Chapter Nineteen

By the time we got out of school the snow had stopped.

My father was right.

“I wonder if Mr. Richards will have to shovel any of this,” Al said. “I should think those lazy old tenants could do a little work themselves. Mr. Richards is much too fine a man to be at their beck and call. You know something?”

Al stuck her hands on her hips and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“No. What?” I said.

“Mr. Richards is a prince. He is the nicest man I know. Outside of Mr. Keogh.”

“How about my father?” I asked. “I thought you liked my father a lot.”

Al got red. “Yes,” she said, “I do. He is great. And for that matter, how about my father?” She sounded like Teddy does when he is looking for a fight, which is a lot of the time.

“I don’t know your father,” I said. “But from his picture I would say he would be nice, very nice. I like his eyebrows.”

Al turned and started walking again. “Don’t forget,” she said, “Just don’t forget that Mr. Keogh and your father have perfectly good wives and families.”

I nodded. “That is true.” Mr. Keogh’s wife has a little baby boy. I have seen pictures of him and if he had a bow tie on he’d look just like Mr. Keogh.

Al walked very fast. I had a hard time keeping up.

“Mr. Richards has no one. He is all alone. That is very important.”

By this time we were practically running.

“He doesn’t seem to mind,” I said finally, when I could get my breath. “He never seems to be lonely.”

Sometimes I think that Al does not remember that I have known Mr. Richards a lot longer than she has. I have never said this to her but I think it. She acts kind of uppity about Mr. Richards sometimes, like she discovered him or something.

“That’s all you know.” Al narrowed her eyes so they were little slits, like Mr. Richards’s. “That’s all you know.”

When we got out at our floor I asked Al if she wanted to come in for a snack. Practically every day we go to my house for a snack on account of Al’s mother doesn’t believe in snacks.

“No,” she said. “Thanks, but I am cutting down on snacks. That and I want to see if there’s a letter or anything from my father. I am sort of expecting to hear from him today.”

“Did you check the mail?” I asked.

“I forgot,” Al said. “I will drop off my books and go back and check.”

“O.K.” I said. “I think my mother made brownies, if you change your mind.” I could smell them. As a matter of fact, I could almost see the smell coming out from under the door. The way it does in the funny papers. Big waves of smell. It is a nice thing to come home to.

“How was your day?” my mother asked. One thing about my mother, she is usually glad to see me. Not always, but usually.

“Pretty good,” I said. “Can I have a brownie?”

“One,” she said. “Did I hear you talking to Al?”

“She went back to check the mail. She expects to hear from her father today. He is coming to see her soon.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

I heard the elevator stop and I went to the door.

“Did you get a letter?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Maybe that means he is on a plane right now and will just call you up,” I said. “He’s probably just about over our heads right now,” I said, and sure enough, we could hear an airplane going over very low, getting ready to land. We live pretty near the airport and get so used to the noise we don’t even think about it.

“Maybe,” she said.

“How about a brownie?” I asked. “My mother just made them.”

“No offense,” Al said, “but I am not in the mood right now. And I am on a diet.”

She fished around for her front-door key. “I am going to wash my face and brush my teeth and fix my hair,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, “that way you will be all ready for when your father calls.”

“No,” she said, “I thought it might be fun if we went to see Mr. Richards.”

“Oh, all right,” I said. We never get dolled up for him, I felt like saying. He is not the kind of person who expects people to get dolled up. I was about to say this to Al when she said, “I’ll stop by for you when I’m ready,” and went into her apartment.

“Did Al hear from her father?” my mother asked.

“Not today,” I said.

Mr. Richards was not there when we arrived, so we sat down to wait. He came in about five minutes later.

“Had to put ashes on that ice out by them garbage pails,” he said. “Well, ladies, tell me about yourselves. How was your dinner date?” he said to Al. “You give ’em the air pollution stuff?”

“They thought it was great,” she said. “We had a nice time. I had crepes suzette. You know what they are?”

“You bet,” Mr. Richards said. “Them little pancakes you light up. I never had ’em myself but I used to work in a classy restaurant where they had ’em. Always wanted to try ’em for myself.”

We looked at each other.

“Why not?” Al said.

“Well”—he got out a frying pan—“I’ll give it a whirl, but I don’t know. I’m more of a flapjack man myself.”

We watched while he threw some flour, eggs, milk, and sugar into a bowl and sizzled some butter in the pan. When he had a stack of about six cakes he put two on each plate.

“How do you get it to flame up?” Al said.

“I reckon brandy,” Mr. Richards said. “I keep a bottle of brandy for toothache. I’ll pour a mite on and set a match to ’em and we’ll see what we get.”

He put a tiny bit of brandy on top of each cake and lit them. They flamed up pretty well.

Mr. Richards took the first bite.

“I’ll take mine with maple syrup any day,” he said. “What say, ladies? You agree?”

Al said, “Delicious,” but she couldn’t help making a face and we wound up throwing the rest in the garbage.

“Stick to flapjacks and you can’t go wrong,” Mr. Richards said. I agree.