Duvid has been out of jail for a week now, a bleak, endless week. Mitzy and I trudge through the days pretending they’re normal ones, but nothing is even close to normal, and we don’t know if it ever will be. All I can think about is how we may never get home.
At least I had a shorter work day today. Mr. Diemschutz and I went to Penwick Street market, which closes at noon, so now I have the afternoon off. I go straight to Mitzy’s, of course. When I get there her mother lets her take a short walk with me, as far as the nearest vegetable stand.
I’ve got Mrs. Kraskov’s shopping basket on one arm and Mitzy on the other as we head down Berner Street. The afternoon is crisp and breezy, almost cold. It’ll be chilly in the unheated flat tonight, but at least the streets stink a little less in this weather. That’s something, anyway.
We pass a clot of kiddies trying to sell rags and whatnot out of wooden crates. Up ahead, one especially scrawny girl is using a stick to stir what looks like a bucket full of laundry. Next to her lies the crumpled coat rack I once saw hanging out of a window. Another rotten day in the slums.
“It happened again,” Mitzy says.
“What did?”
“This morning in line for the loo.” She clasps the collar of her coat when a gust of wind blows in. “I heard some girls talking about this year’s Swan Upping, and I knew what it meant.”
“What is it?”
“Every summer, they count the swans on the Thames River. Like a census.” She shivers. “Freaked me out.”
We skirt around a broken cart wheel. “Sort of like how I know how to make change for a guinea. I actually know how many shillings are in a guinea. What if I forget how many cents are in a dollar?”
“Or what peanut butter tastes like,” she adds.
“Or what I did for my birthday last year. Or my street address. Or who I am—I mean, who I was.”
“I’ll help you remember who you were.”
“Thanks, Mitz.” I look over at her, at her windblown hair, her nose gone pink in the autumn chill. “But you don’t really know who I was before.”
“Then tell me. Tell me who you were. Tell me what you did for your birthday last year.”
“Um, okay.” This is kind of embarrassing, because I didn’t do anything for my birthday last year. I stayed home, like I always do.
“Abe?” she urges.
“I…uh.”
“Did you already forget?”
“No, I remember.” I readjust the shopping basket on my arm. “My mother made spaghetti and meatballs and cupcakes. Yellow cupcakes with chocolate frosting. We ate dinner, and then I did homework. Doesn’t get much lamer than that,” I admit.
“Oh yes, it does.” She pulls a handkerchief from her coat pocket. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll tell you what I did for mine. I told a fortune teller I wished I never had to lay eyes on another algebra problem again.”
I stop in my tracks. “For real?”
“Happy birthday to me. Oh, are we here?” she asks.
We’re just a couple of steps from the outdoor vegetable stall. “How’d you know?”
“I could smell it. Next thing you know, I’ll be echolocating.” Which sounds an awful lot like giving up hope. I guess I’ll have to hold on to the hope for both of us, for now.
At the stall a man in an apron and derby hat is holding court with a woman who wants to know why the green cabbages look purple. Her little boy is touching all the apples.
“What are we getting again?” I ask.
Mitzy loosens her hold on my arm. “Two onions, half a dozen potatoes, and a beet if they have it.”
“Right.” I put two large yellow onions into the basket. The woman with the cabbage problem points a finger at the vegetable man now, and her voice rises. I lean into Mitzy’s ear. “Looks like this guy could use some rescuing. Think he’s my man?”
“Not funny,” she whispers.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
She’s right, I’m not, because if I can’t find something, anything to laugh at, I’m going to start crumbling. I move on to the potatoes. They all look like they’ve seen better days, or maybe they’ve never seen a good day, but slum dwellers can’t be choosy, so I load six of them into the basket.
Suddenly Mitzy gasps and grabs onto me. I look down to discover a fat tomcat brushing against her skirt.
“It’s just a cat, Mitz.” I don’t tell her the cat has a pigeon in its jaws.
“What color is it?” she asks. “Not black, right?”
“Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.” She doesn’t answer. “It’s not black,” I assure her. “It’s gray, the kind of gray that would probably turn white after a couple of baths, so don’t worry. I don’t see any beets, though.”
We have to wait awhile for the cabbage woman to finish her tantrum, then we pay. As we head back down the road, I ask myself the same question I’ve been asking since Duvid got released. Could I get used to this? If I had to, could I get used to living in this here and now, eating brown bread and cheese every day, eking out a living selling cheap costume jewelry, knowing I’ll never see my parents or school or a hot shower again?
Of course I could. People have lived through a lot worse. I wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t choose it, but I could survive it. After all, my job isn’t horrible. I like my mum. I’m even getting used to herring and black bread. What I couldn’t stand is if Mitzy had to get used to it. If she had to get used to being blind for the rest of her life. Blind and miserable and caged in the room upstairs. As much as I like how we’re friends here, I couldn’t live with that.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” she says.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“I…” I rearrange the vegetables in the basket, stalling for time. “I was thinking about how the Ripper hasn’t struck in a while. Wondering if he’s done now. Wish we could Google it—the date of his last crime.”
Her shoulders rise and fall. “Wish we could phone a librarian.”
“Or watch a History Channel documentary about it.”
“Or go to a museum with an exhibit on Victorian England,” she says.
“Or walk into Mr. Wu’s history class and ask him.”
She tries to laugh, but it comes out like a groan. We don’t talk much the rest of the way back. We don’t talk much while we hang out at her flat, either. It’s another endless afternoon.
And then there’s the night to get through. The night of lying on that sagging bed, looking out at the fog pressed against my window, still thinking. Thinking of what Mitzy and I talked about today, what we didn’t talk about. Of the way she smiles and the way she frowns. Of what it would be like to spend time with her in Fort Pippin. Would she still like me in the then and there?
Finally I roll over and go to sleep because I’ve got a long day of work ahead of me. Another endless day in the here and now.