Seven Stories Up (13 page)

“I’m Annie,” I said. “Who’re you?”

“Geneva.” She didn’t add anything, and she didn’t take her eyes off me.

“Wait, so is this an—” I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Orphanage?” Geneva spat the word out. “Sure is.”

“An orphanage,” echoed Molly beside me.

“That so hard to believe?” asked Geneva.

Molly said, “I just always thought there would be a fence at an orphanage. Like in Dickens. Also—you don’t look hungry.”

I stared at Molly. I couldn’t believe she’d said that, but I had to admit, it was sort of what I’d been thinking too. These girls looked fine to me. Clean clothes, and they seemed happy, with their jacks and their hand claps. Not the way I’d pictured orphans at all.

Geneva shrugged. “Why would they need a fence? They’d be happy if I left. They’d give my spot to the next girl, and I’d be sorry. My folks brought me here for a reason, you know?”

I was confused. “Folks? You mean, you have parents?”

“Not
much
parents,” snorted Geneva. “But Pa would thrash me if I ran off. I’m not hungry
because
I’m here.”

“I don’t understand.” Molly’s eyes were wide. “Your parents
brought
you here? So you aren’t actually an orphan?”

Geneva shrugged. “There were eight of us, a couple too many. Belle has a mom and pop too, right,
Belle
?” She sneered faintly at the girl with the braids sitting in front of me so quietly.

The girl sighed. “My name … it is
Bayla
, not
Belle
.” She said this gently but firmly. I didn’t think she liked Geneva very much. I didn’t think I did either.

Geneva tossed her head, as if to say
“Whatever.”
She stalked off.

“Bayla?” I said, turning back to my new friend. “Am I saying it right?”

She nodded happily. “Is correct.”

“It’s a pretty name,” said Molly. “I’ve never heard it before.
Bayla
.”

“It vas my grandmother’s.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Yes,” said Bayla. She paused a moment, then motioned after Geneva. “It is true, vat she says. My parents, dey are alive, I
tink
.”

“You
think
?” Molly asked. “How can you not know?”

Bayla shrugged. “I’ve not heard from home in two years. Dey sent me to America, to be safe. Only my aunt dat I am living wit, she dies of a fever.” Bayla’s dark eyes were huge. “But I am
not
an orphan. Dey vill come. I know.”

“You came here to be safe?” I asked. “Safe from what?”

She shook her head. “My country. Is bad now. Very bad.”

I wanted to say the right thing, but I had no idea what that might be, or what she meant, really. “I’m sorry,” I offered.

“Is not your fault,” said Bayla. She waved goodbye and turned toward the building. All the girls seemed to be filing inside now.

Molly and I headed slowly back to the street, then walked a few blocks in silence.

“It’s incredible,” Molly said at last. “That they can laugh and play like that. That they can be happy, even though …” Her voice trailed off.

“I wonder,” I said, “what was so bad that Bayla’s parents had to send her away.”

“On the radio they say a war is coming,” said Molly. “In Europe.”

Dim pictures flashed through my mind, muddy gray images of men in uniforms, fighting in trenches. Tanks
rolling through towns. “Oh,” I said. “Yeah. It must be World War Two, huh? That’s awful. I can’t even imagine.”

“World War Two?” Molly stopped walking.

“Yeah, didn’t you already have World War One?”

“I don’t know what that means. Do you mean the Great War?”

“I—I’m not sure.” I didn’t remember much from our world history unit, and anyway, it didn’t seem like something Molly wanted to know about the future. “Either way, it’s sad for Bayla.” I started walking again, away from the conversation.

After another minute Molly cleared her throat. “Annie, I’ve been thinking … do you remember how you asked what would happen if Papa caught us?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Well, I think
that
might be what would happen. That place.”

“You’re nuts,” I said. “He’d never turn you out. Why do you say things like that? Yeesh. Drama queen.”

“Oh, not to me,” Molly said, looking flustered. “To—you.”

“Me?” I stopped walking. “But … 
I’m
not an orphan.”

“I know you have a mother, but she isn’t here now. And those other girls weren’t really orphans either, not the way I think of orphans.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Can we please not talk about this anymore?”

“All right,” said Molly. Then she suddenly jerked her head up, shouted “Hey, hey!” and started waving both hands in the air like a maniac. Moments later a big car, black and boxy, pulled up. The sign on top read
TAXI
.

Molly stepped up onto the running board beneath the passenger side door and looked into the open window. The driver leaned over and stretched an arm across the seat. “Out on your own this sunny morning? Just the two of yous?”

“Yes,” said Molly. “It
is
sunny, isn’t it? The wind is dying down.”

The driver nodded. “Well, then, climb on in. An’ where’ll you be heading?”

“To Fell’s Point,” said Molly, opening the door.

“Fell’s Point?” The driver looked surprised.

“There’s a fair,” said Molly. “We think.”

“Ahh.” He relaxed. “Sure is, an’ I’d be pleased to give yous a ride.” He began to whistle. “It’s just not a place I generally take young ladies.”

Molly held up some paper money. “Is this enough?” she asked. The driver’s eyes grew wide. “By all means,” he said. “Welcome, welcome!”

Molly climbed in and I followed her, settling on the
wide seat, still thinking about the home that wasn’t a home but trying not to. Idly, I ran my finger along the silky black fringe beneath the window. I’d been in taxis a few times, but I’d never seen one like this.

“Neither of us has ever been to Fell’s Point,” chattered Molly. “Is it nice? Is it near the water?”

The driver turned around. “You can’t get much nearer the water,” he said. “But
nice
isn’t quite the word I’d choose. Rough types down by the docks.”

“Oh,” said Molly, sounding worried.

The driver looked back and laughed. “Don’t worry. When the fair comes to town, it’s different. It’s grand!”

In a heartbeat we were speeding along, bumping down the road. There were no seat belts in the car, so Molly and I jounced as we zoomed along a brick street lined with stately homes. I couldn’t ponder anymore, not bouncing and jumping and jerking like that. I couldn’t help laughing. We passed a small park, where some little boys were throwing rocks into a fountain. I craned my neck to see the building above them, a tall white tower with a statue at the top. “What’s that?” I asked.

“Why,
that
is the Washington Monument!” the driver proclaimed.

Then I had a thought. “Sir,” I said, “you seem to know a lot about the city.”

“I’m sort of an expert, it’s true,” he said. “And you can call me Frank.”

“I wonder, Frank, do you know why sometimes it smells like cinnamon?”

“Ahh,” Frank said. “That’s the spice factory, down along the water. Some days the whole city smells like the perfume of the Orient, don’t it?”

“I guess,” I said. “That or an oatmeal cookie.”

Frank laughed. “Fair enough.”

Molly winked at me. “Is it the oldest spice factory in America, by any chance?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I think it is,” said Frank. “Oldest in the nation, tallest too. George Washington slept there hisself, as a matter of fact. Mighty famous, it is.”

“Oooh. And what’s that?” asked Molly as we turned, pointing to a huge gleaming square building with white columns and a grand archway.

“Our new library,” said the man proudly. “Just rebuilt it! My cousin worked on the job. Don’t it have more books than any library in the world? Or my name ain’t Frank Callahan! Over there’s the cathedral, oldest one in the country!”

“Hmm,” I said.

“That’s
quite
impressive,” said Molly.

After that we stared out the window at the world speeding by. Whether or not everything was in fact the biggest and the oldest and the best like Frank seemed to think, there
was
a lot to see. All around were beautiful churches and statues. Then we turned down another street and rumbled through a neighborhood with smaller buildings, littler houses. There were more people on the streets here. We passed tiny storefronts and what looked like warehouses. In one place, a long line of people snaked around a corner.

“Why do you think they’re standing in line?” I asked Molly. “What are they waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly.

Frank heard us and looked over his shoulder with surprise. “They’re waiting for bread, of course,” he said.

“Bread? Is it
that
good, the bread?” asked Molly.

“It’s free,” said Frank. “That’s the best bread of all, for some folks.”

“Oh,” said Molly, sitting back. Her hand crept over her bulging pocket.

From part of yet another history lesson, a picture surfaced in my mind of men in a line, with hats pulled low over their faces, coats tight against the cold.
The Great Depression
, I thought to myself. The Great Depression was happening in 1937. Locked in the hotel, full of
creamed chicken, I hadn’t even considered what was happening outside. Funny how being shut away could make you forget everything else, like being sick for a week and coming back to school. While everyone who could afford to be in the hotel was dancing and drinking and wearing fine clothes, life outside was … different. I was only now getting to see it.

Molly hung over the front seat. “But
why
are those people so poor?” she asked. “Why don’t they get jobs?”

“Well, surely you know it’s been hard times for many.” The driver looked bewildered by Molly’s question. “Hard to find work.”

Molly stammered. “I—I’ve been ill. I don’t go out often. Until just recently.”

“But you’re better now?” asked the driver. “You look fit as a fiddle to me.”

“Yes,” said Molly thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I
am
much better.”

Then the taxi was pulling up to a curb. Quick as a wink, Frank was out of his seat and dashing around to open our door, as though we were royalty. I climbed out as Molly paid him.

“I’d get you closer if I could, but this time of day the market stalls block the road,” said Frank.

“That’s all right,” said Molly. “We don’t mind walking!”

“Hey, girls, I’ll tell you what,” Frank called out as we walked away. “I’ll be back here in this very spot in two hours’ time, or as close to that as I can make it. In case ya need me. Watch the clock.” He pointed to a church tower a few blocks away. “I don’t like the idea of yous girls having no way to get back uptown.”

“Thank you,” said Molly brightly, turning and smiling. “That’s kind of you.”

Frank looked at the money in his hand. “Sure. I’m a kind feller.”

We watched his car disappear, and then we turned around, toward the water. What a sight it was! Down at the end of the street was the harbor, full of men unloading boats onto an old pier. Seagulls soared and screeched. Off in the distance we could just make out the noise and color of the fair, and the Ferris wheel rising above a row of houses.

But between us and the fair was something else—a building a block long, surrounded by stalls and carts and horses and stands. Two stories tall, with great glass windows, it was swarmed on all sides by people selling things.
BROADWAY MARKET
, read the sign above the great doors.

There were fish and fruit and flowers. One man was
hammering at the sole of a shoe while his customer stood waiting on one leg. I saw a dentist pulling a man’s tooth, while right beside him a woman was buying bananas. There were butchers hacking pieces off of animals right there in the street. I watched as one of them swept the extra bits—the ears and tails—into a basket. At the stall beside him, a woman was wringing a chicken’s neck.

“It’s like—” said Molly. “It’s like this is where
everything
comes from.”

But there was something else that struck me about the place, something I couldn’t figure out at first. Something that reminded me of home. At last it hit me. In the hotel, and on all the streets we’d driven past, all the blocks we’d walked, everyone had been
white
. White everywhere.

Here the world was teeming with people speaking different languages, in all kinds of clothes. It was like the breadline. The farther we got from the hotel, the bigger the world felt, and the more I remembered.

Molly was staring every which way to take it all in. “I never
thought
,” she said. “I never knew there was so much out here,
all
of this.” Her eyes were shining. She was smiling. “Oh, Annie—it’s like from a story. But bigger than a story. It’s been here all this time. I never knew.”

As we headed away from the market, toward the fair, the smells and the sounds began to change. Music drowned the market noise, and the odor of fish was replaced with the scent of popping corn and burnt sugar. My steps grew quicker. We sped through the rows of houses. Then I noticed something. “Look at those!” I said, pointing.