I’M SWEEPING THE FRONT HALL WHEN Lila comes in. The bleach man doesn’t speak to me. He frowns, is all. Guess he can’t even say good morning.
Lila’s hugging a pumpkin in both her arms. The bleach man squints. The steam that puffs out from your lips in cold weather escapes the bleach man’s face.
“Mrs. Weiss?”
“It’s the perfect day for carving a jack-o’-lantern that all the children can enjoy,” she says.
“Mrs. Weiss,” he says, “decorating for Halloween is not your job. You are here to facilitate the children in their daily routines, to make sure they are clean, fed, and free of afflictions such as head lice and ringworm.”
The bleach man always finds something to pick at for no real reason. He’s good with criticism. This never bothers Lila. It seems she can always see it coming and knows how to meet it. Today is no different. She’s looking like there’s something to be happy about.
“Mrs. Weiss, you’ve been employed here as an intake and maintenance worker for just a few months. I knew well enough when I hired you that you had never worked with children in an official capacity. But you seemed very efficient and strong-willed. These are good qualities for keeping children in line, and the reason I thought you’d make a good employee here.” He’s got his eye on Lila’s pumpkin.
“Mr. Sneed, as efficient and strong-willed as I am, the truth is, I love children.”
“But do you have the ability to monitor children?”
“As you have seen, I have a special way with young people.”
The bleach man’s thumbs are tucked at his belt. “Other than your so-called way with young people, can you keep them out of trouble? Do you have any children of your own?”
“I’m not lucky enough to have had children.”
“Then how do you profess to know what it takes to fully supervise young people in an orphanage?”
“Mr. Sneed, when we first met about this job, I never professed to know anything. But I’m very attentive. And children like me.” Lila nods in my direction. She’s right. I like her.
“Mrs. Weiss, this job is not about having kids like you by doing things such as carving pumpkins. Some of the children who come here arrive with emotional problems. Others can be unmanageable.”
“Mr. Sneed, they’re orphans. It would seem to me that they’re in need of someone to—”
“Mrs. Weiss, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a rather, well, portly woman. Do you really think you can continue to handle the demands of this job? Walking two flights of stairs to get from the entrance hall to the dayroom to the central sleeping ward, changing bedsheets, cleaning the latrine, preparing food…”
“Mr. Sneed, I’m handling things just fine. Even the portliest people can climb stairs and cook. And if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Sneed, you could stand to become a bit more portly yourself. There isn’t much meat on your bones.”
I slow my broom to listen better.
“Mrs. Weiss, I find your humor unfavorable.”
“Despite what people say, Mr. Sneed, we portly people aren’t very jolly.”
“Mrs. Weiss, have you taken a close look at the shingle outside? This is the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans. There is little appreciation for wisecracking in an orphanage.”
Lila shifts the pumpkin to rest it on her hip.
“Mr. Sneed, have you taken a look past your shortsightedness? The children here might become more amenable if they’re allowed to have more fun.”
Her eyes are square on me now. So are the bleach man’s. My broom is as still as the air in the room. I have stopped pushing the floor crumbs back and forth. All’s I can do is blink. “You—back to work!” the bleach man snaps.
“What about books and games? Do the children ever read? Does anyone ever read to them? Do they play, Mr. Sneed?”
“Read, Mrs. Weiss? Play?”
“Books, Mr. Sneed. Oliver Twist, The Secret Garden, Alice in Wonderland. And games, such as hopscotch, Simon Says, Chase Your Shadow?”
“Mrs. Weiss, you speak as if this is the Social Club of Elmira.”
“Good grief, Mr. Sneed, you talk like this is a detention home for misbehaved kids. What about interacting with others? Do the kids here ever come into contact with children who aren’t orphans?”
“That’s not advisable, Mrs. Weiss.”
“Mr. Sneed, as far as I can see, any child with no parents has done nothing to deserve bad treatment. No child, whether an orphan or not, should be deprived of a good book, the company of all kinds of children, and some cheerfulness.”
I beg my broom to keep sweeping so the bleach man doesn’t give me a second thought. This is better than Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio. All’s I really want to do is listen.
“Mrs. Weiss, you are tenacious and opinionated. Can you use those virtues to work with the children here in a way that is best for them and for the overall good of Mercy?” Lila sets her pumpkin down on the rickety intake table.
“Mr. Sneed, you’re the one who’s tenacious and opinionated. Can you just trust me enough to let me work with the children who live here in the way I want?”
“Mrs. Weiss, by hiring you, I gave you an opportunity. Please don’t give me reason to regret my generosity.”
“Mr. Sneed, I’ve always been grateful for the chance to work here, especially in these times. I find regret a waste of energy. So I’ll give you no reason to indulge in it.”
I don’t know even half of the big words between Lila and the bleach man. But I know what hopscotch is, and Simon Says. And I sure know what it means to arm-wrestle. Lila’s gone wrist-to-wrist with the bleach man, and she’s won.
The bleach man huffs off. He’s shut his trap for now. Lila sticks out her tongue after him, curling her hand around an army knife, just pulled from her apron pocket.
She spreads pages from the Elmira Star-Gazette at the base of her pumpkin, and waves me over. The pumpkin’s a beauty, perfectly rounded and evenly colored.
Lila pats the stool next to the intake table. I settle beside her.
“That’s some pumpkin,” I say.
“Halloween’s not far off,” says Lila. “The best way to keep spooks away from our doorstep is to present them with a jack-o’-lantern,” she explains.
My eyes are fixed on the pumpkin.
Lila gets right to work. She presses the knife’s tip firmly into the pumpkin’s top to make a jagged circle. As soon as she releases the knife, I’ve got both hands around the pumpkin’s stem. I yank off the lid with a single tug. I’m quick to look down in, eager to get the pumpkin’s surprise.
“Seeds!” I say. “Let’s get the seeds.” And right away we’re taking turns scooping out the stringy globs of pumpkin flesh that are laced with the pumpkin’s goodness. Lila’s brought an empty canning jar for the orange slop.
I slide a cotton hankie from my pants pocket and spread the square of white on the table in front of us. Embroidered initials are stitched onto the corner of the hankie, two proud letters in green: BR.
“What lovely crewel work,” Lila says.
“My ma made it,” I tell her. “It’s all I have left of Ma.”
Lila motions with her chin. “Whose initials are those?”
“Betty Rollins. That was Ma’s name.” I smooth the hankie on the table next to the pumpkin.
“Ma loved dried pumpkin seeds. She used to set them out on the windowsill so they could dry in the sun.” I get to remembering, and it feels good. “Then Ma’d salt the seeds, fold them in her hankie, and bring them when we went to church, so we’d have a snack on the way home. Those salty, crunchy seeds sure are tasty. And the hankie makes them a special little gift.”
We pick the seeds one by one from the jar and set them to dry on the newspaper. There are enough to make a small seed hill.
“We’ll be crunching all day,” I say.
Lila’s holding her army knife with a sure grip. She’s ready to carve the jack-o’-lantern’s face. “The more spiky the teeth, the better,” she says.
I say, “Let’s give his nose a high point.”
Lila sure can carve. I put the lid on the jack-o’-lantern’s head and step back from the table to look. “That pumpkin looks so happy. Who can he scare with a grin like that?”
“He doesn’t look frightening to you?” she asks.
I shrug. “Nope.”
“Not all jack-o’-lanterns are meant to ward off evil, Otis.”
“What are they for, then?”
“Some invite happy spirits.”
I wrinkle my eyebrow. I get to thinking. I ask, “Can this pumpkin invite Daddy and Ma?”
Lila doesn’t answer. She’s quiet, is all, adjusting the pumpkin’s lid. She seems to be thinking, too.
I say, “Daddy had an army knife like that one you’ve got there.” Lila holds the knife out in her palm to give me a better look.
“Daddy could carve all sorts of things—toothpicks from a twig, checker pieces, even wooden whistles,” I say.
Lila sits back in her chair, listening.
My little smile is starting to grow. I like sharing these memories with my friend. “My ma carved our pumpkin every year, then dried the seeds.”
A chuckle finds its way out from me. “Daddy did all the crunching,” I say.
Lila folds her knife and tucks it back in her apron pocket.
Then she does something that sneaks up on me. She takes both my hands in both of her hands and gently keeps them there.
“Good memories are for holding,” she says.