What Happened on Fox Street Page 5

  Bernard pulled a rubber-banded bundle of envelopes from his sack and handed one to Mr. Wren, who frowned at the return address.

  “I pay my taxes. I’m up on the mortgage. What the bleep’s this?”

  Bernard frowned, holding out a pen. “Looks to me like part two.”

  “Then I missed part one.”

  Bernard raised a brow in the direction of Mo, who bent her face over her eggs.

  “Sign right there.” Taking the receipt, Bernard swung his gray bag back up on his shoulder. “Maybe opportunity’s come knocking.”

  “Opportunity comes knocking on Fox Street, it’s got the wrong address, Bernard.”

  “Remind me to stop here first next time.” Bernard flicked Mo another questioning look. “Well, you all have a fine day now.”

  As Mr. Wren tore open the letter, Mo busied herself clearing the table. She was scrubbing the frying pan when he gave a long, low whistle.

  “Either this Buckman’s wiggity or it’s our lucky day.”

  “Buckman!” Dottie ran around the table flapping her arms like chicken wings. “Buck buck buck!”

  Mr. Wren refolded the letter, looking thoughtful. “What do you say to a trip to Paradise, Little Speck?” He put the letter in his pocket and pulled on his baseball cap.

  Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Mo struggled to make her face innocent and her voice casual.

  “What’s up, Daddy?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  “Can I get a donut at Abdul’s?” Dottie was already begging.

  “Who’s Buck…Buck Man, did you say?”

  “Like the man said, we’ll soon find out.” He downed the last of his coffee. “A couple of weeks ago, I stopped into Paradise Realty just for the heck of it. I told Marcie—you know Marcie? She wears those suits that look like they’re made to withstand kryptonite? I told her, give me a ring next time some millionaire comes in wanting a nice little place with a view of the park. I love making Marcie laugh.”

  He hoisted Dottie onto his wide shoulders. “Wait’ll she sees this letter—she’ll bust a gut. Hey.” His brow furrowed. “Why so thoughtful, Mojo?”

  “Who, me?”

  “You’re off babysitting duty.” He tickled the bottom of Dottie’s bare foot, then dug out his wallet and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Treat Ferrari to an ice cream. Go to the pool or see a movie. That’s an order.”

  He wrestled open the door, Dottie ducking her head. “Toodle-oo!” she cried.

  “Daddy! She’s in her pajamas! She needs shoes!”

  Bam!

  Mo wiped the ketchup off the scarred wooden table, put the milk away, and went upstairs to get dressed. The feeling that something very bad was about to happen—that it had, in fact, already started happening—made every step an effort. Was this what it was like just before you died, when your life flashed before your eyes? People said “flashed,” but time would have to crawl in order for you to review your whole life. Why, a single day alone would take several minutes, and if you added up all the hundreds and hundreds of days…

  Of course you probably didn’t review every single day. Just a few moments, maybe. Like a highlights reel. But how could you ever pick which moments? Most of your life would be left behind, like the A.O.L. House, abandoned and hurt, sure you didn’t care about it.

  Mo pulled on her shorts. Sometimes her thoughts got more knotty than the Wild Child’s hair. Sometimes being a thinker led her round and round and right back where she’d started. Only dizzy.

  Still moving in slow motion, she walked down the driveway, pausing to admire Mrs. Steinbott’s roses. Somehow, even in the drought, the flowers were flourishing. Mo’s favorites were just coming into bud. Cream colored, flame tipped—by the time those flowers opened all the way, they’d be big as a newborn’s head.

  “Pssst!”

  Mrs. Steinbott peered down from her porch, her face a pink knot.

  “You!” She crooked a bloodless finger. “Come here.”

  Shocked, Mo looked around. No one else in sight.

  “Are you a moron? Come here this instant!”

  Stink Bomb

  MO HAD NEVER, in her entire lifetime, which as everyone knew had been spent entirely on Fox Street, climbed Mrs. Steinbott’s porch steps. Not that she’d ever wanted to. The Baggott boys had, dozens of times, depositing a sack of dog poop or a dead mouse, ringing the doorbell and running for their cowardly, shrivel-brained lives. The Jehovah’s Witness ladies had, and a cookie-selling Girl Scout from two streets over who didn’t know any better, but nobody, nobody, was ever invited up those four gleaming white steps. Till now.

  “Invited” was probably too polite a word.

  “That’s far enough!”

  Starchbutt swung her hand up like a traffic cop.

  “You’re going to Walcotts’. You go there every day.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Steinbott. I do.” Mo attempted to make her voice pleasant. Maybe, who knew, they could have a little chat. Maybe she could ask Mrs. Steinbott why she stared at Mercedes that way and, if possible, could she cut it out? Immediately? “Mercedes Walcott is my best friend. She and I—”

  “Take this.” Mrs. Steinbott picked up a box lying on a low wicker table and thrust it toward Mo. The box was entombed in pink tissue paper held together with at least half a roll of tape.

  “How nice,” Mo said, still working on the pleasant tone. “Who’s this nice present for, may I ask?”

  “You know!” Mrs. Steinbott sputtered. How skinny she was! A good wind would knock her flat. She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “Well, it’s been a delight. I hope we can do this again.” Mo sped down the stairs. “Not!” she added as she crossed the street.

  She found Mercedes, who refused to sit on the front porch anymore, lying on Da’s couch, talking on her cell.

  “I know I promised.” When she saw Mo, she held up a finger and went back to the call. “She’s at a doctor’s appointment right now. The church van took her—she’s fine. She takes her insulin and…Mom, if you’re so concerned, why don’t you just come up here yourself and…I’m not being fresh!” She rolled her eyes at Mo. “Yes, I got the money. Tell him I said…” Here Mercedes’s voice choked up as if a boa constrictor had her by the throat. “Tell him I said thanks, dude.” More eye rolling. “Dude? Dad? It’s one vowel!” She put her hand over the phone. “She should be grateful I didn’t say dud.” She spoke back into the phone. “Excuse me?”

  Mo set down the present and wandered around the living room, dusting furniture with the hem of her T-shirt and straightening piles of newspapers. Da did the daily crossword, in ink of course, but hadn’t gotten to it in a while. A stack of puzzles going back as far as December moldered on an end table. Mo took a bouquet of flowers that had seen better days and dumped it off the side of the porch. When she came back in, Mercedes still lay on the sofa, an arm flung over her eyes, her ultrasensitive nose twitching.

  “What is that repulsive smell?” she asked.

  Mo set Mrs. Steinbott’s package on Mercedes’ chest.

  “Your secret admirer sent it.”

  “The Queen of the Night?” Mercedes sat up. “What if it’s a bomb?”

  “I don’t hear any ticking.”

  Mo sat beside Mercedes while she undid the zillion layers of paper and tape. What could be so precious? Inside was a box and, inside that, more paper.

  “This is creeping me out.” Mercedes pushed it into Mo’s hands. “You open it.”

  “Thanks so much.” Mo extracted a little jar of pink crystals, its label yellowed and peeling at the edges. “Imperial Deluxe Rose-Scented Bubble Bath,” she read.

  “Great!” Mercedes flung herself backward on the couch. “Now she’s telling me I need a bath. What next?”

  “I may be wrong, but I think she’s trying to be nice.”

  Mercedes’s eyes grew wide. “I only take showers! I haven’t taken a bath since I was four years old! She k
nows nada about me! Negative zip!”

  “It’s the thought that counts. Right?”

  “Look at that ancient jar! It could be from Pompeii. Crudsicles!” Mercedes threw an arm over her eyes. “I’m besieged by adults on all sides.”

  Mo thought of the letter her father had just gotten, and how he’d catapulted out the door to the realty company. If she told Mercedes about that, it would prove Mercedes wasn’t the only one with problems brewing.

  But what if it was the new, heartless Mercedes who answered? What if, instead of sympathizing, she replied, “Why are you so surprised? He’d do anything to quit the water department—you know it as well as I do.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Mo said. “It’s not that bad.”

  Mercedes lowered her arm and peered at Mo. “It’s not that good, either. But you refuse to admit it.”

  “Guess what?” The sudden urge to tell Mercedes about the fox scat shot up inside Mo like her own personal geyser. “I found something I’ve been looking for a long time.”

  “What?”

  Mo hesitated again. What if Mercedes wrinkled her hyperactive nose and demanded to know what, precisely, did a poop pile have to do with anything? Mo clutched the ancient jar of bath crystals. The truth was, she could no longer predict how her best friend would react to things. She couldn’t count on Mercedes to say the thing she most needed to hear.

  Not to mention, what if all she’d discovered was the poop of a weird dog with a taste for raspberries?

  “What?” repeated Mercedes.

  Mo stood up. “Umm, nothing.”

  Mercedes lowered her window-shade arm again. “If I didn’t know how much you hate secrets, I’d swear you were keeping one from me.”

  “Me? Secrets? Ha ha.”

  “Three-C sent me money. Want to do something?”

  Mo was about to say her father had given her ten dollars when Mercedes pulled two twenties from her pocket.

  “We could take the bus to the mall,” Mercedes suggested.

  “The mall?” When they had some money, they usually toured the aisles of the E-Z Dollar, then got pop and chips at Abdul’s Market. “We never go to the mall.”

  “And we can never do something we never do.”

  “I mean…”

  “Never mind. I’ll just lie here all day, perfecting my sarcophagus imitation.”

  Hurt, Mo turned toward the door.

  “Please,” added Mercedes, “could you kindly take that stink bomb with you?”

  Stepping onto Da’s porch, the first thing Mo saw was Mrs. Steinbott standing on her lawn clutching her big pruning shears. What if she concluded Mo was stealing the wonderful present for herself? She might call the police, which she regularly did on the Baggott boys. Or attempt to stab Mo through the heart with those colossal shears, the way she’d once dispatched a UPS driver who got the wrong address. People said.

  Mo slid the pink jar into the top of her shorts and pulled her T-shirt over it. As she crossed the street, Pi Baggott rumbled up on his board.

  “Wazzup.” His skin was a map of scars and scrapes. His full name was Pisces, but instead of a fish, he longed to be a bird. No matter how often he wiped out, he was back on that board, trying to fly.

  Speaking of boards.

  “You got a new one,” she said.

  Pi was the kind of person who always had something in his hands, something he was fixing or improving. While Mo could never stop considering and wondering and stewing over life’s endless complications, Pi inhabited a fret-free zone. Not that he was thoughtless. Just that the part of him that did his thinking seemed to be located in his hands, not his brain.

  “I found it down the ravine. I can’t believe what people throw away. All it needed was new wheels.” He flipped it over to show her how he’d removed the axle nuts and replaced the old wheels with shining new ones. He’d scraped off the old decals, too, and sanded it smooth as glass.

  “It’s better than new,” Mo said.

  “Try it.” He set it at her feet and held out his hand. “I’ll hold that.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re smuggling under your shirt.”

  By now Mrs. Steinbott was beckoning impatiently from her porch.

  “You!” she called. “Get over here!”

  “Hey,” said Pi. “Is that bloodsucker bothering you? Want me to hose her for you?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Just let me know.” He jumped back on his board. “Or if you ever want to borrow my board.”

  “Skateboarding’s not for me.”

  Pi looked puzzled. “How do you know that?” He rolled away, popping a smooth, sweet ollie.

  “You!” repeated Mrs. Steinbott. She leaned over her porch railing. Mo crossed her arms over the bulge beneath her shirt. “What did she say?”

  “She said…wow. She’d never seen the like.”

  Mrs. Steinbott continued to fix Mo with an expectant look, as if there must be more.

  “She said…” For some unearthly reason, Mo longed to tell her crazy neighbor whatever it was she longed to hear. If only she could guess what that might be. From the foot of the steps she gazed up while Mrs. Steinbott gazed down, the two of them yearning toward each other, their longings crisscrossing above the glorious, indifferent roses.

  “She liked it,” Mrs. Steinbott prompted.

  Mo clutched the jar with one hand and slid the other behind her back, crossing her fingers. “She really did.”

  Mrs. Steinbott nodded. Exactly the answer she’d been looking for. Settling back in her chair, she picked up her knitting needles and commenced clicking away, her eyes on Da’s front porch, as if it were an empty stage and she were waiting for the play to begin.

  Magic Hands

  “MO!”

  Mrs. Petrone, power-walking past, paused to unhook the earbuds of her iPod. She was always testing new beauty products on herself, and today her hair was gelled up into a sort of picket fence. In the heat, her round face was shiny and pink as her track pants.

  “Isn’t it about time for a visit to my shop?” The way she eyed Mo’s hair, Mo knew it wasn’t really a question.

  The next thing Mo knew, she was in Mrs. Petrone’s kitchen, which smelled like strong coffee and coconut shampoo, not to mention was delectably air-conditioned. For as long as Mo could remember, Mrs. Petrone had cut her hair. Her cheery kitchen had shelves full of cookbooks and a special album of cards and letters from the grateful families of people whose hair and makeup she’d styled at the House of Wills. “You made Grandma resemble an angel,” one letter said. “We hardly recognized Uncle George, and that is a total compliment,” read another.

  “Business is slow,” she told Mo, lining up her bottles and combs and scissors. “People don’t die in the summer if they can help it. Winter, that’s a different story.”

  When she washed your hair, Mrs. P was more or less a hypnotist. You never had to be nervous she’d dig into your scalp, or tug too hard, or do anything but massage firmly yet gently, so before you knew it, she’d thrown you into a sort of trance.

  “Bella, bella,” crooned Mrs. Petrone. “You’ve got the best hair on the street—don’t tell anyone I said so.”

  She didn’t ask Mo how she wanted her hair cut. She knew—not too short, not too long, just right. Mo’s eyes drifted shut. The chair cupped her like a big, warm hand. Mrs. Petrone talked and talked, her voice a lullaby. Murmuring how when she was a young girl, her hair was so long she could sit on it, how every night her mother brushed it one hundred strokes, how those were some of the happiest moments of her life.

  “That was a lifetime ago, but I remember it like it happened yesterday,” she said. “But oh, don’t ask me where I put my keys!”

  She set down her scissors and pulled the lid off a big red tin on the counter. A plate of golden pizzelles, dusted with sugar, appeared on the table in front of Mo. The cookies were thin and crisp, fragrant with vanilla. All at once, Mo felt sick.

&nbs
p; “Go on—I remember how you like them.”

  But here Mrs. Petrone remembered all wrong. Mo could no more eat a pizzelle than a fried worm. Just the sight of one filled her ears with the terrible wrenching wail of sirens.

  Sirens! They blared on Paradise all the time. Mo had hardly noticed them that summer afternoon. She’d been too happy, thinking of ice cream, imagining her mother’s smile when she saw the rocks Mo had collected.

  That was almost the worst part. It was too terrible to think that she’d heard those sirens and never guessed. Heard them and ignored them, blissful and ignorant as a baby. That afternoon, someone drew a cruel line down the center of the world and left Mo on the wrong side.

  Now she gripped the arms of her chair.

  “Dottie’s the one who loves pizzelles,” she managed to say.

  “Dottie looks more like your mother every day. That head of hair, wild and red as a little fox!”

  Mo couldn’t remember how she and Dottie had wound up at Mrs. Petrone’s that afternoon—had their father brought them here, after the hospital called? Had Mrs. Petrone come and fetched them, squashing Dottie to her big, cushiony chest? Sometimes Mo thought that, if only he’d brought them to Da’s instead, things would have turned out differently. Da would have warded It off, she’d never have allowed It to cross her threshold.

  But Da’s husband had died. Her daughter had gone away and not come back. Four of her toes had wound up in the hospital incinerator. Maybe even Da couldn’t have protected them.

  “You bring that little sister over, and between the two of us we’ll hold her down and give her a nice cut.”

  Dottie hadn’t understood. She’d watched cartoons till her eyes fell out and eaten one pizzelle after another, scattering sugary golden crumbs everywhere. Mo had sat frozen on Mrs. Petrone’s scratchy living-room couch, the pockets of her shorts heavy with stones.

  Because Mo and her mother were going to paint those stones Mo had collected, turn them into bugs and flowers and tiny people. They were going to do it in the backyard, beneath the plum tree. Afterward they were going to sit at the wooden table in the kitchen, the one printed with the secret language of all their dinners together, and eat the ice cream her mother had gone to buy.