Chapter 7

Mr. Linaberry came around the corner of the house with a grocery bag in his arms. “Hello, you.”

“Hello, Mr. Linaberry.” I unlocked the porch door that led upstairs to our apartment. He followed me up the stairs. “Did you want something?” I said, over my shoulder. I tried not to sound anxious. He’d never done this before! I searched my mind for anything the kids had done lately.

“The mama mentioned she needed some things,” he mumbled and, in the kitchen, he put the grocery bag down on the table. “Some groceries and things.”

Now he was doing our grocery shopping? I was so stunned, I didn’t even say thank you. “How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing now.”

I took out my wallet. I had twelve dollars. I held it out. “Is this enough?”

“Not now. Not now.” He flapped his hands, like pushing me away. “I’ll settle with the mama later.”

Every time he said the mama, my skin jumped. At least he didn’t hang around. When it was time to feed the kids supper, the bag was still on the table. I didn’t even want to touch it.

“Where’d all this stuff come from?” Chris said, peering in. I told him. “Mr. Linaberry gave this to us? Wow!”

“He didn’t give it to us, Chris, he just bought it for Mom. People don’t give us things.” I glanced at the clock. Mom usually got home from work around seven. Was she going to come in alone or with Mr. Linaberry?

“We launched a helium balloon at school today,” Wilma said. “It was a special day, wasn’t it, Chris?”

“Yeah,” Chris said. He had a bicycle painted on his cheek. Wilma had a heart on hers.

“Do you want to know why we launched a helium balloon, Emily?” Wilma said. “It was for books. We’ve been reading all month, and we put a big card on it with everybody’s name and favorite book and a note to whoever finds the balloon to send the card back to us. Are you listening, Emily?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Miss Perry says last year her class got the card back from Houston, Texas.”

“My teacher said once he got a card—” Chris began.

“I’m telling this, Chris,” Wilma said. “You eat, then you can talk. I wrote on my part of the card, ‘Wilma Boots. The Trouble with Thirteen, by Betty Miles.’ Did you ever read it, Emily?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you like it?”

“Wilma, I’m the one who told you it was a great book.”

“You did not. I found it myself. I found it in the library, and it’s my favorite book.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why do you keep saying uh-huh? Uh-huh is boring!”

I took my dish to the sink. “I’m trying to think, Wilma.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing …”

“Nothing means you don’t want to tell me.”

The breakfast dishes had been soaking all day. I pulled the plug and watched the greasy water gurgle down the drain. I wished I could wash away my thoughts as easily. I didn’t like Mr. Linaberry, and I didn’t like this Mr. Linaberry thing with Mom. But what could I do about it? Put frogs in his bed? Sure, Emily. How about putting on a sheet and haunting his house? Fab. Are there more stupid thoughts where those came from?

Maybe I could call my father and discuss it with him. That wasn’t juvenile, but it was just as ridiculous as the frog and ghost thoughts. Should I talk to Mom? But what could I say—that I didn’t like her choice of friends? Maybe the best thing would be to go to the source, right to Mr. Linaberry, and tell him to stay away from Mom. Great. And have him get mad at us and put us out on the street.

I sprinkled cleanser all around and scrubbed the sink. Around and around I scrubbed. Just like my thoughts about Mr. Linaberry and Mom … around and around … and around …

I thought I had made it clear to Chris about the groceries, but the moment Mom walked in, he greeted her with, “Mom! Mr. Linaberry gave us a whole bag of stuff. Wait ’til you see.”

“Chris, what did I tell you?” I yelled. “We’re going to pay Mr. Linaberry. Tell him, Mom.”

Mom started taking out the groceries. “Oh, wonderful.” She stacked cans of salmon in the cupboard. “What a help this … Emily? Is everything …”

“Everything’s fine. The kids ate their supper. I put the mail on the TV. The electric bill came. Nobody called. Mr. Linaberry brought the groceries up.” I stared at her. “Why did you ask him to do that? I could have done the shopping for you.”

“You do so much already, Em,” Mom said, “and he has the truck. Such a sturdy little truck,” she said in a fond voice, as if anything of Mr. Linaberry’s was wonderful. It was too much for me.

“Mom!” I drew in a breath and plunged in. “I don’t want to be mean about this, but I honestly don’t get what you see in Mr.—”

“We had macaroni for supper again,” Wilma complained, interrupting me. “Will you tell Emily not to make macaroni all the time, Mom? This is important! I want to have other things. I’ll throw up if I have to have macaroni again.”

“For someone who hates macaroni, you scarfed it down,” I said.

“Shut up, Emily. Butt out of my private talk to Mom.”

Mom put away the last of the groceries. “Isn’t Mr. Linaberry good to do this? I mentioned that I needed … but I never thought he’d …”

Wilma went around the side of the table and knocked into me. “Me Tarzan, you monkey puke.”

“Very mature,” I said. “Mom, I want to talk to you—”

“Please, girls,” Mom said. “Don’t start … I just got home … and all day it’s been …” She sighed and took Wilma into her arms for a kiss. “Emily … Wilma … keep the peace, okay?”

“What did I say?” I was suddenly really upset that Mom hadn’t even noticed when I tried to have a serious talk with her. And now she was putting Wilma and me in the same breath, as if we were the same age.

“Well, I should go down and pay Mr. Linaberry,” Mom said.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “How much is it?”

Mom touched me on the shoulder. “Thank you, darling.” But then she went out the back door and downstairs herself.

I got my books and sat down at the kitchen table and tried to study. Bunny phoned, and we talked for a while. When I hung up, I looked at the clock. Mom’s routine—I mean, before Mr. Linaberry started showing up in her life—had always been to take a shower as soon as she got home from work. After that she’d get into her old flannel robe and soak her feet in a pan of hot water while she read the newspaper and drank a cup of tea. Then she’d have supper. She always said doing things that way made her feel human again after working in the hospital all day.

Well, how did she feel now? Like a monkey? She was still downstairs. No shower yet. No foot soak. No cup of tea. No supper. I looked at the clock once more. She’d been gone over an hour. How long did it take to hand over a few dollars?