Maggie & Oliver or a Bone of One's Own

by Valerie Hobbs

  No one came.

  Back he went to try again. This time the lid inched up, the can rattled, but Oliver stayed. Just a little more, a little more, his stomach said. Then—crash!—over went the can. Oliver sped away.

  Out came a different man, who righted the can. With his arms crossed on his dirty white apron, he surveyed the dark alley with narrowed eyes.

  “I know you’re out there,” he said. Reaching into a can, he pulled out a chunk of chewed meat and waved it back and forth. “Hungry?” he said.

  Oliver, pulled by his great need, crept toward the meat, ready to grab it and run.

  Unless there was more. Unless this man was like his fisherman friend.

  “Come on, boy,” said the man in a cheery voice. “There’s plenty more where this came from.”

  Oliver made a dash for the meat, but before he could snatch it, the man grabbed Bertie’s handkerchief that wasn’t Bertie’s, and Oliver was caught.

  Oliver yelped and cried and snapped his teeth. He wriggled and wiggled and set his haunches down. But he struggled in vain. The man was bigger. The man was determined. He clamped Oliver’s snout and dragged him through a puddle toward the lighted door.

  “There’s no free lunch, my friend,” he said. “There’s work for you inside.” And into a small, cold room went Oliver. The door shut and darkness closed in around him like a fist.

  Oliver jumped against the door, whining and crying and begging for release. “AW-OOO! AW-OOO!” he cried, but no one came. When the darkness lifted enough that he could see, he raced around and around the room. He sniffed and scratched and searched for a way out, a hole in the wall, a window, another door, but there was nothing.

  At last, exhausted, Oliver lay down upon the cold floor, buried his snout beneath his paw, and cried himself to sleep.

  * * *

  Click. The door opened, and it was the man again. This time he stood with a lantern in his hand, blocking the door. From his other hand dangled something dark and odorous. This he swung gently by its long, skinny tail, back and forth in front of Oliver’s nose.

  Oliver had seen mice before. He had even driven a few of them crazy, chasing them all over Bertie’s house. But he had never seen a rat. This one was sleek and black and big and rotten and dead. Oliver made a dash for the open space between the man’s leg and the doorway but was blocked. Then he made another dash for the other side.

  The big man stopped him again and again. “No need to run,” he said. “You have a job to do. You are our official ratter, my friend.”

  And with that, he stepped aside.

  Oliver was caught by surprise. He was free. He raced through the doorway and skidded to a stop. Where was he?

  Pots hung from a rack over an immense cooking stove. Water drip-drip-dripped into a deep sink. Plates were stacked on open shelves. The faint smell of food lingered in corners and in the air.

  Through the kitchen Oliver raced, sliding on the slick floor, into another room. This one had a forest of table legs and chair legs, and Oliver got lost in a maze, looking for a door.

  Back he went to the kitchen, sliding to a stop at the man’s feet.

  The man dangled the dead rat before Oliver again, and Oliver turned away. “Too good for rat, my friend? Such a shame. Our rats are nice and plump from all the food they’ve stolen. Any one of them would make a fine meal for a dog. Give it a try—that’s all I ask.” He dropped the rat on the floor.

  “All the rats you can eat!” he said. “Not a bad deal. At least you won’t be starving in the street.”

  And with that, he departed the dinner house by the back door, leaving Oliver behind with a rotting dead rat for company.

  A Cave in a Forest

  “So tell me the truth, partner,” said Daniel, pushing his finger into a button on Maggie’s coat. “You got no place to go, do you?”

  A cold, misty rain had decided to spend the night in the city and was busily chasing everyone inside.

  Everyone with an inside place to go.

  Maggie looked down at the damp cobblestones. She looked at her wet boots. She slowly shook her head.

  “Come with me, then,” said Daniel, yanking Maggie by her sleeve.

  Maggie pulled her arm free. “Where?”

  “My house,” said Daniel. “The floor is all you’ll get, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “You promised to help find Lucky,” said Maggie.

  “And I will,” said Daniel. “You look on that side of the street, and I’ll look on this side. But no dogs in the house. My old man would take a gun to its head.”

  Maggie’s eyes grew round as her buttons. “He would?”

  Daniel’s laugh had grown rusty with neglect. “Nah! I’m just teasing. If my dad had a gun, he’d shoot himself in the foot with it.”

  They walked a long way. Maggie’s wet boots squished, and her toes had turned to ice. But her stomach was full, and that was a wonderful thing.

  No sign of Lucky. Of the dogs they came across, most were wary and desperate, bone thin and covered with mange, but no scruffy brown dog with white-tipped ears and a glimmer of trust still left in his eyes.

  Maggie cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Lucky! Lucky!” But as much as she wanted to find him, she hoped he had found his way home to his owner and the owner of the blue and white handkerchief. He was a good-hearted dog. A dog with a good heart deserved a good home.

  They entered a neighborhood where the houses were small and ramshackle, gathered close like grumbling old women. No streetlamps lighted their way. A furry something scampered across Maggie’s foot, and she jumped back. “What was that?”

  Daniel stopped and turned. “What?”

  “A cat or something!”

  “Not a cat, I wouldn’t think,” he said. “Cats around here go straight into the stew pot.”

  “Are you teasing me again?”

  “Nope,” said Daniel. “Never eat stewed cat before?”

  Maggie’s stomach lurched. “No!”

  “Don’t know what you’re missing,” said Daniel as he continued down the broken slate that served for a walk. He stopped in front of a brick cottage sunk in a sea of weeds with a fence like a row of broken teeth.

  “Now you gotta be real quiet,” said Daniel. “If my dad is back, he’s probably sleeping it off.”

  “Sleeping it off?”

  “The drink,” said Daniel. “He does like his drink.”

  Maggie thought about the drink called sherry that was raised in a toast at Madame’s table. It was rose-colored and sipped from delicate crystal glasses. Was this the drink that Daniel’s father liked? She followed Daniel through the snow-clotted weeds and around the side of the house.

  A door appeared out of nowhere, KEEP OUT scrawled across it in dripping red letters.

  “Is your sister here?” whispered Maggie in a shaky voice.

  “Nah,” said Daniel. “She stays with her friends mostly. Shush, now.”

  They crept inside. A dim light over the sink showed Maggie what she would rather not have seen: a kitchen the size of Madame Dinglebush’s closet, through which every imaginable thing was strewn. Filthy dishes, greasy rags, open cans, food scraps crawling with roaches. A strip of yellow sticky paper covered with flies hung from the ceiling.

  If doom had a smell, thought Maggie, it would smell like this.

  The sitting room was not much better. Some sort of motor sat squarely in the middle of the floor. A sagging settee and a chair with a broken leg were piled high with yellowed newspapers. The air, what there was of it, carried the odor of clothes worn too long. From an adjacent room came rumbling snores.

  “He’s sleepin’,” Daniel said. “You wait here. I’ll bring you a cover.”

  He came back carrying a blanket full of moth holes. “There you go,” he said. “This will keep you warm enough. Be sure to wake early, before my dad.”

  Maggie sat wrapped inside the woolen blanket, which was itchy and smelled like dirty feet. Despair be
gan its attack, creeping up her legs and into her belly on its way to her heart. She had never in all her ten years felt anything like this monster of despair. It frightened her. It meant to take her over.

  Wrapping the blanket more tightly around her, Maggie tried to think what to do. What could one small and not very strong person do to confront a monster of ill intent?

  She closed her eyes, which was frightening at first. The blackness looked empty and forbidding. Then her imagination, stronger and far more clever than despair could ever be, began to grow a forest, a leafy green forest, and filled it with singing birds. When Daniel’s father’s snores invaded her forest, Maggie made a bear’s cave. The bear inside made great growling noises in his sleep, but he was a friendly bear known to protect little girls.

  She re-counted her many blessings: her warm coat that was only a little bit damp, her boots and stockings and scarf, a friend who knew the ways of the city, a park to sit in, work for which she would soon be paid, her precious locket, a good imagination.

  At last Maggie laid down her head, pulled up her knees, and in her cool green forest slid into sleep.

  Out of the Bear’s Lair

  “Get up! Get up! I told you to get up before HIM!”

  Half asleep, Maggie rubbed her eyes.

  Daniel pulled on her arm. “Get up, I said!”

  She heard a huge belch. A man as big as the doorway he stood in surveyed the room with mean little eyes. He wore what Maggie could only guess were underclothes in need of a good scrubbing, and his arms and legs were covered with black fur.

  “What have we here, Danny boy?” he said, scratching an armpit. “Guests?” He stepped into the room, and Maggie jumped to her feet.

  “Just a pal, Dad,” said Daniel, pushing Maggie behind him. “Never you mind. Me and her is just leaving.”

  “Not so fast, boy!” The man stalked into the room on his huge, bare feet. “A guest of yours is a guest of mine. Share and share alike, eh?”

  “Run!” cried Daniel, giving Maggie a shove. Maggie raced through the kitchen and out the door. Only when she was in the weed patch did she stop and wait for Daniel.

  Where was he? She crouched in the weeds and listened. From the house came the sound of Daniel’s cries. “Don’t! Dad! I won’t do it again! Ow! Owww! Stop!”

  What should she do? He was in trouble because of her, because he gave her a place to sleep. She ran back through the weeds toward the house as Daniel came racing toward her, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  “Go!” he cried. “Run!”

  He grabbed her hand and ran for the road, Maggie in flight behind him. They ran and ran until they had no breath left and collapsed at last on a park bench.

  Somewhere along the way, Daniel had lost his hat. Sweat rolled down his face. The cheek toward Maggie had a large red welt across it.

  “He’s a mean man, my dad is,” said Daniel, but he said it with some pride.

  “I’m sorry,” said Maggie.

  “Nothin’ to be sorry about,” said Daniel, puffing himself up.

  “But it’s all my fault. You let me into your house and—”

  Daniel lifted an eyebrow. “Then you owe me one, don’tcha?” he said.

  “Oh, yes!” said Maggie. “I do. I most certainly do.”

  The city was yawning awake. A child cried, a cat whined for its breakfast, the first trolley clanged past. Maggie and Daniel got up from the bench and headed for the factory. “I’ve got me a good plan,” said Daniel. “If it works, we’ll be on easy street, the both of us.”

  “Where’s Easy Street?” asked Maggie.

  Daniel laughed his rusty laugh. “You don’t know nuthin’, do ya? Easy Street ain’t a real street. It’s like … a saying. If you’re livin’ on Easy Street, you’re livin’ high on the hog.” He thought for a moment. “That’s another way of sayin’ the same thing. Stick with me, and I’ll teach you all kinds of things. Not fancy things—useful things.”

  “Tell me your plan,” said Maggie as they went up the steps and into the factory. The ladies were settling in, and Speak was stomping through the aisles, scowling.

  “Here comes Speak,” said Daniel. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Maggie hurried to her table and set to work on the pile of shirt sleeves stacked before her. Perhaps she would be paid today. As the morning wore on, Maggie tried to decide how she would spend her money. First a place to stay, perhaps a small room in the home of a kind lady. What did a room cost? What was the cost of food? Maggie had no idea at all. Perhaps her pay would be enough for everything, or maybe it would buy only an apple and some bread.

  * * *

  The front door opened and closed with a thud. In came two men in top hats and black suits.

  Speak came rushing past Maggie’s station. He nudged Maggie off her seat and pushed her under the table. Then he made his way toward the two grim-looking men. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  “It’s the inspectors,” said the old lady to Maggie.

  Under the table, Maggie made herself as small as possible. She squeezed herself into a corner. Her heart sent fear flutters into her throat. What would happen now? If the inspectors found her, what would they do? Would she go to jail? Could a child be taken to jail? And last, because she’d had no breakfast, were prisoners fed?

  She watched as three pairs of legs came down the aisle toward her station, Mr. Speak stomping on his block and leaning side to side. “Everything’s as it should be, gentlemen. We don’t break the rules here, no we don’t. See how the light comes through these windows. Nothing’s too good for our girls.”

  The inspectors stopped at Daniel’s empty station. “And whose work is this?” said one of them.

  “Ah, the poor girl took sick. I sent her home, of course.”

  Where was Daniel? And then Maggie remembered the scrap bin, the one she should be inside right now. But how could she have gotten there, all the way across the room?

  Daniel did. He must have. Somehow.

  A pair of black-clad legs stopped at her table. A frowning face with glasses pinched to its nose leaned in. “And what have we here? Come out of there, child.”

  Speak’s black eyes shot sparks at Maggie as she crept out and stood before the men. “She’s not a child,” said Speak. “Tell them how old you are, girl.”

  How old was she supposed to be? Maggie made a guess. “Sixteen, sir,” she said, making herself as tall as she could.

  “Twelve, more like,” said the inspector without the glasses.

  “Sixteen!” said Speak. “She told me she was sixteen!”

  Inspector Glasses gestured with his walking stick. “This is your second violation, Mr. Speak. One more, and you’ll be out of here and behind bars.”

  “Oh, sir,” said Speak, clutching his hands together. “No, sir. Please, sir. I run a good operation. This one here”—he pointed at Maggie—“she fooled me. And you know I’ve got a soft heart for ladies in need.”

  “Oh, we know you all right, Nicholas Speak. And we’ll be keeping a closer eye on you.” He turned to Maggie. “And as for you, young lady—”

  A wave of dizziness nearly sent Maggie to the floor. “Yes, sir? Am I to go behind bars, sir?”

  A corner of the inspector’s lip twitched, as if, amazingly, he was about to smile. “You are to leave this place at once, child. And do not turn up at another of these sweatshops. The law was written to protect you. Run along home, now, and tell your parents what happened here today. They could be fined as well for sending you out to work.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Maggie as the inspectors turned to leave, their backs straight as rulers. The door opened and closed with a thump behind them.

  Speak grabbed Maggie’s arm and shook it hard. “Now you’ve done it!” he growled.

  “But—”

  “Get!” he said, and threw Maggie’s arm back at her. “You heard the inspectors. Get out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Maggie, putting on her coat. “May I have my pay no
w, sir?”

  Speak’s lip curled. “Pay? You get no pay. You ain’t old enough to work. Which means you didn’t work!”

  “But I did!” Tears leapt into Maggie’s eyes.

  “Give the girl what she’s due,” said the old lady, without looking up or missing a stitch.

  “I’ll pay you to keep your mouth shut,” said Speak. “Another word and you can leave along with this girl. And that goes for the rest of you.”

  No one spoke; no one moved.

  “Out!” ordered Speak, pointing a straight arm toward the door. “Or do I have to call the cops to come and get you?”

  Maggie went up the narrow aisle, tears rolling down her cheeks and off her chin. As she came to the door, Daniel was crawling out of the bin, scraps of cloth clinging to his hair. “Come back tonight,” he said. “I’ll tell you my plan.”

  And Maggie, jobless, penniless, but not entirely friendless, went out into the cold.

  A Nickel’s Worth of Happiness

  Maggie lost herself in the streets, going this way and that, left and then right, without a plan. What was she to do now?

  Why, look for work of course. The answer was plain as the buttons on her coat. But who would give her employment now? Who would trust in the skills of a ten-going-on-eleven-year-old girl? Mr. Speak was not a good man, but at least he’d given her work.

  As her shoulders began to droop, she reminded herself of the many things at which she was proficient: sewing, baking, dusting, scullery scrubbing, hearth sweeping, floor polishing, bug squashing, cat hiding, cartwheeling, dish mending, tree climbing. The list went on and on.

  But would anyone hire her for her excellent cartwheels? She thought not.

  She would have to sell the locket. What else could she do?

  She sat for a time on the steps below a drawing of an immense tooth—J. HAROLD CRUMP, DDS. FINE DENTISTRY. NO PAIN—watching the disorderly life of the city passing in both directions. Automobiles with braying horns careered around clanging trolleys. Loaded-down wagons creaked along as if they had all day to get where they were going. A man in a top hat and tails dashed across the street to meet a lady in a fur coat on the other side. A boy in a flat cap hawked copies of the Boston Globe.