Just Like That

by Gary D. Schmidt

  He also didn’t know how they got him the clothes they did, and even though the clothes had once belonged to some other kid, Sophia made sure that the other kid was exactly his size, and the clothes came to him clean and folded and smelling like the warm dryer they’d just been in.

  And no matter if they were as poor as church mice, Pastor Darius and Sophia hosted the Second Baptist Church’s Tuesday and Thursday community lunches; on those days, the white steeple that rose high, high above anything else in the neighborhood, rallied the hungry, who lined up by ten o’clock and waited quietly outside Second Baptist until Pastor Darius sent Matt to open the doors up. Matt did not know where all the food came from—and he sometimes wondered if even Pastor Darius knew. When Pastor Darius preached one Sunday morning about the loaves and the fishes and the five thousand, he seemed to Matt to be speaking from personal experience. But every Tuesday and Thursday, Matt stood in the kitchen assembly line to make who knows how many ham and cheese sandwiches—some with mustard, some with mayo—and he mixed enough lemonade to quench the thirst of all New Bedford. And afterward, he wrinkled his hands in the hot water of the great steel sinks of Second Baptist, then went out to help take down the tables and sweep the floors.

  He had never been so happy.

  Ever.

  * * *

  By the end of the summer, Sophia Malcolm began to talk to Matt Coffin about school, which Matt figured he might be able to give a shot. She wondered if he remembered ever going to school, and he did—a little. Kindergarten, he thought. Maybe first grade, but probably kindergarten. She thought that maybe she and Pastor Darius might teach him a bit before September—not math, but the more important stuff, like reading and writing, and Matt figured she could try that. She wondered if he could show her how well he could read, and Matt showed her with this book about a pig that had a pretty good opening, but after three or four pages he told her that he’d better get over to Second Baptist. It was a Tuesday morning, and somehow Pastor Darius had got hold of three cartons of hot dogs. Matt thought he’d better bring the butter over so they could fry them up.

  And so the summer came to an end, and the days began to get noticeably shorter, and one afternoon Pastor Darius took the bus to the New Bedford Correctional Facility to visit with the son of Mrs. Nielson, and Matt went along to keep him company. He sat in a metal chair at the back of the visitors’ room and watched Pastor Darius pray with the guy on the other side of the glass, who was crying. Pastor Darius put his hand up on the glass, and so did the other guy, and Matt would not have been surprised if they could feel each other’s hands—because it was Pastor Darius, who did not seem to Matt to be beyond a miracle.

  But he was surprised when the guy next to Mrs. Nielson’s son suddenly sat up straight and looked straight at him.

  Straight at him.

  It was the guy from that Alley.

  The Small Guy.

  The Small Guy, who looked at Pastor Darius, then at Matt, then back to Pastor Darius, then back to Matt.

  The Small Guy who slowly lifted his arm up and pointed at Matt, and then pulled his finger back like he was cocking a pistol.

  Matt lowered his face, stood, and left the visitors’ room.

  He waited for Pastor Darius outside the prison door.

  He was shaking.

  “You all right?” said Pastor Darius when he came out.

  Matt nodded.

  “You sure?”

  “Let’s go,” said Matt.

  He thought about leaving New Bedford that night. There wouldn’t be much to pack. The pillowcase with the bundles of hundreds. Maybe some of the clothes they’d given him—he hoped they wouldn’t mind. That was it. There had to be another bus from New Bedford heading anywhere north.

  But the Small Guy was in prison. It wasn’t like he was going to come after him. Maybe he hadn’t even recognized Matt. Maybe he was just being a jerk to a kid.

  Matt thought for a while.

  The Small Guy had recognized him.

  He knew it.

  Matt pulled Milly’s quilts over his face and tried to sleep.

  The next Saturday, when Matt had finished sweeping the sanctuary and everything was all set for Sunday morning, Pastor Darius asked Matt to sit down in the front pew with him.

  “A gentleman stopped by the church yesterday,” he said. “Sort of a scary man.”

  Matt waited, but he knew.

  “His name was Mr. Leonidas Shug, and I don’t think he has visited many churches lately,” he said, almost smiling.

  Matt still waiting.

  “He was looking for a boy. A runaway. His son. He said a friend had seen him with me.”

  Matt felt everything emptying out. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Oh, preachers have to learn to dissemble,” said Pastor Darius. “He’s not your father, is he?”

  “No. What else did he say?”

  “Words that preachers tend not to use.”

  “He threatened to do something to you, didn’t he?”

  “Nothing worse than what I’ve heard before, and from scarier men than him.”

  Matt stood up.

  “You’re going to run, aren’t you?”

  “Pastor Darius, you—”

  “You’ve been going to run since we got home from the prison.”

  Matt nodded.

  “Here.” Pastor Darius reached into his pocket. He pulled out a few bucks and some change. “It’s all I’ve got. Matthew, if I knew how to keep—”

  “It’s okay.”

  Pastor Darius stood up and he wrapped Matt in his long arms. “You have been a blessing to us. You have been a blessing to us. We love you. We love you more than we can tell you how. And wherever you are, you should know that the door of our house is always and forever open to you.”

  He began to sing softly—a lullaby, or maybe a prayer.

  Matt turned and ran out of the church before he would fall on the ground and cry. But the words clung to him like a blessing: “What have I to dread, what have I to fear, / Leaning on the everlasting arms?”

  Matt stopped at the house and grabbed the pillowcase. He took five of the bundles out and left them on the dresser. Then he stuffed the pillowcase with what clothes he could fit inside.

  He was at the bus station in time to catch a ride to Portland.

  Sixteen

  Beginning in October, the teachers of St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls hosted afternoon Tea and Biscuit Conversations on current national and international events. It was an experiment, Mrs. Mott explained, since part of learning to be an Accomplished student at St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls meant engaging with interesting current national and international events.

  The Tea and Biscuit Conversations were mandatory.

  And all students were expected to wear the regulation St. Elene’s uniform.

  At dinner, Mrs. Saunders handed out the Tea and Biscuit Conversation assignments to the girls at her table: Meryl Lee, Marian, and Jennifer would be meeting with Mrs. Mott in her rooms at Sherbourne House on Monday, October 21, at 3:50 p.m. “Does everyone know where their assigned rooms are?” asked Mrs. Saunders.

  Meryl Lee did indeed know where Sherbourne House was.

  But Meryl Lee completely forgot about engaging with interesting current national and international events—until 4:00 p.m., when Meryl Lee, who was wearing her Camillo Junior High sweatshirt and her ratty red sneakers, was wondering why it was so very quiet in Netley.

  Then she remembered.

  She ran out of Netley. She ran past Newell and across the commons. She ran to Sherbourne House, a building she had never entered. She had no idea where Mrs. Mott’s rooms were.

  On the way she saw Alethea, who was pushing a silver cart from Greater Hoxne—a heavy silver cart loaded with metal thermoses and pots, a heavy silver cart with a right front wheel that turned sideways and kept shoving the thing off the path and onto the lawn.

  “Alethea,” said Meryl Lee, “do
you know what floor Mrs. Mott’s rooms are on?”

  Alethea shoved the cart a little harder.

  “Now, how would I know that?” she said.

  “I was hoping maybe you’d been there.”

  “You think town girls get invited to Tea and Biscuit Conversations?”

  “I meant . . .”

  “You don’t even know what you meant,” said Alethea. “Town girls don’t count. They just exist at St. Elene’s because they need the money that rich families have lying around. And that’s why you can treat them like . . . like they don’t count.”

  She wrestled the silver cart past her.

  Meryl Lee looked at her back. “I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t quite know why.

  Alethea never turned around.

  * * *

  When Meryl Lee finally found Mrs. Mott’s rooms in Sherbourne House, she was a little late—a lot late—and everyone looked up from their chairs when she walked in, sort of panting, and all she had to see were Jennifer’s pearls to know her Camillo Junior High sweatshirt and ratty red sneakers were not what she was supposed to be wearing. But what could she do? She sat down.

  Mrs. Mott handed her a cup of tea.

  Tea and Biscuit Conversations are not easy. You have to hold a teacup and saucer made of china as thin and delicate as an eggshell. You have to hold a cookie in a napkin so tiny it wouldn’t do a whole lot if you really did have to wipe your mouth with it. (Holling would have been so happy to point this out.) You have to lift the delicate teacup from the delicate saucer every so often to drink the tea—which starts out way too hot to drink anyway. You have to pass a bowl by its tiny handles without letting the little cubes of sugar drop to the floor. And you have to pass a little pitcher of cream with a handle smaller than your pinky—especially Marian Elders’s pinky, which was still in a cast. And Meryl Lee had to do all of this without any part of her touching the chair except the very edge of her behind. And her ratty red sneakers had to stay flat on the floor, out in front of everyone, right beside Jennifer’s toeless black heels.

  This would not have been a problem for Dorothy, who after all had the silver shoes of the Wicked Witch of the East to walk around in instead of ratty red sneakers.

  And this might not have been a problem for Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, either, because she probably didn’t own anything that was ratty.

  But it was a problem for Meryl Lee, who shuffled her feet back under her chair as far as they could go and still stay flat.

  And this wasn’t the worst of it.

  Later, when Alethea—who did not look at Meryl Lee—brought another hot pot of tea into Mrs. Mott’s rooms, Mrs. Mott asked Meryl Lee if she would like to pour, and Meryl Lee said, “Yes, I’d love to,” because she couldn’t exactly say, “No, it’s the last thing on the planet I want to do,” even though it was. So she took the teapot from Alethea—who still did not look at her—and started to pour, but the spout didn’t work right, so when she poured for Marian Elders, a little bit of the hot tea went into the cup—but most of it ran down the spout and onto Marian’s lap.

  It probably was pretty hot, but even so, Meryl Lee thought Marian Elders really didn’t need to make that much of a fuss.

  After Mrs. Mott came back from taking Marian to Miss Ames—and it was fortunate that the infirmary was on the first floor of Sherbourne House—no one wanted Meryl Lee to pour tea into their cups and so Meryl Lee poured some into her own but the stupid spout still didn’t work and tea filled up the saucer. So Meryl Lee stuck a biscuit into the saucer to soak up the tea and it did, except when she picked up the biscuit, the soggy half dropped off and splatted onto Mrs. Mott’s antique Persian carpet from Mashhad.

  Meryl Lee tried to hide the splattered biscuit with her ratty red sneakers.

  And that was all before the conversation.

  Which started when Mrs. Mott said to Jennifer, “Would you like to present the first current event, Miss Truro?”

  And Jennifer said, “Thank you, Mrs. Mott. I’d be very pleased to do so. I would like to consider what the election of Richard M. Nixon as our next president might mean for the involvement of the United States in the Vietnam War.”

  That’s really what she wants to talk about? Meryl Lee wondered.

  But it turned out that everyone in the room seemed to have considered what the election of Richard M. Nixon as the next president might mean for the involvement of the United States in the Vietnam War. And they all had something to say about it.

  Everyone except Meryl Lee.

  When that was finished, Mrs. Mott turned to Marian—who had come back, a little bit scalded and kind of twitchy and glaring at Meryl Lee accusingly again—and asked for her current event.

  And Marian said, “Thank you, Mrs. Mott. I would like to consider the benefits to the United States of a moon landing by the end of the decade.” And it seemed to Meryl Lee that everyone had been considering the benefits to the United States of a moon landing by the end of the decade for quite some time.

  Everyone except her.

  Then Mrs. Mott asked, “Would you like to present your current event, Miss Kowalski?”

  Meryl Lee was forced to improvise—but it helped that she knew what Holling would have been thinking about in October.

  She said, “Thank you, Mrs. Mott. I would like to consider what trading with the Mets for Tom Seaver might mean to the possibility of the New York Yankees winning another World Series by the end of the decade.”

  Everyone looked at her as if she had upchucked next to the splattered biscuit on the antique Persian carpet from Mashhad.

  And Mrs. Mott said, “I wonder, Miss Kowalski, why you might find this to be of interest in a conversation about current national and international events.”

  It sure would have been of interest to Holling, she almost said. But she didn’t.

  Mrs. Mott waited for a moment, then turned to the girl beside Meryl Lee. “Miss Tuthill, would you like to present your current event?”

  Lois Tuthill was moved to consider which foreign policy alternatives toward China would be most effective in opening that country up for trade opportunities.

  Meryl Lee decided that probably she would not become Accomplished in current national and international events.

  * * *

  On the way back to Netley, Meryl Lee passed Alethea on the path again, still with the heavy silver cart, the right front wheel still shoving the thing off into the grass.

  Meryl Lee stopped and helped her pull the cart back.

  Then, “You could have told me what floor her rooms were on,” Meryl Lee said.

  “You found out for yourself. Was that so hard?”

  “You could have told me.”

  Alethea shoved against the cart and moved a couple of feet ahead before it leaped toward the grass again. She must have felt Meryl Lee come toward her, because she turned back and said, “I don’t need your help.”

  “I could just—”

  “I don’t want help from you.”

  “You don’t even know me,” said Meryl Lee.

  “I know you,” said Alethea. “I’ve been knowing you ever since I got to St. Elene’s Preparatory Academy for Girls four years ago. And now I have to bring tea and biscuits to Sherbourne House while you talk about current events like they even matter to you. You think anyone ever asks if they might matter to someone else?”

  “Of course they matter to me.”

  Alethea looked at Meryl Lee like she was—well, like she was such a dope.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Vietnam.”

  “You know anyone in Vietnam right now?”

  “Not personally,” said Meryl Lee. “But I know Mrs. Bigio, and her husband—”

  “Then it doesn’t matter to you and maybe you should stop talking.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Know someone in Vietnam right now?”

  Alethea shook her head as if Meryl Lee really, really was such
a dope. Then she turned back to the cart and shoved it ahead.

  * * *

  That night, Meryl Lee lay on her bed, reading The Wonderful Wizard of Oz again, wondering if she would ever figure out what she could become Accomplished at. Wondering what would ever fill the Blank. She had no idea. She sort of felt like the Joads, driving and driving without ever getting closer to anything. Or like Dorothy, walking on the yellow brick road to the City of Emeralds, walking forever, not really knowing what was in front of her.

  Maybe, Meryl Lee thought, she shouldn’t be figuring it out. Maybe she should just wait and the answer would come upon her, like a surprise, completely unexpected, something she could never have planned for, something she could never have predicted.

  Maybe it would come just like that.

  Of course, maybe it would never come to her and she would never be Accomplished at anything.

  Probably that.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, Meryl Lee and Marian worked on their Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, presentation.

  Marian, for some reason or other, was keeping her distance.

  “It needs some drama, some panache,” said Meryl Lee.

  “Panache?”

  “Like this.” Meryl Lee stood up. “As Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, was led to her execution, she looked askance at her massive murderer and said,