Miriam's Secret

by Debby Waldman

  “She won’t whup me,” Miriam said. “Nobody whups me!” She had never heard anyone say whup in her life, and it struck her as the funniest word ever. “Whup, whup, whup,” she said, until Cissy lay back on the floor, jammed her fingers in her ears and, between bursts of laughter, begged her to stop.

  “I’m going to pee myself if you don’t shut your mouth!” she pleaded.

  Miriam was trying to remember the last time she had laughed so hard when Cissy, suddenly calm, sat up and looked at her with a satisfied smile.

  “Your name is Miriam, right?”

  Miriam nodded.

  “I’m Cecilia, but everyone calls me Cissy. And I knew you were going to come in here and be my friend.”

  The announcement took Miriam by surprise. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did,” Cissy insisted. “My mama told me.”

  Miriam looked around the stall. Her mama? So there was someone else here! “Your mama is here?” she asked.

  Cissy shook her head. Her voice turned serious. “My mama’s dead. But I talk to her every day and every night. And she told me I should be nice to you.”

  Miriam was confused.

  “You can talk to dead people,” Cissy assured her.

  Talking to dead people wasn’t what Miriam was confused about. That hadn’t even occurred to her. “You weren’t nice to me,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Cissy said. “I only just met you.”

  “In the barn yesterday, when you were in the hayloft and you said Star was a stupid name. That wasn’t nice.”

  Cissy looked at her lap. She rubbed her hands together as if washing them. “Sorry,” she said finally. “I was just—well, I was—scared.”

  “Of me?” As far as Miriam knew, no one had ever been afraid of her before.

  Cissy nodded. “Nobody’s supposed to know I’m here. You can’t tell anybody!”

  “I won’t!” Miriam assured her. She didn’t have anyone to tell—except for Bubby and Zayde. She didn’t think they would tell anyone either. But they probably wouldn’t want someone sleeping in the hayloft. Especially not a girl.

  “If we’re going to be friends, you have to promise you ain’t going to breathe a word about me. Not to nobody.” Cissy slid her palm from her chin up over her lips, as if she were sealing her mouth closed. “Joe says if anybody finds out I’m here, I’ll be sent to an orphanage.”

  “An orphanage?” Miriam asked.

  “For children that ain’t got no folks,” Cissy explained.

  “I know what an orphanage is,” Miriam said. “But what does Joe have to do with it? How do you even know him?”

  “He’s my brother,” Cissy replied.

  As soon as Cissy spoke, Miriam realized she should have figured that herself. Joe’s brown eyes crinkled up just like Cissy’s when he laughed. “That’s why he takes the food for you.”

  “’Course he does,” Cissy said. “If it weren’t for him, I’d be starved half to death.”

  Miriam thought Cissy looked starved half to death anyway, but she didn’t say so. “So are you an orphan? Or a hobo? I thought only men could be hobos.”

  Cissy’s eyes widened. “We ain’t hobos. What makes you think that kind of nonsense?”

  “Didn’t you come here on the train?” Miriam asked.

  “Just because you come on the train, it doesn’t mean you’re a hobo,” Cissy said. “Did you ride the train here?”

  Miriam nodded.

  “Are you a hobo?”

  Miriam shook her head.

  “Then there you go.”

  “But you’re an orphan?” Miriam had never met an orphan before.

  Cissy nodded. “An orphan. But not a hobo.”

  TWELVE

  Cissy and Joe were from Mississippi. Joe was fifteen, only four years older than Cissy, but he looked older. That made it easier for him to find work. Joe and Cissy used to have two other brothers, Levi and Benjamin. They had died in the same fire that killed their parents.

  Cissy told the story in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she were reciting words for a spelling bee. She and Miriam were sitting cross-legged on a hay bale, Cissy eating cheese, and Miriam cradling Star.

  “After they died,” Cissy went on, “we had to live with my mama’s brother, Uncle Hesh, because he’s the only relative we knew. His wife is Auntie May. Uncle Hesh was horrible, and his wife wasn’t much better. Meaner than fifteen cats in a bag, both of them. Auntie May told me I didn’t need any more schooling, so I had to help her clean houses for all the rich folks in town.”

  “No school ever?” That didn’t sound so bad to Miriam. Although she did like learning new things. But then she realized that Cissy might not even know how to read. She was afraid to ask.

  “I had school before that, and I’m going to go again someday,” Cissy said. “I even got some books here, for sums and reading and such. Joe got them for me. He got to go to school sometimes, but mostly Uncle Hesh dragged him all around the county to build houses with him, hammering and nailing and pounding and all that. Joe was so dog-tired he couldn’t hardly keep his eyes open. And he doesn’t want to be no housebuilder anyhow. One night he tells me we’re leaving. We’re going to find the better uncle, the one that came up north before I was born.”

  Miriam didn’t understand. “If your uncle lives here, why aren’t you staying in his house?”

  Cissy shook her head. “We don’t know exactly where he lives. Someplace in New York. Joe’s going to find him, and then we can go live with him.”

  “What if he’s meaner than fifteen cats in a bag?” Miriam asked.

  “He ain’t,” Cissy said with a smile. “Uncle Hesh and Auntie May call him a half-witted hound. Everybody else they say that about I think is nice. So he probably is too. We just have to find him.”

  “How?” Miriam asked. Her parents were traveling halfway across the world, but at least they knew where they were going and who they were looking for. Cissy didn’t even know her New York uncle’s last name.

  “Joe’s got a plan,” Cissy said. She seemed so convinced that Miriam felt it would be rude to keep asking questions.

  “What made you and Joe stop here?” she asked.

  “’Cause the train passes by,” Cissy explained. “And your grandparents’ house got a mark.”

  “What kind of mark?” Miriam asked.

  “The hobo mark.” Cissy paused to eat more cheese. “This is good. Your granny make it?”

  Miriam shook her head. “We bought it at the market. She only makes soft cheese. What’s a hobo mark?”

  “It’s like a secret code,” Cissy said. “Only hobos know it.”

  “But you’re not a hobo,” Miriam reminded her.

  Cissy shrugged. “You get to know stuff when you ride the trains. You get to talking to people, and you learn what you need to know. Like about how some houses got good marks and others got bad ones.”

  “Where’s the mark on Bubby and Zayde’s house?”

  “Whose house?”

  “Bubby and Zayde,” Miriam repeated. “My grandparents.”

  “Them’s their names?” Cissy asked.

  Miriam shook her head. “That’s what Jewish people call their grandparents. Bubby means ‘grandmother’ and Zayde means ‘grandfather.’ ”

  “Where you come from?”

  “Brooklyn,” Miriam said. “That’s in New York. But where’s the mark?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Cissy said.

  “Why not?” Miriam asked.

  “’Cause it’s like a secret code. Just for hobos.”

  “You just said you’re not a hobo.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cissy said. “You gotta respect the code. All I can tell you is that the mark on your grandpa’s house says nice people live there and they’ll give you a job and food.”

  Cissy finished off the cheese and then turned her attention to the pastries. Holding one up to her nose, she sniffed loudly and made a face. “I never ate nothing sha
ped like this before. What is it?”

  “It’s hamantaschen,” Miriam explained. “It means ‘Haman’s pocket.’ Although some people call it ‘Haman’s hat.’ So you could wear it on your head, I guess. But I wouldn’t recommend it!”

  “That’s a funny name. Who’s Haman? And how come I’m eating his pocket? Or his hat?”

  Miriam laughed. “He was a villain—thousands of years ago. He wanted to kill all the Jews.” She had never had to describe what Purim was all about. Back home, everyone she knew had always celebrated the holiday. She paused for a moment to figure out how to tell it best.

  “Haman is a character in a story, the book of Esther,” she went on. “Esther was an orphan. Like you! She had a cousin, Mordecai, who found out about Haman’s evil plan. Mordecai told Esther, and Esther went to the king and told on Haman. The king punished him. And now we celebrate this holiday, Purim. One of the things we do is tell the story, so we never forget, and another is to eat hamantaschen.”

  Cissy was doubtful. “She just went to the king? And he listened, just like that?”

  “She was married to him,” Miriam said.

  “Well, maybe you should have mentioned that! And how come the cookie’s not named after her or that Morty guy? Why’d you name a cookie after someone who wanted to kill people? That’s about the craziest thing I ever heard.”

  “I guess I never thought about it that way,” Miriam said.

  “And whose holiday is it? I ain’t never heard of no holiday called—what’d you call it?”

  “Purim. It’s a Jewish holiday,” Miriam said. “I’m Jewish.”

  Cissy regarded Miriam curiously. “I ain’t never met no Jewish person before.”

  “And I’ve never met anyone hiding in a barn before,” Miriam said.

  “I guess we’re even then,” Cissy said. She looked at the cookie again.

  “Try it,” Miriam said. “It’s good. I promise.”

  Cissy took a deep breath. Then she bit off a tiny corner of the triangle and chewed it thoughtfully. A smile spread across her face. She took a larger bite.

  “It is peculiar,” she said. “But it ain’t as bad as I feared.” She studied the cookie, poking her finger into the opening in the middle. “What’s this brown stuff here? It’s like black sand or something, but sort of sweet.”

  “It’s mohn,” Miriam said.

  “What?”

  “Poppy seeds cooked with honey.”

  “So why don’t you just call it poppy seeds cooked with honey?” Cissy said.

  “I don’t know,” Miriam replied. “Probably because it takes too long to say that. Mohn is shorter. That’s its name. Poppy seeds and honey are just what it’s made of. Why do we call bread bread instead of calling it yeast and flour and water and sugar and salt?”

  “I guess I don’t really care what it’s called, as long as it tastes good,” Cissy said, popping the entire second hamantaschen into her mouth.

  THIRTEEN

  Miriam didn’t want to leave the barn. She had never met anyone like Cissy, and she had so many questions. She could have stayed for a week and not run out of things to ask or talk about. But Cissy knew better.

  “If you don’t get back to the house soon, your granny’s going to get worried, and then she’ll come out here, and that’ll be the end of me.” Moses, who was sitting on Cissy’s lap, stood on his back legs and reached up to rest his front paws on her arm. “What are you doing, you silly cat?” She nudged him back down, then looked at Miriam again.

  “She knows I’m just out here with the kittens,” Miriam said. “She won’t worry.”

  “But she might start getting suspicious. It’s not good for me if she comes out here looking for you.”

  “Aren’t you going to be lonely?” Miriam looked up toward the loft. “It’s so cold. And dark. And how do you go to the bathroom?” She doubted that Cissy had a chamber pot. It didn’t seem practical, let alone possible, to carry such an item up and down the ladder.

  “Don’t be worrying about me.” Cissy stroked Moses, who had settled back into her lap. “I have been doing just fine. I got these kitties to keep me company. And all them cows. You cannot believe how loud cows get. It’s like listening to a bunch of old folks snoring all night long. And Joe comes to see me.” Cissy paused, looking a bit concerned. “But you’re coming back tomorrow, right?”

  Miriam nodded.

  “Well, I’ll see you then.”

  The sun had moved almost all the way to the west by the time Miriam slid the barn door closed behind her. She walked slowly back to the house. The snow was beginning to melt. Slushy mud covered the path. But it wasn’t just the mud that Miriam wanted to avoid. She was in no hurry to get back to the house and see Bubby. She didn’t trust herself not to spill the beans about Cissy.

  Up until now, the only secret Miriam had ever sworn to keep was Anna’s surprise birthday party nearly one year earlier. She’d only had to stay quiet about it for two weeks, and she’d nearly ruined the whole thing when Anna started going on about how she and Charlie Chaplin had been born on the same day. Ida had kicked her so hard under the table that Miriam’s ankle had been bruised for weeks. If she spilled the beans about Cissy, there would be a whole lot more trouble than a bruised ankle—or at least that’s what Cissy seemed to think.

  It felt wrong to keep Cissy a secret from Bubby and Zayde. Miriam was sure they would welcome her. They would probably even invite her to share Miriam’s room. How wonderful would that be? Out in the barn, Cissy had made the possibility of the orphanage seem so real. Now, halfway to the house, Miriam wasn’t so convinced that Cissy should keep hiding.

  Through the kitchen window, she could see Bubby standing by the stove. She knew she should go inside and offer to help, but she was curious to see if she could find the mark that Cissy had mentioned.

  Slowly she circled the house, scanning the walls and windows and shutters. The dimming light made it hard to see, but when she spotted a sprinkling of white splotches running down the side of the front-room window, her heart began to race. She had found the mark, she was sure of it! But when she got closer, she realized that what had looked like a sign drawn by a hobo was bird poop that had dribbled down the wall and dried there. She stared for a minute more, willing the poop to turn into a message, but her eyes got blurry and her feet were wet. It was time to go inside.

  Bubby must have seen her. She was on the porch waiting, patting her hands on her apron. “What are you doing out there? Did you lose something?”

  Miriam shook her head. “I was just looking for—” She stopped. How could she tell her grandmother what she had been doing without giving Cissy away?

  “Did your grandfather tell you that story about the hobo mark?” Bubby asked. She shook her head, more amused than angry. “He does go on about that. I’m surprised he wasn’t out there with you.”

  Miriam nodded, feeling her face grow hot. She did not like to be untruthful, but she had made a promise. Even if she thought it was unnecessary, a promise was a promise. “Do you know where the mark is?”

  Bubby shook her head. “There is no mark. It’s just a story the men cooked up to entertain each other. Your zayde likes a good story, but I know every inch of this house, inside and out. If there was a mark, I’d have seen it.”

  Bubby sounded as certain as Cissy had been. Who was right? Miriam didn’t have time to think about it anymore, because Bubby was holding the door, shooing her inside.

  The next morning Miriam could not concentrate on her lessons. Her mind kept wandering back to the barn. When Bubby suggested she get started on her weekly letter to Mama and Papa, the thing she wanted to write about was Cissy. But instead she described her search for the hobo mark and told her parents that Bubby was looking forward to making a trip to Utica to purchase Passover supplies. Thinking of all the preparation made Miriam homesick. Back in Brooklyn, every store in the neighborhood stocked up for Passover. You didn’t have to travel more than a block to find matzah and p
otato starch and horseradish.

  She stared down at the notepaper, doing her best to think of something else cheerful that wouldn’t require her to break her promise to Cissy. The kittens are getting bigger, she wrote. Now I go to the barn by myself to play with them, and it’s quite fun. They are very good company. That was true, even if it wasn’t the whole story.

  FOURTEEN

  Miriam hurried out to the barn after lunch, meatloaf in one coat pocket, roasted parsnips in the other. Both were wrapped in waxed paper, as much to protect her pockets as the food. The last thing she wanted on laundry day was to have to concoct a story for Bubby about why her clothes were stained.

  She pushed at the wooden latch and slid the door open. As she closed the door behind her she heard Cissy’s voice.

  “Hey! Up here!”

  She turned on the light. Up in the loft, she could see an arm hanging from the opening, waving an invitation.

  “Come on up! The kitties and me are having a party.”

  Miriam skipped to the bottom of the ladder, then stopped abruptly.

  Cissy was resting on her stomach, her face peering out of the opening, both hands dangling down now. For a second Miriam thought maybe Cissy could just pull her right up. But Cissy offered only a question. “What you waiting for?”

  Miriam attempted a smile. Then she placed her hands on the railings and brought her right foot to the bottom rung. “Be brave,” she whispered, her own voice drowning out the ones in her head that were saying there was no way she could climb to the top.

  She looked up at Cissy again, who didn’t seem to notice that she was trembling. “The kitties say they want to dance with you,” Cissy said eagerly. “A waltz, or maybe a jig.”

  Still gripping the ladder rails, Miriam willed her left foot onto the rung.

  “Wait a second,” Cissy said. “Step back.” Cissy scrambled up off the hayloft floor and was suddenly sliding down the ladder like a sled down a hill. Miriam watched, her mouth open. Could she ever be that graceful? That strong? She was still working on brave, and that was enough of a challenge.