De Angel and De Bow Wow

At night, as a small girl lying in her narrow bed, rain or snow streaking the window, Bibi heard her mother and her mother’s best friend, Zenetta of the big red arms, talking in the kitchen. She heard the clink of their cups, her mother’s deep voice, and Zenetta’s loud laugh. Outside she heard dogs barking and the ambulance screaming up to the hospital; and in the apartment next door the neighbors singing; and in the little dark front room her grandfather, a thin old man who wore high-top shoes all year round, talking back to the TV. “Basta! Don’t know what your face is saying!”

Zenetta worked in the Christopher Bakery and always brought a bag of day-old rolls and bread. She had a husband and twin girls and knew everything going on everywhere on Greene Street. It was Zenetta who told them that Ed Wixner, the shoe repairman, went into the hospital for appendix and found out he had cancer. Zenetta who told them every time Mrs. Lillian’s smart lawyer daughter came to visit. And Zenetta who knew first who was getting married, who was dying, and who was going crazy behind the walls of their house.

Even before Bibi knew Celia or Jimmy, Zenetta brought their names into her mother’s kitchen. Celia was “that gorgeous little Vronsky girl, never says a word. You ever see such big blue eyes?” As for Jimmy DeAngelo and his mother, it seemed to Bibi that Zenetta knew everything there was to know about them. Not only because (according to Zenetta) Mrs. DeAngelo talked constantly about her beautiful Jimmy, but also because they lived in a little run-down place right next door to the Christopher Bakery. Mrs. DeAngelo, Zenetta reported, liked this house because it had a driveway where she could park her white Caddy. Almost everyone else with cars on Greene Street had to park in the road. Mrs. DeAngelo also liked this house because it was cheap rent.

Mrs. DeAngelo worked in Autolite and made good money, but, Zenetta said, preferred putting it on Jimmy’s back instead of into the pocket of a fat landlord. “That boy is the best-dressed kid around. Nothing but fifty-dollar sweaters for him. You know she’s got another one, older boy, out in San Diego? She don’t care two piffles about him. Not one red cent does that one get out of her.”

“Doesn’t seem right, a mother not loving her kids the same,” Bibi’s mother said.

“Doesn’t,” Zenetta agreed. “Now, me, I can’t choose between the twins. Sometimes can’t even tell the difference between them. He”—this was the way she referred to her husband at all times—“can’t ever tell the difference.” But talking about her own family was never as agreeable to Zenetta as talking about others. She went back to the DeAngelos. “That older boy, he cleared out so soon as he was sixteen. Whoosh! He was gone.”

In her bedroom Bibi heard her mother sigh. “Life ain’t easy.”

“Yeah,” Zenetta answered, “but it’s all we got.” And then the two of them laughed together in such a jolly manner that Bibi knew that what she wished for more than anything in the world, more even than a doctor kit or a Barbie doll, was also to have a best friend.

In kindergarten she met Celia Vronsky when they were put next to each other in the Listening Circle because of their names. First came Andrew, then Bibi. Next Celia, then David, and so on. That was the way Bibi learned her alphabet—Andrew Bibi Celia David, but then the Listening Circle jumped to Frankie, and she always did have to stop a moment and put the E in there between the D and the F.

Every day for the first week they were in kindergarten, Celia cried her heart out. Just sat in her chair in the Listening Circle or stood next to the big red blocks or near the door, crying. One day Miss Loden said, “Celia Vronsky, if you don’t stop crying, I’m going to put you in the cloakroom and close the door.” Celia cried harder. Bibi, who didn’t like the dark cloakroom, said, “Miss Loden, don’t you do that!”

Miss Loden had black hair in a big puff on top of her head. “Bibi Paladino, you’ll be next if you talk to me like that.”

Miss Loden didn’t scare Bibi, but she thought if Celia had to go in the cloakroom she’d never, ever stop crying. She whispered, “If Miss Loden puts you in the cloakroom, I’ll go in, too.” And she squeezed Celia’s damp hand. After that she was the only one who could get Celia to stop crying.

Everything about the two girls was different. Sometimes, as they got older, Bibi said, “You and me make just one perfect person.” Because she had all the nerve and Celia had all the looks: a delicate blond girl with eyes like blue fish. She was so beautiful that Bibi often wanted to put her arm around her friend out of sheer admiration and joy, but Celia would stiffen and look frightened. “I don’t like to be touched,” she explained once.

“We’re sure vice and versa,” Bibi said. She loved hugging and jumping around and kissing. Her grandfather was always calling to her mother, “Marie, stop this skinny little devil.” In the morning Bibi would grab the old man and kiss him and nuzzle his neck. “Oooh, Grandpa, I like the way you smell.” And evenings, if her mother wasn’t too tired, she’d sit down in the front room with the TV on and Bibi would sit in her lap. Even when she got to be a pretty big girl, Bibi would still sit in her mother’s lap to watch TV.

Bibi and Celia played all the usual games—jacks, potsy, king-of-the-hill, red rover, and their own private games, too. They’d play What-do-you-wish-for-most-in-the-world? Celia would say, “I want to live someplace quiet and nice, have my own house, and people have to knock on the door to get in.”

Bibi would say, “I want to go places, and see everything, and have all the money, and buy clothes and furniture and all the stuff I want.”

When they were nine years old, they made a pact. “Let’s never get married, Bibi,” Celia said.

“It’s okay with me.”

“You gotta swear.”

“I swear,” Bibi said.

“You swear on your life?”

“I swear on my life.”

“You won’t ever forget?” Celia said.

Bibi shook her head.

“Say it,” Celia said.

“I won’t ever forget.” Later, when she was a little older and dreamed about getting married in a long white gown, she didn’t want to tell Celia.

“Were you a beautiful bride?” Bibi asked her mother.

“Sure,” Marie said, “and your father was as handsome as a movie star.” Their wedding picture was right on top of the TV in a gold-leaf frame. “I wish you knew your father, honey,” Marie said. “He was a sweet, sweet boy.”

Bibi’s mother almost got married once more. She met Red when he came to fix the drying machines in the WE-R-FAST CLEANERS where Marie worked. Red told her jokes and funny stories, took her to the movies and once to dinner at The Clamshell. The next week he came to dinner at their house. He called Bibi “Bibi Biscuits” and gave her fifty cents. Pretty soon he was coming to eat with them almost every night.

“Geez,” Bibi told Celia, “he’s got red hair and freckles all over. I bet he’s even got red hair on his butt.”

“You’re crazy, Bibi,” Celia said, and she laughed so hard she got the hiccups.

Bibi liked Red’s jokes and how much he made her mother laugh. But after a while some of his jokes didn’t seem that funny. He’d come in, wipe his feet on the kitchen mat, look at Bibi, shake his head a long time, and say, “Now, who’s this ugly kid? What’s she doing here?” Once, in a low voice, he said, “You’re creepy-looking.” Bibi couldn’t be sure if she really heard him say that, because the next moment, in a honey voice, he said, “Supper ready, Marie?”

“Not yet, Red.”

“Okay, I’ll go clean up.” Every night Red went into the bathroom, stayed there for maybe an hour. Grandpa’s bladder wasn’t so good, he had to pee a lot, and he’d hang around the bathroom door, knocking now and then. “You going to stay in there all night?” A while later, another knock. “Somebody else here needs to use the place.”

“Hang on to your pants, old man!”

Right then Bibi’s mother would bang down a pot lid or slam a cupboard door. She’d be in the kitchen fixing something good to eat, wearing her old yellow sneakers with the toes poking through. As soon as Red came out, she’d say, “You think that’s a nice way to talk to an old man?”

“He bugs me,” Red whined.

“That’s my father, and you’re gonna respect him. Don’t forget, this is my house.”

“You tell the bum, Marie,” Bibi’s grandfather yelled from the bathroom.

One night at the table Red started talking about what a funny-looking kid Bibi was, just kept talking like that, not noticing how Bibi’s mother and grandfather were giving him evil looks. “Marie, you’re a big, good-looking woman. How’d you ever get a skinny, ugly kid like this Bibi?” The grandfather slapped him on the side of the head. Red yelled. Bibi’s mother yelled louder. After that Red didn’t come back.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Bibi’s mother said to Zenetta.

And Celia told Bibi, “You’re lucky he’s gone. You don’t want to have a stepfather. Like me.”

“Why not?” Bibi said. But that was all Celia would say about it. But Red had been right about one thing. Bibi was skinny, and there was nothing pretty or pleasing about her pinched-up little penny of a face, the eyes set too close, the nose too big. Sometimes, in school, the boys made elephant noises when they passed her. And once, in the cafeteria, a whole tableful of boys had gagged at sight of her.

“How come I’m not pretty?” she asked her mother.

“Who cares about pretty?” Marie said. “You got spirit. You got something better than pretty.” And she spit out of the side of her mouth to show Bibi what she thought about pretty.

“Celia’s pretty,” Bibi said. “She’s beautiful.”

“Celia’s always crying,” her mother said.

“Not so much, anymore,” Bibi said loyally. The older Celia got, the prettier she’d become. In the streets people were always looking at her and smiling. Teachers made her their favorite, and boys didn’t leave her alone. But Celia would bite her fingers and say, “They don’t know me, Bibi. You’re the only one I love. The only one I can talk to.”

Bibi and Celia agreed they didn’t care about that pretty/homely stuff. They just liked being together.

The fall they were both eleven, the Parks Department put on a Halloween Fair in Greene Street playground. There were booths, prizes, games, and races. The first thing they saw was a banner: SIGN HERE FOR BEAUTY CONTEST. “Celia, you gotta enter,” Bibi said.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” And Celia started biting her fingers.

“You gotta, ’cause you would win.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t say it, Bibi.”

“Maybe you’d win five dollars,” Bibi argued. But when she saw how upset Celia was, she relented. “Never mind, we’ll do something else.” And to make Celia laugh, she said, “I’ll go skin up the greased pole.”

Just then a boy ran into Bibi and thumped her hard on the back. “Clumsy turkey, David Kowalski,” Bibi yelled after him. “I’ll knock your block off.” Then another boy ran by her, looked at her, and barked. More boys ran by, laughing and barking at her. “Bow wow! Bow wow!”

Celia found the piece of paper stuck on Bibi’s back. I’M A DOG. BARK IF YOU AGREE. Celia’s face got red and she started to rip the paper.

“Hey, gimme that,” Bibi said. Her belly felt as if she’d just eaten a piece of her grandfather’s stinky cheese. She stuck the sign square on her chest.

“What’re you doing?” Celia said.

“It’s my sign,” Bibi said, and she spit out of the corner of her mouth.

Celia’s lips wobbled. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah, I guess I am, just crazy old Bibi,” Bibi agreed, and she wore the sign the whole time they were at the fair. I’M A DOG. BARK IF YOU AGREE.

One of the boys that had barked at her was Jimmy DeAngelo, who lived down the street with his mother, next to the Christopher Bakery. Half the girls in school were in love with Jimmy, a boy with long-lashed dark eyes and good manners. Girls clustered around him in school and hung around outside his house, looking around and laughing a lot. Celia and Bibi talked about Jimmy, too. “Do you think he’s conceited?” “Do you think he’s stuck-up?”

They had a secret name for Jimmy—De Angel. Bibi said to Celia, “You and De Angel have to get together.”

“Oh, no, not me,” Celia cried.

Then they’d play a game, man and woman, and take turns being De Angel. When it was Celia’s turn to be De Angel, she’d touch her fingers to Bibi’s and say, “Oh, Bibi, I adore you, do you want to marry me?”

Bibi, on cue, would answer, “Jimmy De Angel, I promised my best friend I would never get married.” Celia would then be caught between a frown in her role as De Angel and a smile, as herself, at Bibi’s answer. And Bibi couldn’t resist adding, “But, my lovely De Angel, we can still have fun together.” When it was her turn to be De Angel, she’d put her arms around Celia, but very lightly, very carefully, so as not to make her nervous, and say, “Oh, Celia, you are so beautiful and I am so handsome, we are like two movie stars, ain’t it true we make the perfect couple?”

Celia’s answer never varied. “Jimmy De Angel, I don’t care to get married to any man!”

By now Bibi knew that Celia’s stepfather, whom her mother finally kicked out, used to bother Celia. Bibi was the only person who knew this. Celia had sworn her to silence. They had taken a blood oath: jabbed needles into their fingers and mixed their blood.

All through junior high and into high school they remained best friends. Sometimes, after they’d talked on the phone for an hour or two, Marie would say, “I don’t know what you’d do without Celia, Bibi.”

The summer they were sixteen, Celia and Bibi worked at K mart and saved their money, going to the bank to deposit together every Friday. They agreed that as soon as they had enough money they’d take a trip to either Mexico or Alaska, whichever one Bibi decided on. Then they’d save some more money and buy a house and live in it together. Celia’s mother had married again, and although her new stepfather was okay, Celia still thought about having her own place. “Promise you’ll come live with me, Bibi.”

“I don’t hafta promise. Who else would have me?” Bibi laughed. She always laughed when she said things like that. At sixteen Celia was more beautiful than she’d ever been, while Bibi was just as skinny and just as plain. Ugly was her secret word for herself, but she couldn’t say that around her mother or Celia without their yelling at her.

Every day that summer they took the bus downtown to work, and every night they took it home. Bibi studied maps and Celia, biting a pencil, checked out the real-estate ads and furniture sales. Neither one spent money on anything, aside from a few movies. They planned to continue working when school started, and agreed that if anyone wanted to give them birthday presents, from now on it should be money to add to their trip and house fund.

Then, right after the summer, the week before school started, Celia’s family moved to Alaska, where Ted, her stepfather, had a new job on the pipeline. Nobody had even told Celia they were going to move. “They’re leaving right away and I have to go with them.” Celia was crying so hard, nothing Bibi said could stop her. Three days later she was gone.

It was as if someone had suddenly stuck Bibi in a box. Cut off her air. Locked her in. There was a pain in her chest. She wanted to drop out of school, but Marie asked her to stick it out for a while. “You’ll make another friend,” Marie said.

It rained all through September. Rained all through October. The newspaper said it was the wettest September and October in history. In November it turned cold. Bibi didn’t care about the weather. She had stopped crying, went back and forth to school, and worked weekends at K mart. But the pain in her chest was still there.

One morning, when she got out of bed, she looked out the window and saw the telephone lines sagging with ice. Up and down Greene Street, cars were coated with ice, tree limbs had snapped, and the sidewalk was as sleek and smooth as a skating rink. Bibi wondered if this was what Alaska was like. Everything was closed down—schools, shops, and stores. Her mother didn’t go in to work; they all stayed in the kitchen, listening to the radio and eating fried tomatoes and eggs.

Zenetta came over later, sat down at the table, folded her big red arms, and said, “Did you hear? Did you hear about poor Mrs. DeAngelo? I found her.” Despite the storm, Zenetta had been on her way to work. Inching along the slick sidewalk, she had almost passed the DeAngelos’ little house when she saw something lying in the driveway next to the white Caddy. “At first, I thought it was a dog, something like that. Wasn’t even gonna stop, it was so slippery.” When she investigated, she found Mrs. DeAngelo, half under the car, still wearing her robe and slippers, her head cracked open. The ambulance came, but even though the hospital was just down the street, it was too late. “I bet she went outside to check on her car,” Zenetta said. “Make sure the storm hadn’t damaged it. Slipped on the ice, and that was it.” Zenetta snapped her fingers.

The service for Mrs. DeAngelo at Meekham’s Funeral Home was crowded with kids who had graduated with Jimmy the previous year and with neighbors. Jimmy’s older brother, a skinny man wearing glasses and a frown, had flown in from California.

All through the service Jimmy cried. Afterward everyone went up to him and said something. When Bibi’s turn came, she said, “Geez, Jimmy, I’m sorry for your loss,” and she squeezed his hand. He looked at her with wet black eyes. What a face, she thought, a little ashamed to be so frivolous on such a sad occasion. To make up for it, she squeezed his hand harder and said, “Don’t you worry, Jimmy, you got lots of friends.”

“Thanks, Bibi,” he said, “but nobody could be a friend like my mother.” And again his eyes filled. It just about broke Bibi’s heart, the same way she used to feel when Celia’s eyes blurred with tears.

A few days later, passing Jimmy’s house on the way home from school, Bibi thought, If Celia was here we’d go right in and cheer up Jimmy, tell him some jokes or things. She’d heard Zenetta talking to her mother, saying how Jimmy hadn’t set foot outside his house since the funeral. “I wonder what will become of the poor boy,” Zenetta said. “How can he get along on his own? You know, his mother did everything for him.”

Bibi kept walking, but now that she’d started thinking about Jimmy she couldn’t stop. Felt sorry for him and, well, something else, too. Wasn’t she the only one who could ever stop Celia from crying? Cheer her up? Make her laugh? Bibi had a funny thought, then. God made some people like Jimmy and Celia—so beautiful you didn’t want to stop looking at them. And then He made some people like her—monkey-faces. Maybe it was all for a good reason—like the monkeyfaces had to be matched up with the angel-faces.

The next day she walked right up the narrow walk to the DeAngelos’ front door and knocked, loud and cheerful. After a couple of minutes Jimmy opened the door. At first Bibi was scared he didn’t recognize her. Then he said, “Oh, Bibi. Hello.” He looked bad, stains on his shirt and his beard growing in, in patches.

“Hey, can I do anything to help you out?” Bibi said.

“What?” Jimmy was smoking and he had a dazed look.

Bibi glanced past him into the house. What a mess. Clothes all over—she saw a pair of dirty socks right on the table—crusty dishes on the windowsill and the floor, dustballs everywhere, and the whole house didn’t smell too good.

“Hey, Jimmy,” she said, “your mother didn’t keep house like this, I bet. Let me help you clean up a little.” She walked right in, almost laughing when she thought that Celia always did say she had all the nerve.

Jimmy sank down into a chair and stared as Bibi started picking up stuff. She piled dishes in the sink, dumped cigarette butts into the garbage, swept the floor, and opened a window to air out the place. “How about picking up your clothes, Jimmy?” she said. “Put them in the hamper or something.” He nodded and got up. “What’d you eat today?” she asked. Except for sour milk and a piece of moldy salami, the refrigerator was empty. In the cupboard Bibi found a can of clam chowder, heated it, and cooked a pot of noodles.

“Come on, sit down.” She poured the soup into a bowl and set the buttered noodles in front of Jimmy. “Dig in,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “You gotta eat, Jimmy.” Her tone was frank and friendly, just the way she’d always talked to Celia. Jimmy just sat there, looking like he was a war victim.

“I guess you miss her a lot,” Bibi said.

“You want to know something? The morning she went out—to check the car? She left me a glass of fresh orange juice. Not the frozen kind, she never used that. She squeezed it fresh for me, every morning, before she did anything else.”

“She took good care of you,” Bibi said.

“She understood me,” he said. “It wasn’t just the orange juice. She always understood me. And now I’m so ashamed.” His eyes watered.

“Hey,” Bibi said, “you got nothing to be ashamed of, Jimmy. You were a good son.”

“No,” he said. “I never told her how much I loved her.”

A couple of days later Bibi went over again, cleaned up things, and cooked Jimmy a meal. She got into the habit of dropping in after school, cooking supper, then sitting around talking to Jimmy about his mother and work. Just before his mother died, Jimmy had been laid off his job in Highgate Motor Sales. “They said I was one of the best salesmen they ever had, Bibi.”

“I believe that, Jimmy.”

“But they had to lay off someone, and I was low man on the totem pole.”

“You’ll get another job, Jimmy.”

“That was a good job, wish I had that one again.”

“Maybe they’ll call you back. I bet they will!”

Sometimes they played cards or watched TV. One thing Jimmy especially liked was when Bibi read the newspaper to him while he ate supper. His mother used to do that. They’d laugh over Ann Landers, check out the letters to the editor, and talk about which movies were playing.

Jimmy was looking better, shaved, and wearing clean jeans and one of his V-necked wool sweaters when Bibi came over. Sometimes she ate supper with him. He always asked her, but usually she refused, because her mother expected her for supper, too. All day in school Bibi would plan what she was going to cook for Jimmy and think about the things they’d talk about. It made the dull hours pass and helped her forget how much she still missed Celia.

Bibi was a good cook. She’d been standing at Marie’s elbow in the kitchen since she was a little girl. Jimmy went crazy over the way she cooked chicken with pineapple juice and tarragon. “Not to be disrespectful to my mother,” he said one day, “but you beat her at cooking, hands down.”

“Hey, I gotta do something good to make up for this mug,” Bibi said.

“Looks don’t matter,” he said, and he gave her a hug.

“They don’t matter if you got ’em,” she said with a big laugh. Jimmy still had his arm around her waist. “Jimmy, you remember when those kids put that sign on me at the Halloween Fair? ‘I’m a dog, bark if you agree.’”

“I don’t remember that,” Jimmy said.

“Well, I do,” Bibi said.

That night she wrote Celia a letter. “Ain’t life funny? You in Alaska, and me friends with De Angel. If you were here, it would be perfect.”

A few days later, when she walked into Jimmy’s house, she found him lying on the couch, feeling bad. “I got to thinking about my mother.” Bibi patted his face and his head. “Jimmy, you’re gonna be okay. Listen, Jimmy, she’s in Heaven now.” She made him get up and wash his face, while she cooked supper for him. She’d brought a pint of his favorite French vanilla ice cream.

Later, it came out that he was blue for another reason, too. No money. The rent was due. The Caddy people were coming to take away the car. He’d already missed two payments.

“Do you think your brother would help you?”

“He doesn’t care if he never sees me again. Lucky he came for my mother’s funeral. I need a job, Bibi.” For a couple weeks now, Jimmy had been looking for work.

“No luck today?” Bibi said. “Where’d you go?”

“McPharry’s, that furniture place on the boulevard.”

“You’d be some good furniture salesman, Jimmy.”

“I wouldn’t mind selling furniture at all.”

“Maybe I can help you out,” Bibi said. “I got money saved from the summer—”

“I couldn’t take your money.”

“Sure, you could. It’s just sitting in the bank. You can pay me back when you get a job.”

“Bibi, you’re the best,” Jimmy said, and he got up and hugged her and told her she was the only person left who cared about him. And before you know it, he was kissing her.

Geez! Bibi thought, I’m in heaven! And remembering how she and Celia used to play kissing De Angel, she couldn’t help laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Jimmy said. “Don’t you like the way I kiss?”

Bibi could see he was getting upset. “I got a fault of always laughing at the wrong time,” she said. “The way you kiss, it’s heaven.”

Then they kissed some more, and when they stopped to get their breath, Jimmy said, “Bibi, let’s get married. I want to get married to you. You’re the nicest girl I know.”

Bibi couldn’t even speak, just nodded okay. And they kissed again on the cheeks and on the mouth, and they were hugging and kissing so hard they lost their balance and fell down on the floor. And then they were both laughing something awful, and Bibi knew she’d never been so happy.

Going home, she was still in a daze. Me and Jimmy De Angel! But at home, when she looked in her mirror, she got sober fast. No, oh, no, this couldn’t be De Angel’s future wife. She didn’t feel sorry for herself, just saw that she was what she was. Loved De Angel too much to think of him marrying Bibi Bow Wow.

She went there the next day as usual, cleaned up, and cooked a Spanish omelet and Pillsbury biscuits, and happened to notice one thing about Jimmy’s manners. He used his biscuit to wipe up his plate. “When should we get married?” he said.

Bibi had planned all day what to say. “Jimmy, you don’t have to do that. I release you,” she said, a bit grandly. (She had heard that on TV.)

“You don’t want to?” he said, his fork freezing in the air.

“Just because you said it yesterday, I ain’t going to hold you to it, Jimmy.”

“You don’t want to?” he said again.

“Oh, I want to.”

“Well, so do I,” he said.

Her mother didn’t want to give permission. She said Bibi should wait until she was eighteen. “You don’t want to have a baby so young, honey.”

“I’ll wait for the baby,” Bibi said. And she thought how pretty Jimmy’s babies would be.

“Well, does he love you?” Marie said.

“Hey, you think no one could love this face?”

“Now, I didn’t say that, Bibi!”

They were still going at it when Zenetta came in, put her big red arms down on the table, and said, “Bibi, you know I love you like a mother, so don’t take me wrong, but Jimmy DeAngelo could have any girl in the world. So, why you?”

“Why Bibi?” Marie slapped her hand on the table. “Because the boy loves her, that’s why. Bibi, you want the wedding right here in our house?”

After that, Jimmy brought over his clothes and his mother’s double bed and this and that, and they moved everything into Bibi’s room. It was December then, and they went to church one Saturday afternoon and got married. Her mother cried, but Jimmy winked at Bibi and she wanted to laugh, even though it was a solemn occasion. She had a new yellow dress and a bouquet of tea roses. Mrs. Lillian was there, Zenetta, the neighbors who always sang—almost all the same people who had gone to Mrs. DeAngelo’s funeral. Her grandfather’s legs were feeling weak, so he didn’t come, but when they got home, he gave Bibi ten silver dollars and said, “You’re a good girl, Bibi. I wish you all the luck.”

In January, Bibi quit school and took her job in K mart full time. Marie didn’t want her to do that, but Bibi couldn’t see freeloading off her mother. Every week she gave her mother room and board money, took some for herself, and gave Jimmy the rest so he’d feel good. He hadn’t found a job yet.

Celia wrote her a letter. “I still can’t believe I’m looking at your wedding picture. I guess we were silly kids—remember our vows and stuff? Maybe I’ll go to college. I haven’t made up my mind.”

Every morning Bibi and her mother ate breakfast together and left for work together, and every night they came home about the same time and made supper, taking turns with the cooking, now that Bibi was a real married woman. Then, when everything was ready, they’d call Jimmy and Grandpa and they’d all sit down together. Jimmy smiled at Marie, asked about work, and said how good the food was. Marie wouldn’t want to smile back, Bibi could see that, but she nearly always did. After supper the two women did the dishes and ironed and folded clothes while, in the front room, Jimmy talked to the grandfather.

And later, in their bedroom, he and Bibi would tell each other everything they’d done that day. For Bibi, that was the best part of every day except sometimes, in the morning, when she’d wake up, look at Jimmy sleeping next to her, and think, This is Jimmy De Angel, he’s my real husband now.

Zenetta came over to visit, brought a bag of sweet rolls. “How’s the old married lady?” Some girls from school came into K mart. “Geez, Bibi, never thought you’d get married so soon. Isn’t it something, you being married to Jimmy DeAngelo.”

“Being married is great,” Bibi said, flashing her wedding ring. “You oughta try it.”

But there were little problems. Hard to find enough time to do everything. Sometimes she got real tired. And Jimmy was still out of work. He missed having a car, too. They talked it over, decided to save money for a down payment on a car—not a Caddy. One of the economy cars, maybe a K Car. They saved their money in a Paul deLima coffee can. They liked to count it together, see how close they were coming to having the down payment. Jimmy studied the auto magazines so they’d be sure to get the best buy.

“Well,” Marie said one night when she and Bibi were doing the dishes, “it’s nice having a man around the house. I admit it. And Jimmy’s a nice boy, even Zenetta admits he’s settled down.”

Things were going good, and then it seemed as if they got to the top of a hill and just naturally had to slide down. Bibi wasn’t surprised. All along she’d been waiting for that slide. Jimmy picked up an ear infection, he was sick for a couple weeks, and the doctor bills were awful. No money went into the Paul deLima can. Jimmy was cranky all the time he was sick and, even when he got better, didn’t get into a good mood. He didn’t want to talk, watch TV, or even go out and have a beer. Sometimes he’d lie on the bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, and not saying anything for hours. It spooked Bibi.

“You two fighting already?” Marie said.

“No fights,” Bibi said. That was true. Jimmy didn’t like fighting, he was never nasty or mean, just said, “Leave me alone.” Bibi wished he would fight. She knew more about that than “Leave me alone.”

It was February, and instead of snow they had rain every day; the whole city was gray, and mildew got into the bathroom and on the kitchen walls. Jimmy hated the weather and stayed in all day.

One night Bibi and Marie were scrubbing the bathroom. “You think your husband is going to get a job?” Marie said.

“Yeah, he will,” Bibi said. “He’s had tough luck.”

“Luck’s not going to get any better if he just lies around reading dirty magazines all day.”

“Leave him alone,” Bibi said.

“I don’t touch him. I’m just reporting what Grandpa says.”

“Grandpa is an old man.” Bibi wrung out a rag.

“Don’t be disrespectful. Jimmy’s not looking for a job. He’s letting you work, period. He’s found himself a soft berth, my girl. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bibi bent over the tub, scrubbing at one spot. “He’s still feeling bad from his ear infection.” Her heart pounded, she was scrubbing so hard. That spot wouldn’t come out. She scrubbed harder.

“You’re making excuses for that boy.”

“I don’t want to hear no more!” She flung down the rag and went to her room. Jimmy was lying on the bed, reading a magazine. She stood at the foot of the bed. “Hello.” Jimmy didn’t say anything, just lay there in his green flannel pj bottom, showing his smooth chest, looking handsome and sad.

Bibi held up the new pink nightie she’d bought on her lunch hour. So pretty she couldn’t resist it. “Like my new nightie?” She shook his arm. “Jimmy!”

“How much did it cost?”

“Me to know, you to guess.”

“Ten bucks.” She shook her head. “Twenty?”

“Getting close.”

“More?” He pushed himself up against the pillow. “Now we won’t have anything to put in the coffee can again.”

“Well, I wanted something pretty. I work all week and I wanted something pretty for myself.” And then, unable to resist, she added, “You want to put money in the coffee can, get a job.”

He flushed. “So you wanted something pretty. Is that it?”

“Yeah,” she said, recognizing the challenge, “want to make something of it?” And she didn’t even care that she’d given him that dig about a job, because fighting at least made him talk.

“You wanted something pretty?” he said again. And he smiled, showing his teeth.

“What’s so funny?” Bibi said. “Must be really funny to get a smile out of you.”

“Yeah, it’s funny.” He pointed to the nightgown, then to her and said, “Bibi Bow Wow.” He said something else, too. But Bibi didn’t hear the something else. She went right into a daze, just like the day he asked her to marry him, couldn’t speak, and fell back against the pillow. Didn’t say anything. Not a word. Hardly breathed.

“Bibi?” he said. “Say hey, what’s the matter, Bibi?” Still couldn’t speak. “Hey, Bibi.” A look in his eyes now, as if he was scared. “It was just a joke,” he said. He closed his hand around her arm. “It was just something to say. You’re not taking it serious, are you?”

And still Bibi couldn’t speak. Oh, the pain she felt, something pressing behind her ribs, the worst, most awful pain she’d ever felt, worse even than when Celia left her. She raised her hand, opened her mouth to speak, let her hand drop. And a tear fell from one eye.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Jimmy bent over her. “Bibi, hey! Hey, Bibi, I love you.”

Then she looked at him, her beautiful husband, her Jimmy De Angel with the long lashes. “I love you, too,” she said, and she kissed him on the shoulder. And then, right where she kissed him, she bit him, bit so hard she broke his skin.

He yelped. Little drops of blood came up in a half circle from her teeth marks. “You bit me,” he said. He touched the blood. “You bit me.” He sounded so surprised, so hurt. “Why’d you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Bibi said. “I guess I’m just crazy.” And, right then, she remembered how her mother would say to Zenetta, “Life ain’t easy,” and how Zenetta would say back, “Yeah, but it’s all we got.” And how they’d both laugh, so jolly and sad at the same time.

“I don’t know,” she said again. “Life ain’t easy.” And she put her face up against Jimmy’s and laughed and laughed. And, after just a little bit, he got to laughing with her, too.