sink and gave me a washcloth from a hook.

  “Even the face,” he said. “You even got mud on your face.”

  I wet the washcloth and twisted it out and wiped it warm and wet on my face, warm on my cold nose, cold cheeks. My eyes spilled over with tears under the warm washcloth, and I held the washcloth there, soaking up the tears, hearing Erico turn off the water, the soft sound of the towel.

  He said, “Here you go.”

  I hung the washcloth over the edge of the sink and took the towel, a red-striped dishtowel, damp from Erico’s hands, and he went back out to the shop. I wiped my face and hung the towel over the edge of the sink, next to the wet washcloth, soapy water sucking down the drain.

  I went to the striped blanket and looked. They were standing by the front window, Erico tall, Constanzia small and soft shoulders. They looked out the front window, looked down at the flower box, talked in soft Mexican words I didn’t know, couldn’t hear. Tears rushed at my eyes again, and I held the tears back behind my eyelids until my eyes were okay, no tears, and my face was okay, no hurting behind it. I counted the stripes that went across the blanket in the order of the rainbow.

  “Beautiful flowers, huh?” I said, stepping through the blanket.

  Constanzia turned around from the window and clapped her hand in the air in front of her face, smiling at me. She came back over to the counter, and Erico went out the door. I was as tall as Constanzia now. I could see the top of her head, the gray hairs that popped up out of her braids.

  She said, “Look here, Sarajean Henry.”

  She reached to a pile on the counter and picked up the green corduroy jacket. Dark green corduroy, a straight neat jacket like from a guy’s suit, straight neat collar, dark green leather buttons.

  “That army jacket you wear,” she said. “That army jacket is rags now. Here, try this on.”

  The corduroy jacket was lined with soft shining cloth of dark maroon. It was too big.

  “Perfect,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Grande,” Constanzia said. She pinched at the shoulders, tugged at the sleeves.

  “I love too big,” I said. “Too big is perfect.”

  Constanzia folded up the sleeves at the wrists until my hands showed.

  “We’ll fix the sleeves up short enough,” she said.

  I took off the green corduroy jacket, and Constanzia sat down in her chair and spread the jacket across her lap. She reached through one sleeve, pulling the sleeve inside out on itself, and began to work at the stitching that held down the maroon lining.

  “The horse patch,” I said. “I can sew the horse patch onto the pocket.”

  Constanzia went “Mm,” and worked, her hands fast, ripping the lining away from the inside of the sleeve.

  “How much?” I said. “How much for that green corduroy jacket?”

  “From me to you,” she said. “Since you planted my flowers. Since you brighten my heart.”

  The ache rushed back into my face, and I whispered, “Thank you,” quick, before the crying could get to my voice.

  I whispered “Gracias,” and I turned my face away, all the dark colors of the shop blurring.

  THE GREEN jacket came down to the edge of my cutoffs, and my black hightops came up with only my bare legs in between. And the bright horse patch on my heart pocket.

  And a book, from the box, in the inside pocket under the horse patch. Some of the books in Tina Blue’s box were poem books, Japanese haiku poems that didn’t have to rhyme, just tell little stories divided up into three lines. Elle liked Emily Dickinson poems better, since Emily Dickinson poems rhymed plus made sense.

  “Haiku poems aren’t really poems,” El
le said. “Poems are supposed to rhyme at the end.”

  “Except haiku,” I said. “Haiku poems don’t have to rhyme.”

  All the books in Tina Blue’s box had her name in the front. She like to make fancy swirly letters, especially her Bs, big and round, with the last swoop going all the way through the bottom of the B to connect with the L.

  I lined the poem books up on the shelf in the painted apartment with my other books. Early in the morning, when Jimmy Henry was still in his bedroom, maybe by himself, maybe with Lady Jane, I put on my favorite outfit and left. I walked over to Seventeenth Avenue. If it was raining, I ran over to Seventeenth Avenue.

  The first thing to do on Seventeenth Avenue was check on the flower boxes. The marigolds grew faster than the petunias. If there was trash or cigarette butts in the flower box I cleaned it out. I sat on the edge of the flower box, watching the shine of the sun on the marigold leaves, waiting for Elle.

  I didn’t go to Elle’s house. When she said, “Let’s go to my house,” I would say “No.”

  When she said, “Why not,” I just said, “No.”

  I was sitting on the flower box waiting for Elle when I saw Pete. He came up the sidewalk with two other Mexican boys. His long black hair was all cut off.

  “Hey,” I said. “Hi.”

  Pete and the two boys stopped. They were taller.

  I said, “You got a haircut.”

  One of the boys said, “Hey, Petey, who’s your girlfriend?”

  Pete shoved the big kid with his elbow.

  I said, “I’m not anybody’s girlfriend.”

  The other boys laughed, and one of them said, “Hey, Petey, you got a haircut,” in a fakey girl voice.

  Then the boy said, “Hey. Where did you get that patch man? That’s a First Cav patch.”

  I said, “This horse patch? This horse patch used to be on my father’s army coat.”

  Pete said, “That’s Sergeant Henry’s kid, man.”

  The other boys went, “Ooh.”

  The one boy said, “Sergeant Henry, man. That fucker’s nuts.”

  I said, “Jimmy Henry’s not nuts.”

  The boy said, “All them First Cav guys came back nuts, man. If they came back.”

  I said, “What’s that, First Cav?”

  “Vietnam, man,” the boy said. “Flying them big-assed helicopters and shit. Killers. That’s why bad-ass Henry’s such a asshole. First Cav man, that’s heavy.”

  “Jimmy Henry’s not an asshole,” I said. “And he’s not nuts.”

  “He used to be nuts,” the boy said. “Before you and your old lady showed up. He used to sit in there all fucked up, shooting off that gun sometimes. We was in that place downstairs just hanging out, and he shot that gun right through the floor, could of killed us.”

  The other boy was cracking up.

  He said, “Yeah, remember that time he threw that other junkie down the stairs. I thought that guy was dead.”

  I said, “Hey, wait a minute.”

  I said, “You know who my mom was? You knew my mom?”

  The boy said, “Nah. I just remember when you and her got there. Then Henry turned into a nice mellow junkie.”

  The other boy said, “That guy Sam? At the surplus store? He has one of them First Cav patches. Air Cavalry, man. He’s nuts too.”

  Pete said, “Hey, man, I got to go.”

  Then the boy who said Jimmy Henry was an asshole, nuts, he said, “Yeah, Petey’s got to go visit his PO.”

  He rubbed his hand over Pete’s short hair.

  He said, “Tell your girlfriend what happened to your all your pretty hair, Petey.”

  The other boy said, “Petey got busted, and they cut off all his pretty hair.”

  “Busted?” I said. “And they cut off your hair?”

  Pete said, “Hey, man, fuck you,” and he punched at the boy’s arm.

  “Yeah, a real criminal,” the boy said. “Petey got busted ripping off a bird from the fucking pet store.”

  The boys were laughing and shoving at Pete. They were both a lot bigger than Pete.

  Pete said, “Just fuck off, man.”

  “A little green parakeet bird, man,” the one boy said. “The little birdie started squawking under Petey’s jacket, and it blew the whistle on him. Now he’s got to go see his PO and promise never to steal no more little birdies.”

  Pete said, “I got to go.”

  He walked away on the sidewalk, and the other boys went with him, laughing and hooting and all shoving each other.

  First Cav.

  Killers.

  Nuts.

  You and your old lady.

  A nice mellow junkie.

  A little green parakeet bird.

  Elle came up the sidewalk and sat down next to me on the edge of the flower box.

  She said, “What’s up?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  She said, “What do you want to do?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  I LOOKED up “cavalry” in the Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary. “Cavalcade,” “cavalier,” “cavalla,” “cavalry—horsemen,” “an army component mounted on horseback.”

  “Jimmy Henry,” I said. “Did you used to have a horse?”

  “No,” he said. “I never rode a horse in my life.”

  I said, “Did you ever kill anybody?”

  He said, “Never ask anybody that question, Sarajean. Never.”

  He went in his room and shut the door.

  1974

  Margo came back home after fifth grade. Her hair was short, but not all the way short, and she was fatter. She had a new friend named Cassandra Wiggins, and they got an apartment upstairs from Together Books.

  Elle and I sat in the empty front room, just a couch, and Margo’s boxes.

  Elle said, “I’m not living here with them.”

  “Why not?” I said.

  “I already live with my daddy,” she said.

  The new apartment was big, a big main room that had wooden bookshelves in the wall, with jeweled glass doors that shut over the books. There was a window looking out over Seventeenth Avenue, across to the WHO’S NEXT USED RECORDS STORE sign. There were two bedrooms and a big bathroom with a bathtub standing on animal feet.

  I said, “This place is better. This is a great apartment.”

  Elle said, “That Cassandra Wiggins gives me the creeps.”

  Cassandra Wiggins had short short black hair, and black lines painted around her eyes. Her pants were black and her T-shirt was black and she wore black cowboy boots with heels. That was her favorite outfit that she wore every day. Cassandra Wiggins was skinny, and she said her words funny. She was from New Jersey, and she stretched her mouth around the O sounds. She put Rs in where they didn’t belong, and left them off from where they did.

  Cassandra Wiggins was clunking around in the kitchen in her cowboy boots, and then she came clunking into the front room. I liked to look at Cassandra Wiggins, but I didn’t like it when she looked at me.

  Elle said, “Come on.”

  Cassandra Wiggins said, “Where are you guys going?”

  Elle said, “We got stuff to do.”

  Elle headed out the door.

  “’Bye,” I said to Cassandra Wiggins.

  We went down the stairs that came out in a door next to Together Books. Out on the sidewalk the wind was blowing cold, blowing trash around, blowing like about to rain.

  I said, “She’s your mother. Margo, I mean. She can make you live there right? Does she say you have to live there?”

  “What do you know about mothers?” Elle said. “She can’t make me do anything. Not if my daddy says I don’t have to.”

  “What about your brothers?” I said. “Are they coming back?”

  “Who cares?” Elle said. “They’re not my brothers anyway. They’re step-brothers.”

  “Are they staying at your grandma’s?” I said.

  “Just shut up,” Elle said.

  She smooth
ed her hair down. The wind was fuzzing it all up.

  “Are you in a bad mood?” I said.

  “No, I’m not in a bad mood,” she said. “Just quit asking me stuff.”

  Lady Jane came walking up the sidewalk toward us, carrying a big grocery bag.

  I said, “Uh-oh.”

  Lady Jane said, “Well, hi there. Hey, I hear Margo’s out.”

  “Yeah,” Elle said. “What of it?”

  Lady Jane said, “Sarajean, guess what? I’m making spinach lasagna. For dinner. At your house, for you and me and Jimmy Henry. And you, Elle, if you want. It will be done around five.”

  She went on, up the street.

  Elle said, “Spinach lasagna.”

  We went as far as Elle’s house, where we sat on the steps. I took out my poem book from my inside pocket. Today it was a small square book, smaller than a regular book. The name was Small Songs, but it was just small poems. I liked to open it up to just any page and read the poem that was there.

  I said, “Okay, listen to this.

  A reach of kelly

  Scattering golden crowns

  Elfin royalty.”

  I said, “That one’s called ‘Dandelions.’ Get it? The kelly is the grass, like kelly green. Scattered golden crowns of elfin royalty means dandelions looking like elf crowns laying around in the grass. Get it?”

  “Just a second,” Elle said. “Stay here.”

  She went down the steps and back up the sidewalk, into Bill’s store. She came back out in a little bit, unwrapping a chocolate candy bar with almonds.

  She said, “Come on.”

  She went into the alley. Out of the wind. When we got back to the little metal steps Elle took a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket.

  “How did you do that?” I said. “Did you steal those cigarettes? How can you steal cigarettes from behind the counter?”

  “Rip off,” Elle said. “Don’t say steal, say rip off.”

  She climbed onto the railing of the stairs.

  “I just go in there and talk to that guy like I’m real cute,” she said. “He likes me. He thinks I’m cute.”

  I said, “You’re going to get caught doing that someday.”

  “Busted,” Elle said. “Don’t say get caught, say busted.”

  She lit one of the cigarettes. I lit one too. Elle tried to make smoke rings. I burned at the wrapper of the chocolate candy bar with the lit end of my cigarette.