A Tall Tale . . . With Chickens

Sophie hated chickens. Which was a problem, since her husband, my Cousin Slim, was a chicken man, born and bred. 

When he invited Sophie into his life she was prepared for all sorts of bachelor shenanigans: a mess of toenail clippings scattered willy-nilly on the bathroom floor, and more than a little belching and farting. But she was not prepared for chickens. 

Had she been from around here, she would have known that Cousin Slim and his chickens were as close as an owl and its hoot. But poor Sophie, coming from Pretty Marsh, she was as innocent as a minute. No good ever came from marrying the first man who asks you. Especially if you meet him at a Friday Night Barn Dance in the middle of August.

That very first morning when Sophie arrived in her new home, she saw it, she heard it, she smelled it: she was living on a chicken farm.

Not being one to waste time, she headed straight for the yard to show those chickens who was boss. The way I heard it, she just hunkered down on the cracked earth and followed them around, staring right into their beady little eyes. 

Now if you know anything at all about chickens you know they don’t go for no eyeball to eyeball contact — not from each other and not from a pointy-chinned woman like Sophie. The little chicks didn’t know what to make of her, but they didn’t like it one bit. 

The chickens took off for their roosts lickety-split, squawking to beat Christmas, trying to get away from Sophie’s eyes. Now, wouldn’t you think, in their churned up condition, they’d suffer from a stoppage of their functions? When I’m all jiggered my internal plumbing just shuts right down on me. But not those chickens. They started popping out eggs like there was no tomorrow. Ten, fifteen, twenty eggs a piece they were laying. Started in like that on the first day and it never did let up. Yes indeed, that’s gospel. 

I know it sounds impossible, but that’s just because you never met Sophie. That woman was so single-minded in her detestation of all things fowl that she terrified those chickens into laying more eggs than was natural. 

Slim, first thing he figured was — witch stuff. He was scared he’d gone and married him a genuine handmaiden of Satan. Well, that’s the kind of man he was, a tad simple, though he played a real sweet harmonica. 

But then the Agriculture Inspector came down to see what was what — tiny little government man all the way from Beaker Flats, had a mustache weighed more than he did. And he says he read somewhere in one of those chicken magazines that it could happen just like it did: chickens take it into their pea-sized brains to lay more eggs than the sky’s got stars and they just go ahead and do it. 

He told Cousin Slim that Sophie was no witch. She was a phenomenon. That’s what he said. And the chickens, they were a phenomenon too. That Agriculture Inspector, he said people were going to love this story: human interest, he called it. To my way of thinking it’s more like chicken interest.

The people from Time Magazine, they came. And the people from the TV, too. And lots more. And everybody who came, they had to pay cold hard cash money if they wanted a picture of those chickens. Sophie made the rule and it was a good one. 

She kept the dollars in an flour bags under the kitchen sink. Pretty soon she had more than twenty bags full of money. To say nothing of what she and Cousin Slim got from selling those eggs. We’re talking a lot of money. Close your eyes and picture as much money as you have ever seen in one place at one time. Now multiply that by about a thousand and then go ahead and multiply it again by . . . I don’t know by what, you can just take my word for it, it was a lot of money. 

Sophie and Slim, they were rich. They were so rich they would have been fools to stay put on that tired little chicken farm, and let me tell you, that Sophie was no fool. 

So she took Slim by his bony wrists and she yanked him off to Savannah. Savannah, I tell you. And they had such a nice time there they never did come back home. Not even for a visit. 

Cousin Slim passed the farm on to me, seeing as how I was his only relative. And I moved right in. Sophie was a fine housekeeper. I didn’t find a single toenail clipping anywhere.

In case you’re wondering if those chickens are still popping out eggs like so many marbles, the answer is no, they are not. The chickens I’ve got now, they’re as normal as can be. Which suits me just fine. Give me a brood of one-a-day chickens and I’m happy as a ghost on Halloween. I don’t need to be rich ‘cause I’m not planning on going anywhere fancy. I’m staying right here with my chickens and my dog, Wyatt Earp, and I’m just as pleased as ever a person could hope to be.

Apartment B-6, 1957: A Tour

This is the front door to our apartment, it says B-6 right there in gold paint, apartment B-6, and I am, I am being 6.

This is the outside hallway. Whenever I open the door to go anyplace I have to come out here. It looks yellow because the lightbulb is high up and far away and sometimes it smells bad but that's because Mrs. Teitelbaum cooks Brussels sprouts. She always says hello and smiles with her lipstick mouth and she is not a tattle-tale, but she does make a bad smell so I hope she'll move away.

In this hallway I could do lots of fun things, because it's so long and the tiles on the floor are real smooth. I could roller skate or ride my bike or just run down to the other end and turn around and run back again. 

But I'm not allowed to do any of those things. Kids can't have fun in the hallway, and if a grown-up sees me, even if I'm only playing jacks or dressing my Barbies, that grown-up will say "Go home little girl, you're making too much noise."

Mrs. Weinstock will say it very loud, she will scream in my face, she will act like she doesn't know me, even though she is my friend Larry's grandma. When he visits Mrs. and Mr. Weinstock, if it's not a Saturday, I get invited inside their apartment to play Go Fish with him and his sister Hilary, and Mrs. Weinstock gives us Jell-O. 

But when she sees me in the hallway she doesn't recognize me and she screams in my face like this: "Girlie, girlie, what you doing here? This is bad place for you, go inside, psha psha, hurry up inside." When she goes "psha" a little spit comes out of the side of her mouth. She is a very nervous lady, Mrs. Weinstock, and it makes her crazy to see a kid in the hallway.

This is my bedroom. I share it with my sister Laura but I have the bigger bed because I'm the older one and she has the smaller bed that Mommy collapses in the morning and rolls under my bed so there will be more room for playing. 

Collapsing is very tricky, not everyone can do it. In my family only my mother can do it. My father is afraid, he got his finger caught in the metal part once and ever since then he doesn't like to do collapsing. When I'm older my mother might teach me but for now she is the one who does it in the morning and she calls it "making the beds."

This is the wall next to my bed and this is the exact spot where I like to rest my cheek so it will feel cool because after I turn my pillow over a few times it's hot and sweaty and the only place to go is the wall. My mother painted the bedroom walls pink which is a nice cool color and Laura and I like it, but then Mom read an article in a magazine and it gave her an idea that wasn't very good. 

The idea told her to take a sponge and dip it in a can of white paint and go splosh splosh all over the walls making what was supposed to be snowflakes but instead it made scary pictures like this one. 

Can you see what it is? It's a dog with a scarf around its neck and the reason it is scary is because — look! — there is no body, it's just a dog head wearing a scarf. That could give you nightmares if you stare at it too long so be careful, you might want to close your eyes now so you don't see it any more. 

Laura and I both hate the white sploshes but I hate them more because my bed is right up against the wall, but mom says it is artistic so I don't tell her how scary it is.

Dad says it's not artistic, it's artsy fartsy, which is not a nice thing to say, but it didn't make Mom mad, it made her laugh. Dad can get away with saying fartsy which is almost the same as saying fart, he can get away with it because he's the dad. I could never get away with it, if I said fart I would be in trouble. I can't get away with anything.

This is the closet where all my clothes are and it's very crowded because Laura's clothes are there too, all our clothes for school and our clothes for dressing up and our coats and jackets. Up there on that shelf is the cardboard box where our camp clothes are folded up waiting for us. 

It's always a good day when Mom takes down the box of camp clothes and we look at our shorts and bathing suits and get ready to have fun in the lake and in the Nature Shed. But that is not happening today so try not to think about it because if you think about it you will feel sad.

This is the living room where we do our living, except for eating and sleeping and the things we do in the bathroom. It is also a bedroom for my mom and dad. The couch turns into a bed at night. It is called a Castro Convertible and there's a song about it on the radio and we like to sing it, especially Laura, but Mom says we should shut up about that song already.  

There is a lot of collapsing going on in our apartment. There's Laura's bed and there's the couch, but the couch is more fun. First you take all the cushions off and stack them against the wall by the TV and after you do that you pull a handle and the bed will start to crawl out of the couch. I can do it myself if somebody helps me but Laura can't do it because she's still too little. Dad is not afraid of the couch the way he's afraid of Laura's bed, because it doesn't have any sharp metal bits that can attack him.

I haven't shown you the bathroom yet. Follow me, it's over here near the front door. Every time I get to the front door and I'm ready to go outside and have some fun Mom asks "are you prepared?" That means have I gone to the bathroom? Because the one thing she really hates is if I'm outside and then all of a sudden I remember I have to to go to the bathroom so I have to turn around and run back to the apartment. So now she always asks "are you prepared?" and if I'm not I better go right away into the bathroom and do my business, #1 or #2, whatever I have to do to be prepared.

I'm prepared! So we can go out now. I've shown you everything except the kitchen but that is too boring, that's where we sit around a tiny table and eat boring food like lettuce and tomato and hard boiled eggs. You don't want to see that. 

Let's go out and sit on the stoop and maybe my friends Barbara and Judy will come out and we can make some noise. If we make noise out on the stoop we don't get yelled at because people know kids have to make noise someplace. It's just in the hallway where they get mad. But out on the stoop we can be wild animals, that's what they say. 

Hurry up, this is the best part, we can yell at the cars that drive by and we can whoop like lions or tigers or even like little girls.

The Story of a Penny

She was lost. Had been lost for a very long time. She was so lost she didn’t even remember a time when she had been found. 

Lost beneath a bed, with the dust balls. 

Which isn’t as bad as it sounds, dust balls being thoughtful neighbors. She wasn't put-upon. She wasn’t nagged. No one made demands on her or had any expectations for her. She wasn’t exactly lonely (her own thoughts were marvelous company, and always had been) but, as time went on (and on and on and on) she found herself growing curious. 

This, as you probably know, can lead to trouble. And it did. 

Her curiosity made her restless. It made her impatient and discontent. It made her bored. None of these characteristics are becoming in a penny. She started to grumble and grouse. The dust balls moved away from her. She felt unwanted (which, by now, she was) and this made her determined to leave town. 

It wasn’t easy, but she persevered. It took time. She had plenty of that. I won’t tell you exactly how she managed it (you wouldn’t believe me if I did) but our little gal got herself from under the bed to beside the bed. Wow! What a view. A rug, table legs, chair legs, a lamp base, a slipper, another slipper. Ahhh, slippers. She’d always had a weakness for slippers. 

Eventually, she made her way over to the right slipper. Slippers can be peculiar. Some are welcoming, but others are suspicious, even haughty. The penny made a tentative approach. The slipper did not spurn her. She edged closer still. The slipper, while not overwhelmingly warm, did nothing to rebuff the penny. So she slid on in. Wiggled her way down into the toe. It felt lovely there. Soft and cozy. The perfect spot for a nap. She felt a deep sense of accomplishment, our penny did, of a voyage well navigated; an adventure completed.

Let us pause here, to celebrate the penny’s good fortune.

Now let us move on. Because with pennies, as with people, things change. And circumstances are about to take a turn.

A woman lived in the house. You might have guessed that, but the penny didn’t. The slipper, of course, belonged to the woman and not to the penny. Later that morning, the woman crammed her bare feet into her slippers. She was still tired, hadn’t been sleeping well for a while now, and she was distracted (so many thoughts, so many worries). 

At first she didn’t acknowledge the cold hard pinch at the tip of her right big toe. But by the time she arrived in the kitchen she couldn’t ignore it any longer. She kicked off her slipper, lifted it up, and shook it out. The penny fell into her upturned palm.

Oh joy. Oh rapture. Our little penny was beside herself. This was far better than she ever anticipated. “Look at me. Admire me,” she preened, imagining herself shining brightly in the morning sunlight. She knew she had a deep coppery complexion. The woman would be sure to find her adorable. Perhaps even irresistible. (The penny was already imagining herself being placed into a thin strip of leather and going everywhere wonderful in the company of a loafer, which only goes to show how very long she had been living among the dust balls.)

She didn’t know, poor thing, that she was no longer shimmery and shiny, no longer perky, no longer (truth be told) attractive. Our little penny was tarnished and dull, green around the edges, dented even. 

But here’s the truly hard part: even if she had been brand spanking sparkly new, even if she radiated the essence of pure, fresh penniness, it would not have been enough. The woman was not a penny lover. That’s all there is to it. Some people are and some people are not. The woman was not. 

Without giving so much as a second glance to the flirty penny she flung her onto the shelf behind the coffee maker, aiming for a blue jar she kept for just such a purpose. Buttons, tacks, the odd safety pin (and let’s face it, all safety pins are odd once you get to know them) found their way into this blue jar. And the penny, had she landed where she was meant to land, would have —  in time — discovered some sense of contentment among the bits and pieces. 

But she did not land in the jar. 

It was not the penny's fault. The woman wasn’t wearing her glasses. She should have been, but she wasn’t, and what can we do about that? Not a thing. Her aim was off and the penny missed the jar, landing on the floor behind the shelf. It was a soft landing, as these things go. She had a brief moment to catch her breath, recover her wounded pride, and congratulate herself on yet another fine adventure. (Always the optimist, our girl.) 

She looked around her. Another dark space. Now that was disappointing. But it smelled very nice. French toast, thought the penny. She was something of a snob and considered French toast to be superior to any other sort of toast. Let us forgive her. After a few deep inhalations she began to wiggle around, just to get a sense of her new environment. She was already seeking out a meditation corner.

“Quit that,” came the gruff voice of her new neighbor. It did not sound like a benign and benevolent dust ball. Who could it be, wondered the penny. Perhaps you are wondering the same thing. 

It was a sock. Alas, not a confident, stripey sock or even a bouncy polka dot sock. It was a once-white (but now grey) athletic sock that belonged to the woman’s husband. Who was long gone. As was the sock’s mate. 

This was not a happy sock. It was a disappointed sock. Opinionated. Frequently stubborn. A dissatisfied and self important sock; not a pretty combination. 

In an instant, the penny sized up her situation and realized it was less than ideal. 

“Perhaps I should have stayed where I was, among the dust balls,” she thought. 

I have to agree with her.

Just Two Little Words

This story was inspired by the photograph "Bread Store, 259 Bleeker Street, New York, 1937," by Berenice Abbott. You can find this image here: 

http://www.sepiatown.com/810320/Italian-Bread-Store-259-Bleecker-Street-New-York-USA 

My great-aunt Helen was also an inspiration. None of the details are true but the fighting essence of Helen, who always wanted to see justice done, is woven into this story.

======

I don’t have a thing against the Zito family personally. The wife is a woman I would even call sociable. Which is not to say friendly. Friendly I don’t even look for anymore. The husband, too, Mr. Zito himself, I’ve got no complaints with him. He’s not a big talker, but in a baker you don’t need talking. 

It’s not personal, like some people are trying to make out. It’s not like I have an axe needs grinding. All it is, is a matter of truth in advertising. The sign on the window says sanitary. Look, you see where I’m pointing? Look, why don’t you, it’s bigger than life. If a sign says sanitary then the shop should be sanitary. This I think is not so complex a concept. If you’re not going to be sanitary don’t call in the men with the gold paint and the brushes to paint you a sign on the window that spells out sanitary. 

That is my argument in a nutshell. And for this, people are treating me like a pariah. 

What did I do was so terrible? I’m the victim here. I brought home a loaf of bread, excuse me, I thought I was entitled to assume it would be full of bread. When you buy bread, you don’t expect to find a mouse baked into the center of it, do you? Yes, a mouse, you heard me right, that’s what I’m telling you, the whole thing was about a mouse. 

What kind of bread? What kind of a question is that? A loaf of bread. Round. That isn’t the point. Better you should ask me what kind of a mouse. Dead, that’s what kind, a dead mouse in the bread. Mice in the bread is not sanitary. Not in my book. 

So I brought it back to Zito's. The whole thing, the bread and the mouse. Only the mouse by now it didn’t have its head attached to its body. When I cut in, I accidentally decapitated it. It wasn’t my fault. Believe me, I was more surprised than the mouse. The mouse was already dead by then. Oh sure, to be cooked you have to be dead. 

Okay, so I arrived with my paper bag. Mr. was in the back by the ovens, Mrs. was helping another customer, so I was patient, I waited my turn, and then I opened my bag and showed her. The bread and the mouse, together in death as in life. 

Mrs. took the whole shebang out of my hands, she didn’t even blink. Eyes like a carving knife, I’m telling you, and this I never noticed before. Always in the past she gave me a smile. That day, it was the cutting eyes. 

She takes the bag, she throws it under the counter. Then she reaches into the money box, takes out a nickel, and hands it over to me. So far, so good. That’s the least I would expect. But it’s not the most I would expect. 

I tell her I want they should take off the word sanitary from their window. What could be more reasonable than that? I say to her, “Mrs. Zito, you have to do what’s right. You have to change your sign.” 

That’s when she tried to push me out the door. 

Pushing I don’t like. I was never one for pushing. You could ask anyone. You could ask my sister, Bunny. If she was still alive she’d tell you, all my life if someone put their hands on me it brought out the worst. What can I say? That’s just the way I was made. 

So then we had the little commotion. I’m sure you heard about it already. Mr. Zito comes in from the ovens, the other ladies in the shop get involved — although to be technical about it, it was none of their business. There were words passed. I won’t deny there were words. Okay already, so there were words. Sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never harm you. You ever hear that? 

You know the rest of the story. No one wants to take my side. No one. Over this, I even lost an old friend. Edith Bloom. You know Edith Bloom? We were friends 35 years. Yesterday, I passed her over by the bus stop, she didn’t see me. It was like I wasn’t even there. Only 2 feet away from her and she didn’t see me?

It seems my manner with the Zitos was not entirely acceptable. That’s what they tell me. My manner. Is this about manners? No! It’s about standing your ground.  

That’s why I’m out here in the cold, in the rain, every day with my sign. “Unsanitary.” I printed it myself. You don’t have to go to any fancy print shop to make a point. A little crayon, a little cardboard — I learned this years ago from the garment district. Believe me, this isn’t my first picket line. 

Can you tell me what’s the crime I’m committing? It’s a public service I’m giving to the neighborhood for free. That window, it still says sanitary. Which is a lie. I’m out here with the other side of the story. In every argument there are two sides. There’s the wrong side and there’s the right side. How could I live with myself if I wasn’t here to stand up for the right side? 

You ask me what you should do? Who am I to tell you what you should do? You do what you have to do. I’m not concerned to keep people out of the store. The Zito family has to make a living just like everybody else. I don’t want to close down their business.

My interest is in two letters only. They can call in a new painter tonight. He can put a U and an N, in front of the “Sanitary,” and by tomorrow I’ll be gone. No one will ever know I was here. Two letters. That’s all I’m asking. The world, it could be an entirely different place, with two letters. Justice would be served, with just two little letters.

Putting on the Ritz

By the age of 42 my Aunt Mindy was fed up with ironing her father’s handkerchiefs and reading the newspaper out loud to him every night. So when Sammy Fleischmann asked her “Will you?” she answered “I will.” They were married, and living in Queens, within the month.

After a weekend honeymoon in Atlantic City, Aunt Mindy was working beside her husband at Fleischmann’s Fish Market, up to her elbows in scaly things. From that day on she was known to everyone — family, customers and strangers — as Aunt Fishy.

She didn’t have an easy time of it. Sammy wasn’t a bad man, he just wasn’t a lot of fun. No movies, no theater, never a night out dancing. 

Aunt Fishy said she was lonely way out there in Queens, with everybody she knew still living in the Bronx. For a woman who had been so eager to get away from home, she was more than happy to have us come visit. Many a Sunday afternoon was spent in the Fleischmann’s house, a very tiny house, a doll’s house, my mother called it.

Even though they owned a fish store, we were never served fish in that house. Or meat. Or fresh vegetables. We never even got spaghetti. Aunt Fishy served only Ritz crackers. Crackers slathered with Skippy peanut butter or Philly cream cheese or Welch’s 100% grape jelly. Crackers decorated with slices of olives or pickles.  

Somehow Aunt Fishy got it into her head that Ritz crackers were classy. 

As soon as we left her house my father would drive us right over to the nearest White Castle restaurant so we could gorge ourselves on those square little hamburgers. Otherwise we would have starved.

Eventually, after a lifetime in the Fish Market, Uncle Sammy decided to hang up his apron and retire. He was getting too old to stand on his feet all day, he said. This was good news to Aunt Fishy. They planned their first real vacation since their honeymoon: a week in Miami Beach. 

But then, before they could even pack their bags, Aunt Fishy died. It happens like that, sometimes. There’s no rhyme or reason, and no one to complain to.

After the funeral service people crowded into the tiny house in Queens. There were trays piled high with deli meats; a carved turkey; bowls of herring, borscht, chopped liver; lox and bagels; knishes and danish. The mourners stood, shoulder to shoulder, balancing paper plates in one hand and plastic cups of seltzer in the other. 

“She was such a cheerful woman,” one of her neighbors said, “always ready with a how-di-do.” 

I wondered who she was talking about. I never heard a how-di-do come out of Aunt Fishy’s mouth. I tried to catch my sister’s eye but she was busy wiping away a tear with the corner of a cocktail napkin. I had to wonder if I was the only one who’d never gotten the “how-di-do” treatment.

After a while I realized Uncle Sammy was missing. Not that I really cared, but I figured he shouldn’t be ignored on this day, of all days. 

So I pushed past the cousins and the neighbors and some of the old customers, until I got to the little kitchen in the back of the house. 

That’s where I found him, hunched over the formica table, schmearing mayonnaise onto Ritz crackers, placing a single yellow raisin in the exact middle of each one. He held a cracker up to me, the first time he’d ever offered me anything, or even acknowledged my existence. 

We sat there, chewing noisily, until my mother found me and said it was time to leave.

We didn’t stop at the White Castle on the way home. Out of respect for Aunt Fishy, my father said. 

But I think maybe he was finally full, from all the herring and corned beef.

Rockaway Beach

I pick up the large pink conch shell with “Rockaway Beach 1955” spelled out in gold glitter script and hold it against my right ear. I don’t hear the lapping waves of the Atlantic or even a mermaid’s sigh. I hear kvetching.

—Herman, didja bring the Coppertone? Where in your bag? I can’t find nothing in here, you have too much junk.

—Ma, Jakie hit me.

—I did not.

—You did too.

—I did not.

—Ma, he’s lying, wash his mouth out good.

—I ain’t lying.

—There ain’t no ain’t in the dictionary, snot breath.

—I only hit you back, that doesn’t count.

—Herman, what is this? Pornography you’re bringing to the ocean? This is a family beach. Why’d you pack this magazine for? What, you're a playboy now, not a tailor? Don't be such a putz.

—Ma, can I go in yet, it’s been twenty minutes since I ate. Ten more minutes? I only had a half a sandwich. It was tuna, Ma, that’s a fish, you can’t get a cramp in the ocean from a fish.

My Grandma Essie had an apartment filled with kitsch, only we called them tchotkes. The plastic rickshaw with wheels that really moved. The yellow porcelain candy dish shaped like a pineapple. The tissue box decorated with pieces of painted macaroni. A door knob shaped like a breast. To be fair, I can’t blame her for the doorknob, it was a Mother’s Day gift from her son, my Uncle Arnie.

In fact, I can’t blame Grandma for anything. She was a simple, pious woman. She never did an unkind thing and, as my mother always said about her mother-in-law, “She never complains.” 

Zero taste in home furnishings, but she was a good woman.

Even so, I was not overly generous in my love for her. And I can tell you why. It’s because everyone always said how much I looked like her. My Aunt Mindy, My Uncle Herman, Tante Thelma — the entire clan opened their collective mouths to exclaim: “Look at those eyes, those are Mama’s eyes exactly.” “Is this Mama’s hair or is this Mama’s hair? It’s Mama’s hair!” 

Aunt Vivian would grab hold of my cheek, her red-lacquered fingernails squeezing until she broke skin. “You’ve got Mama’s coloring, Bubelah. I look at your face and all I see is Mama. Oy, you shayna maideleh you.”  

“She’s got Mama’s ass,” was  Arnie’s contribution, but I wouldn’t have expected anything less from him.

What were these people talking about? 

My grandmother was four feet tall. She had exactly two teeth in her head. Her nose slouched down and rubbed against her upper lip. Her thin gray hair was pulled back into a small rat’s nest of a bun. Her fingers were stained yellow from nicotine and her red fingernail polish was forever chipped. Her thick old lady stockings sagged; her shoes were ugly. 

Was the whole family crazy? I did not look like her. Forget the eyes, and the hair, forget coloring. There was no resemblance. None. None.

—Mamela, hold this shell up to your ear, you can hear the ocean.

—No, Grandma, I can’t, I don’t hear anything.

=== === ===

years later

conch shell

echoes Mamela, Mamela

Such a Happy Day

“Once there was a girl and her name was I Can’t Hear You, and whenever someone asked her her name she said I Can’t Hear You, so then they’d ask her again and she’d say I Can’t Hear You, and then ....”

“Honey,” I say, “I get it.”

“You do?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you think it’s funny?”

“Yes, it’s hilarious.”

“I made it up.”

“You’re a very clever girl.”

We walk on, she and I, west to east across the city, which isn’t as far as it sounds because we aren’t all the way west and we aren’t going all the way east. 

I push some stray hairs behind her ears. It’s very windy out today but she wouldn’t wear a hat because the sun is shining and she wants to feel it on her head.

“Once I owned the sun,” she says, “no, not owned, I mean once we were friends and we played together all the time. Even when nobody else could see the sun I could because she was my best, best friend. ”

“What happened?” I ask. 

“Hunh?” she asks.

“What happened with the sun? Are you still friends?”

“Of course we are. Can’t you tell?” She throws her head way back so that her face is exposed to even more of the sun's rays.

There’s an ice cream truck up ahead so I reach into my purse for my wallet, but she grabs my hand. “We can do better,” she says. It’s the first time she’s used this expression. I hear my mother’s voice in her; it makes me feel mushy inside, right next to my heart.

“Once,” she says, “there was a man and he wasn’t very nice and he carved an ugly face on a pumpkin, but then a fairy came and she made the pumpkin beautiful and she put the ugly face on the man.”

“That’s only fair,” I say. We stop for the light. 

“I like red,” she says. “Red Bed Dead Said Red Led Wed Fed Red.”

The light changes and we hurry across. We’re holding hands. I give her fingers a little squeeze. I could say something about that one word, dead, but I keep my mouth shut.

“I like green, too,” she says, and she starts to skip in that hop-jump way she has. “Green Bean Seen Mean Teen.” She gives a little laugh. “Teen Teen Teen Teen Teen Teen.” She looks up into my face and says it again. “Teen.” This is her favorite word.

“One day when I grow up I will be a teenager,” she says, for the umpteenth time, and I say, “You surely will, Honey.”

I don’t think she knows any teenagers. Her cousins are eight and three, her babysitter is 54. Still, she knows being a teenager is the best thing in the whole wide world. She tells me this all the time.

“Once,” she whispers, so I have to bend over to hear her, which is very awkward, but I do it, “there was an old lady who lived in a shoe and when she went to sleep at night she had to lace herself in so no one could hurt her, but what do you think happened?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“But what do you think?”

“Did someone come along and steal the shoe with her in it?”

“No, they did not.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll tell you. A magic person found the shoe and sprinkled magic dust inside, in the holes, you know, for the laces, and in the morning when the old lady woke up she was an orange.”

“An orange?” I ask.

“Uh huh. The kind you eat.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask. 

“Yep. But not for an orange.”

“We’re almost home,” I say.

A woman on the other side of the street is walking under a huge striped umbrella. 

“It isn’t raining,” she says. 

“I know.” 

“She is wasting her umbrella.” 

“Yes,” I say, “she is.”

“Once,” she says, “a very silly lady who was also foolish, and had once been an orange, decided she wanted to learn how to fly so she jumped up onto a little bird’s back, but the bird was in a tree and it wasn’t flying that day so the silly lady never learned how to fly. 

Once,” she says, barely taking a breath, “there was a boy and he was very bad and his mommy made him eat nails, and they tasted like,” she pauses for a second to think, “they tasted like dirty nails.”

“Yuck,” I say, “that doesn’t sound so nice.”

“It isn’t nice, because you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t nice. He was — he was throw up.” I know where this is heading. “He was a big fat disgusting stinky blecky ball of throw up.”

“Okay,” I say, “that’s enough.”

“Is it?” she asks.

“Yes, I think it is.”

“I don’t think it is. I think it’s not enough.”

I give her hand a little squeeze and she squeezes mine back and she says, “Okay, it is enough, I guess.”

By now we’re at our corner and she waves to a stranger in the dry cleaning store. Whenever we walk past the dry cleaning store she waves, and if there’s no one to see through the big window she just waves at the window. She loves the dry cleaning store. She tells me every day that her favorite smell in all the world is the smell that's inside the dry cleaning store. I could worry about this, but I decide not to.

There are so many things I could worry about but today I decide not to worry about any of them.

We take the elevator upstairs and leave our sneakers in the hallway by the front door. We slip our feet into slippers. We both love doing this. She loved it first and I learned it from her. 

She runs to the bathroom to pee. I can hear her singing from her perch on the toilet: “Tinkerbell Stinkerbell Honeybell Moneybell Vunderbarbell.” She has a clear, strong voice. She sings very loudly.

I’m preparing two bowls of vanilla ice cream. Baby marshmallows and blue M & M’s go in hers. 

When she comes out of the bathroom we take our bowls to the living room and sit on the couch. Her feet don’t touch the ground. Not even close. For a second the sight of her legs dangling over the edge, in those blue dungarees with the cuffs folded back and the red plaid flannel showing, almost makes me sob. But then I laugh, instead. She wiggles her feet up and down until her fuzzy purple slippers fall off and she laughs, too. 

“This was such a happy day,” I say.

“What happened today?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.