Dust Girl: The American Fairy Trilogy Book 1 (7 page)

Writing that down helped me believe the Van Iykeses would be back tomorrow to see my promise bundled with all the others. I shut the order blank in the drawer so it wouldn’t blow away. The register chimed as if for an actual sale. It didn’t know the difference.

“Let’s go,” I said to Jack. I didn’t want to stay there with the bones and broken glass a minute longer. I wanted to be back in my own home, where there was still a chance I could do something to make a difference.

Jack looked at me like he understood, grabbed up the handles of the wheelbarrow, and followed me out the back door into the storm.

“Ah, there you are, Callie! We were beginning to wonder.”

Mrs. Hopper sailed into the Imperial’s main kitchen while Jack and I were unloading the last of the groceries. We were both streaked with sweat and grime. It had been impossible to push the barrow through the blow dust. We’d had to drag it behind us like a couple of mules hitched to a plow.

“Why, who’s this?” Mrs. Hopper tilted her chin down so we could just see the green flash of her eyes above the rims of her tinted glasses.

“Jack Holland, ma’am,” I told her. “He’s here to help out while you stay.” Which was true as far as it went. The Hoppers didn’t need to know where or how I’d found him.

“Charming!” She held out her hand and smiled. Her teeth were very straight and very white. Jack blushed and shook her hand. “Mr. Hopper will be pleased. He believes in rewarding hard work. Now”—she grew brisk—“as my
children made clear before you left, I’m afraid we’re all just a tiny bit hungry. Callie, you’ll put together some tea for us, won’t you?”

Tea?
I hadn’t thought about tea. It was going to be hard enough to pull together a dinner for so many, even with Jack’s help.

“No hurry, of course,” Mrs. Hopper said in a tone that meant just the opposite. “But as soon as you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She beamed at me and sailed out through the swinging doors.

Tea. I looked at the heap of groceries salvaged from Van Iykes’s. How was I going to make them tea?

“She’s pretty.” Jack hooked a tall stool out from under the counter and sat down a little too hard.

That woke me up. I planted my hands on my hips and glared at him. “She’s a guest. So don’t go making a fool out of yourself.” Then I realized he wouldn’t do me any good starved and thirsty, so I filled a glass from the sink and shoved it at him.

“Who are you calling a fool?” Jack gulped the water down.

“You, if you go making eyes at married guests.” I plucked the salami out of the crate and a sharp knife out of a drawer and passed him both.

“I wasn’t making eyes!” He snatched up the salami and swiped a slice off the end.

“You were! You’re red as a beet.”

“I am not,” he muttered around his mouthful of hard sausage.

“Suit yourself.” I shrugged and turned to face the kitchen.

Except for the Moonlight Room, the kitchen was the biggest room in the Imperial. The two cast-iron stoves sat solidly in the middle of it all, with the bake ovens underneath and the warming ovens on the side. In the corner, the housekeeper’s desk sat under the hook board where we hung the spare keys.

I started filling the kettle and a couple of big pots. “First thing to do when you’re cooking is get the water boiling,” Mama had told me. “It saves time and you’ll always find a use for it.”

I remembered playing with pots and pans in here when I was really little, while Mama and the cooks worked, filling the air with the best smells. Gradually, the cooks drifted away and it was just Mama, and then even that ended. Now it was just me. Well, and Jack, but he was just wolfing salami, and I couldn’t really count him yet.

“You’ll get a stomachache,” I said, shaking out the match I’d used to light one of the burners on the right-hand stove.

“Already got one,” he told me around another mouthful. “You can pick ’em up for free on the road. Thought I’d see if store-bought is better quality.”

I peeked in the tin box labeled TEA and found there was actually some tea in it. That was something. “How long you been on the bum?”

He shrugged. “Not so long. I’m headed to Los Angeles.”

“Everybody’s headed to California.” I laid out the vegetables on one of the marble counters and wiped a bread knife clean with a dish towel. I threw the towel over my shoulder to keep it handy. “The place must be full up by now.”

“Of people going to work the crops, sure. But that’s not me. I’m going to be a newspaper writer.”

“You are?”

“Sure.” He sat up straighter. “I worked the paper at school. Won a prize for it and everything. They take boys on at newspapers in big cities. Let ’em work as copyboys and learn the trade. Sometimes even for pay, but I wouldn’t mind doing it for free. I could get another job in a city like that. I can do anything. You’ll see.”

I looked at him, sitting on that stool, in clothes that were too small and all tore up, cutting hunks off a salami he got as charity, and at the same time talking about how he could do anything, like nothing bad had ever happened to him. Jack Holland was either really brave or completely cracked.

That seemed too big a question to try to answer right then, so I wiped the dust off another section of counter and started slicing up the Pullman loaf instead. Jam sandwiches sounded like something you’d have with tea, didn’t it? And deviled ham.

Jack wiped his hands on his trousers, found the apron
on the clothes hook, and started filling the double sink. “Which dishes you want to use?”

I pointed to the cabinet where the afternoon china was, plain white with a black border and gold rim. He got it down and started washing it.

“What was that song?” I asked while smearing jam on bread. “The one you were singing in the jail?”

“Work song. I heard it from some fellas on a chain gang.”

I decided not to ask if he’d been on the gang with them. “Sounded pretty good.”

“Thanks. You figured out what you’re gonna make them folks for dinner?”

“Manhattan clam chowder. I’ll cook up the carrots and potatoes, and put the clams in the tomato soup with their juice, and season it up. They can have that for a first, with bread. Then ham and beans and biscuits.” We had flour in our little kitchen in the staff quarters, and I’d found an untouched can of Crisco at the mercantile. “Then bread pudding for dessert.”

“You’re really good at this.”

“Mama showed me.” I cut the crusts off the bread—they could go into the pudding—and sliced the sandwiches into little triangles to pile onto plates.

“Where is your mama?” Jack asked.

“She’s gone.” I grabbed up the tray of tea things and was out the door before he could ask where to. It was heavy and awkward to carry, piled with the towel-covered
dishes, the teapot, and the sandwiches, and my hands were tired from all the work I’d already done. I was terrified I’d drop the whole thing on the way to the parlor. I kept my mind on the hundred-and-fifty and gripped the tray tight.

“Your tea, sir, ma’am,” I said as I backed through the parlor door.

“There now!” exclaimed Mr. Hopper. I set the loaded tray down on the table and started lifting the towels to show the heaps of sandwiches. “I told you Callie wouldn’t let you all go hungry! Dig in, my own! Dig in!”

The way those Hoppers fell on my sandwiches, you’d think they were half starved. But then, folks this rich wouldn’t be used to waiting to eat. They probably had servants and everything back home to bring them snacks whenever they rang a bell. It hit me that I’d forgotten the napkins. As I headed off to the downstairs linen cupboard to fetch some, I thought about how Mama used to smile with satisfaction when she fed people dinner, even if it was just salt pork and beans. Now I understood why. It felt good, seeing people enjoy something I’d made like that.

I’m coming to find you, Mama, I swear
, I thought as I took up a big stack of white napkins from the cupboard.
I’m leaving just as soon as I’ve got that money
.

I knocked on the parlor door and went in. “I thought you’d need some …”

I stopped. I stared.

The sandwich plates weren’t just empty; they were polished
clean. I thought the Hopper kids must be playing some kind of trick on me, until Mr. Hopper flicked a bit of deviled ham off his sleeve and burped.

“Pardon me! That was excellent, Callie!”

There’d been a dozen sandwiches when I left. I’d been gone less than a minute. I lifted the lid on the teapot. That was empty too.

“I’m afraid Hunter here’s still a bit hungry,” Mr. Hopper went on. “He is a growing boy after all!” Mr. Hopper laughed heartily, but Hunter just licked his lips. His tongue was bright pink against his white face.

“I’d better make up some more sandwiches,” I heard myself whisper. I didn’t want to be in that room anymore. Not with all those Hoppers looking at me with their big white smiles and their identical dark eyes behind their spectacles.

“Whatever you have on hand will be fine, I’m certain.” Mr. Hopper clasped his hands across his broad stomach and leaned back on the sofa.

“But do hurry, Callie,” said Mrs. Hopper. “It’s not just Hunter who still has an appetite. We’ve all had such a long journey today.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I grabbed up the tray and ran back to the kitchen.

“What’s the matter?” Jack had been busy while I was gone, slicing carrots and onions. He already had a good pile.

“They ate them.” I set the tray down on the counter. “The sandwiches. They’re gone.”

“That ain’t possible! Not even if they was starving!”

“I know.” In my mind I saw the white bones lying in the broken glass on the mercantile floor. I would have given anything not to have that picture in my head just then. “They want more.”

“More!” cried Jack. “What are you going to do?”

I forced myself to straighten up. I had to give them what they wanted, or Mr. Hopper might change his mind about the money.

I told Jack to keep going on the vegetables for the chowder. I sliced up the rest of the Pullman loaf and made a bunch more sandwiches. I still had the other one for the bread pudding. I drained two cans of peaches and forked some sardines into a bowl for good measure.

“There. This’ll hold ’em awhile.”

I toted the heavy tray back into the parlor. All the Hoppers looked up and smiled as soon as I pushed through the door.

“Now then!” Mr. Hopper clapped his meaty hands. “See what you can do with just a little motivation, Callie? Dig in, my own! Dig in!”

I barely had time to get clear of the table before they were on it. All the Hoppers, all at once, crowded over the tray. I backed off until I bumped up against the door. Those rich people in their white clothes slurped and smacked and slobbered as they grabbed at the food. Mrs. Hopper snatched up the bowl of sardines, opened her mouth wide, and poured them all in. Her cheeks bulged like a squirrel’s,
but only for a minute before she swallowed. She didn’t even chew. She tossed the bowl aside, swatted Clarinda’s hand back, and grabbed up a fistful of yellow peaches, squishing them between her fingers as she crammed them into her bright red mouth.

Under all the slobber was a clicking, buzzing sound I felt sure I should recognize. But I was seeing those white bones on the mercantile floor again, and all I could think was,
Got to get out, get out before they remember about me.…

I backed up, but too fast. My heel caught the footstool, and I toppled hard onto the carpet. A big cloud of dust puffed up around me. I shook my head and blinked.

Through the rosy cloud of dust, I saw the Hoppers elbowing each other around my tray. Only they weren’t people anymore. I saw the horsey faces and huge eyes made up of a million shining facets, waving antennae, hard black skins, and delicate legs with saw-sharp ridges.

The Hoppers were locusts. Black locusts the size of people.

I screamed. The chomping and buzzing stopped, and all those bug heads tilted to look at me. The dust was settling, and they were the Hoppers again, except not quite. Because now I could see how their eyes behind those thick glasses stayed round and lidless. Bug eyes.

“Why, whatever is the matter with Callie?” asked Mrs. Hopper.

“Poor girl’s fallen down.” Mr. Hopper reached out his big, meaty hand to me. This close, I could see through him, like Mr. Hopper was a chantilly lace curtain draped over the insect underneath. I could see hooked feet and skinny legs and the way its curved mouth parts moved back and forth. “Let me help you.”

“No thank you, sir.” I pushed myself up against the footstool. “I’m all right.”

“That’s good.” He grinned, way too wide for his face. “Because I’m afraid my family has eaten all those excellent sandwiches.”

It was true. The plates and bowls were empty. Hunter had peach juice and crumbs all over his face, and he grinned at me, exactly like his daddy.

“They’re hungry, Callie.” Mr. Hopper’s voice buzzed and rattled. “A man can’t let his family go hungry, now can he?”

“N-n-no, sir.”

He clapped his hand on my shoulder. It was heavy. It was light. It had fingers. It had a hook. I could feel it both ways, just like I could see the man and the locust. “You’ll bring us something else, won’t you? Whatever you have on hand will do fine.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

I backed the rest of the way out of the parlor. I stood in the hallway, panting hard. I’d gone stone cold despite the fact that I was still sweating.

Every nerve I used to have snapped in two, and I ran.
“Jack!” I hollered as I slammed back into the kitchen. “We gotta get outta here!”

“What?” He looked up, knife in one hand and half-peeled carrot in the other. “Why?”

“They’re not people! They’re bugs! Giant bugs!”

“What’re you, crazy?”

“I swear! They’re locusts! That’s why they can eat like that! They …”

“Callie! Is that any way to talk about paying guests?”

It was Mrs. Hopper. Her hat had come off somewhere, and two black antennae stuck out of her yellow curls. They both pointed right at me. Jack must have seen them too, because he turned white and green, and backed away, just like I had.