What Happened on Fox Street Read online

  That day Mo had sat perfectly still on the Petrone couch, eyes on the door, certain Mr. Wren would burst in any minute to fetch them home. Maybe their mother would have a big Band-Aid on her head. Or her arm in a sling. That’s what I get for my daydreaming! She’d laugh and they’d hug, but carefully, in case she was still sore.

  Mo had sat on the couch and waited. Her foot fell asleep. Her nose itched, her empty belly ached, Dottie tipped over sideways, sound asleep and drooling on her shoulder. But Mo forced herself to stay still. Still as a stone herself. Because if she froze her own self, she could make the rest of the world stand still, too. If things couldn’t go forward, nothing bad could happen.

  When at last her father had come, Mo jumped up from the couch, but she’d forgotten about her rock-heavy pockets and lost her balance, tipping over backward. It was exactly like some invisible bully, big and stupid as a furniture truck, had plowed into her.

  She should have held still. Still as a stone!

  Now Mrs. Petrone was pouring Mo a glass of milk.

  “You’re too pale. You need to eat! My mother always made her pizzelles with anise. You know anise, it’s like licorice? I never could stomach it. Chin up, please. I remember…”

  Their father had put his arms around her and Dottie and lifted them, one in each arm, as if they were made of feathers. How strong he was! Even then, never more than then. Back home he took them both into the big bed, where they slept burrowed against him.

  “…though that I’d just as soon forget!” Mrs. Petrone tossed her head and gave her hearty laugh. What had she just said? Mo had lost track. “But what can you do? Some memories you cherish and some break your heart. We don’t get to choose. Our memories choose us.”

  With that she whisked the beauty cape from Mo’s shoulders and handed her the mirror.

  “Look what a beauty you are!” she exulted. “Your father’s eyes, dark as midnight! Ah, I remember how your mother wept when I gave you your first haircut! You kept patting her arm, saying, ‘I don’t hurt, Mama!’” She crushed Mo, mirror and all, against her embarrassing chest. “Let me wrap some pizzelles for you to take home.”

  Before she knew it, Mo found herself back out on the sidewalk, her clipped hair lifting in the breeze. The foil of the wrapped-up cookies glinted in the sunlight.

  She’d never heard the story of her first haircut before.

  Fox Street. Here was where all the memories lived. Up on Da’s porch. In Mrs. Petrone’s kitchen.

  Most of all in the Wren house. They snuggled in every corner, rode the air itself. They hovered, just out of sight but near, watching over you with wise, almond-shaped eyes.

  Not a single car or person was in sight in this stifling heat, yet Mo looked both ways before she crossed the street. Walking up her driveway, she heard Mrs. Steinbott’s radio, but in place of the angry voices that usually raged twenty-four seven, music spilled out. Mo stopped, astonished, to listen. A woman’s voice, smooth as cream, sang about long-lost love. A skinny, hopeful voice warbled along.

  The Plot Thickens

  MR. WREN CALLED IN SICK the next day, too. He whistled as he dressed, not in his uniform but in a good blue shirt.

  “Help On-the-Dot get dressed, could you?” he asked Mo. “Shoes, underwear, the whole deal. The Wrens are taking a trip downtown.”

  “Cool!” Mo faked enthusiasm, even as her radar for surprises began to beep. “What for?”

  He slipped a necktie under his collar. A necktie! Mr. Wren pulled the knot tight and stepped back to look in the mirror. He was dazzlingly handsome. Could she really look like him?

  “I’m taking a meeting with the illustrious Buckmeister.”

  Mo put her hands to her own throat.

  “Can…can Mercedes come with us?”

  “Porsche? She’s family! But tell her to move it. I can’t be late.”

  Mo grabbed a pair of underwear, a top and shorts that actually matched, shoes and socks, and laid them out in a row on Dottie’s bed. She threatened her little sister with a gruesome death if she didn’t get dressed immediately, then raced across the street.

  She found Da sitting at her kitchen table, where the pill bottles clustered like a miniature plastic forest. One by one Da sorted the capsules and tablets into a tray with boxes labeled for each day of the week.

  “There’s small choice in rotten apples, Mo Wren.” She dropped a big white pill into Thursday and waved the fruit flies off a bowl of bananas. “Old age isn’t fun, but it does beat the alternative.”

  The way fingers can’t resist a scab, Mo’s eyes drifted down to the floor. In the heat, Da had left off her big black shoes. Instead her feet wore a pair of toeless slippers. Eeek! Mo squashed her eyes shut just in time. She clapped her hand over them, for good measure.

  “Are you all right, child?”

  “It’s just a little…a little hot in here.” Mo inched her fingers down.

  “In more ways than one.” Da arched a brow. “Am I mistaken, or does Mercedes Jasmine seem especially moody to you?”

  “Woo. You said it.”

  “Just like her mother. Give me strength—that girl could sulk.” Da snapped Thursday closed. “It stems from excessive pride. Not that I’d know anything about that. Get yourself a cold drink, go on.”

  “I’m all right. Where is she?”

  “‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.’ Give me strength—not our Mercey.”

  “Umm, I’m kind of in a hurry, Da. May I be excused?”

  “She’s out back. If anyone can cheer her up, it’s you, Mo Wren.”

  Mo crossed the little yard, sending an iridescent pigeon rumpling up from the grass. Mercedes slouched on Da’s metal glider, arms crossed, lower lip stuck out at least half a mile.

  Mo sat beside her. Back and forth they went, Mercedes’s foot thumping off the ground hard. Mo rummaged through her brain, trying to think what it would take to get Mercedes to agree to come downtown. At last she settled on the truth.

  “I really need your help. I’ve got something I can’t do myself.”

  There it was—two sticks rubbed together, sparking a light in Mercedes’s eyes. It was the same spark as last summer, when the city closed down the pool’s high dive, which Mercedes adored. She and Mo staged a sit-in demonstration, and even though the high dive never reopened, they got their photos in the paper, plus a personal letter of regret from the mayor. The same spark as two summers ago, when Leo Baggott blew off half his finger with a Fourth of July bottle rocket. Mercedes was the one who found it in the grass, and knew to put it in milk and give it to Mrs. Baggott, who fainted dead away. Later Mercedes and Mo held a bake sale, to help pay the medical expenses.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “My dad got a second letter from Buckman.”

  Mercedes halted the glider with such force, it nearly dislocated Mo’s head.

  “The plot thickens,” Mercedes said.

  “Did Da get a letter?”

  “No. I’ve been watching the mail. As far as I can tell, he’s targeting your dad.”

  “My dad’s on the way down to meet with him. It’s getting serious.” Mo swallowed. “I’m afraid he…I’m just afraid.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Skipping the details, they told Da they were headed downtown with Mr. Wren. Da gave Mo an appreciative wink. Mercedes flung open the door, then stopped abruptly.

  “What the…”

  A bucket brimming with roses sat in the middle of the porch. Red roses, white roses, roses the pink of a baby girl’s blanket. A trail of scattered petals, like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs, led down the front walk and out into the street.

  The porch across the street stood empty. But the lace curtain at the front window twitched.

  “Rose bubble bath. Rose roses. I guess…” Mo remembered Mrs. Steinbott leaning over her porch railing, yearning to hear that Mercedes had appreciated the bubble bath. “She really did,” Mo had promised. Not
to say lied.

  That lace curtain quivered. “I guess she thinks you like roses, Merce.”

  “Once again proving she doesn’t know the first thing about me! Roses make me sneeze.”

  The scent of those roses was a fragrant river. Lift one to your nose and it flooded you, swept you right off your feet. Mo held one out. “Smell! It’s heaven!”

  But Mercedes’s ridiculously sensitive nose accordioned up, her eyes shut down, her shoulders heaved, and out flew a deafening sneeze.

  Beep beep! Mr. Wren was backing the car down the driveway, the side mirror missing Mrs. Steinbott’s house by approximately one inch. Dottie waved merrily from the backseat. Just before climbing in, Mo turned and waved to the lace curtain.

  On the Case

  MR. WREN DROVE ALONG the shore of Lake Erie, beneath a sky heavy with clouds. Far out on the water, whitecaps rolled and broke. Any other time, it would have looked like rain, but this summer, rain was an impossible dream.

  He took the long way round, careful not to pass the water-main project. They parked on a side street, in front of a shoe store with a GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign in the window. Next door was a restaurant plastered with FOR RENT signs. Peering in, you could see tables still set with plates and silverware and plastic flowers in vases.

  “Cool,” said Dottie, flattening her nose against the glass. “A ghost restaurant.”

  A scrap of paper blew against Mo’s legs.

  In the lobby of the building, the elevator wore an OUT OF ORDER sign, so they climbed three flights of stairs. UCKMAN AND BUCKMA read the peeling sign on the door. As they entered, a young woman with a worried, bunched-up face looked up from her desk.

  “Mr. Wren, right?”

  Mr. Wren grinned his movie-star grin, and Mo could see he was flattered. “How’d you guess?”

  “If you ask me,” Mercedes muttered, looking around, “they don’t exactly get hordes of customers up here.”

  “Mr. Buckman Senior is expecting you.” The secretary bit her bottom lip. “In fact, I better tell him right this minute that you’re—”

  The door behind her swung open, and a large belly barreled out. Behind it came a man with a broad red face, wearing a tie the yellow of caution tape.

  “Mr. Wren! Bob Buckman!” He grabbed Mo’s father’s hand and pumped it up and down. “I apologize for my assistant keeping you waiting!”

  The secretary reddened. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s so hard to get good help these days.” Buckman said this to Mr. Wren as if it were a great joke.

  Mr. Wren frowned. “We just got here.”

  At the “we,” Mr. Buckman noticed the girls for the first time. He swung back around to his secretary.

  “Take good care of these children while we confer.” He gestured toward his inner office. “This way, please!”

  Mr. Wren threw Mo an inquiring look, but when she gave him the thumbs-up, he and Mr. Buckman disappeared through the door, which shut behind them with an emphatic click.

  The secretary pulled open a drawer and produced a bag of peppermint patties. “He’s mean,” said Dottie, helping herself. “You’re nice.”

  Mercedes paced up and down the room—approximately seven paces each way. The carpet was worn, as if lots of people had paced here.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” she said to the secretary, “are there really two of them?”

  The woman smiled for the first time, showing dimples in both cheeks.

  “They’re clones, only Junior’s even stingier. Whoops, did I say that?”

  Mo looked out the window, whose sill was speckled with pigeon poop. The clouds still hung heavy and dark.

  “And what’s their business again?” Mercedes kept her voice cool, as if these were just idle questions to while away this boring time they had to wait

  “Developers. They buy and sell. Or, as Mr. B Senior likes to say, they turn things around.” She chewed her lip. “Or upside down. Or inside out.”

  Dottie helped herself to two more chocolates. “He’s mean. You’re nice.”

  The secretary unwrapped a patty for herself. “No comment,” she said.

  “Why do you think he’s so interested in a little house on Fox Street?” Mercedes went on.

  “It’s not so little,” Mo couldn’t help saying.

  The secretary gnawed her bottom lip. Lipstick and chocolate flecked her teeth. “That’s confidential information.”

  The phone rang.

  “Yes, Mr. Buckman,” said the secretary. “No, Mr. Buckman…today? This afternoon? But you specifically said the deadline was…Yes, yes, I mean no, no…”

  Mercedes halted in front of the desk. Time was short. Mr. Wren might be out any minute. She raised her chin, doing her steeple imitation.

  “It doesn’t make sense that they’re so eager to buy the Wrens’ house,” she said as soon as the secretary hung up. Her voice was low and calm. Here at last, the Mercedes Mo knew! Loyal. Courageous. Smarter than nine out of ten grown-ups. Mo’s ancient love for her friend came rushing back. “I get the feeling something shady’s going on. But you don’t seem like a shady person to me.”

  The secretary looked insulted, then pleased, then confused. “I just work here. Do you have any idea how hard jobs are to find?”

  Mercedes clasped her hands to her chest. She nodded toward Mo and Dottie.

  “They’re motherless,” she said, and now that calm, cool voice trembled. “A tragedy. They’re half orphans.”

  “Shoot,” said the secretary, her face filling with pity. Hey, Mo wanted to burst out. No need to feel sorry for us! Hey! We’re perfectly fine! Hold your tears! But Mercedes shot her a look that made her bite her tongue.

  “The way it works, B and B acquire homes at market prices. They develop properties that generate much-needed tax income for municipalities.” The secretary gave Mo an apologetic look. “But don’t worry, they only pursue eminent domain as a last resort.”

  “Domain? What’s that?” demanded Mercedes.

  “Whoever has domain over something owns it.” She tried to straighten a pile of papers. “In certain extreme situations, the city can exercise ownership over private property.”

  “What kind of situations?”

  “If it’s for the good of all.”

  “That’s bogus!” Mo jumped to her feet.

  “Is that legal?” Mercedes demanded. “It doesn’t sound legal to me.”

  “Lots of bad stuff is legal!” The secretary swept her hand through the air, knocking over the papers she’d just straightened. “Shoot! The world is full of necessary e—”

  “That’s not true!” Mo said

  “That’s not true!” echoed Dottie, slipping a few more patties into her pocket.

  The door behind the desk swung open, making the woman jump half out of her skin. Mr. Wren, his tie crooked, came out first, Buckman’s big belly following close behind.

  “I’ll shoot you those figures pronto,” he said, clapping Mr. Wren on the shoulder. He beamed at the three girls. “I trust my gal here kept you out of trouble?”

  The Thinker, Part 2

  “IT’S COMPLICATED,” Mr. Wren replied to every question Mo asked. He turned on the radio and hummed along, not saying anything more till he’d edged the car up the driveway, which was so narrow you could touch Mrs. Steinbott’s house as you went by, if you were Dottie and dumb enough to want to. He shut off the car but didn’t get out. He sat gripping the wheel for a long moment and at last turned around to face the backseat.

  “You girls only need to know one thing. Whatever I do is for the good of us all.”

  This sounded alarmingly familiar. “Like eminent domain?”

  “What?” He gave Mo a distracted look, then climbed out of the car. “I need to think.”

  But instead of thinking, he changed his clothes and went to softball practice. Mercedes had to go help Da, and Dottie threw herself down in front of a hospital-emergency show with the fan blasting directly on her.
>
  That left Mo to do the thinking.

  She tried, while sprinkling the plum tree with water she’d saved from Dottie’s bath, but all her brain got was static. When she told Dottie she was going out for a little while, her sister didn’t take her eyes from the TV screen.

  “Give me strength. Ashley’s in the hospital. She crashed her car and fell into a compost.”

  “Do you mean coma, and are you allowed to watch those shows? Don’t bother to answer and do not move. I’ll be back in a few minutes—I have to check something.”

  The air was a sponge begging to be wrung out, but the sidewalks and grass were dry as ever. It was late afternoon by now, the day paused between day and evening, Mo’s favorite time. She loved to feel the world simmering down, breathing slower. As she slid down the hill into the Green Kingdom, a blue plastic bag fluttered gently, high in a tree. Mo tried, as always, not to make a sound.

  She walked up one side of the stream, jumped across, and patrolled the other as far as she could before the brush got too dense, all the while peering at the slick mud. Fox tracks were hard to distinguish from a dog’s. Four ovals and a little pad, with sharp, pointy claws. Foxes moved like dancers, so their tracks didn’t go as deep as most dogs’, but still. Unless you were a real expert, it was hard to tell.

  A group of dogs was a pack, of geese a gaggle, of lions a pride. A group of foxes was called an earth. That was perfect, if you asked Mo.

  Just before the nettles and weeds grew too thick to penetrate, the stream curved and widened out a bit. Mo squatted to look more closely. The mud was a mishmash of indentations—fat and needle thin, deep or barely a thumbprint, crescents and rays, ovals and lines. A group of something had been here and left behind this record, like a secret language. Another secret language, alongside the one imprinted on the Wren kitchen table.

  By this time in summer, kits would be big enough to come out of the den and play. Their mother would still catch all their food, but when she was sure the coast was clear, she’d lead them to water for a drink.