R My Name Is Rachel (2 page)

That’s the worst word I can think of. But this is the worst news I can think of, too.

“I’ll be back.” My tear-filled voice floats out the door after me.

I have to tell Miss Mitzi Madden the news.

I fly down the stairs and rush along Colfax Street. My breath feels hard in my throat and I hold my hand on my side to cover the pain from running so fast.

It’s almost time for Miss Mitzi to close Madden’s Blooms and go upstairs to her apartment over the store.

Even though I don’t have a moment to spare, I stop and bend over to catch my breath, to swipe at my eyes, to compose myself, as Miss Mitzi herself would say.

And then I’m in her shop, smelling the roses, and sweet peas, and feathery ferns lined up along her counter, and looking at Miss Mitzi, with her shiny dark hair and pink rouge on her cheeks.

“Ah, cupcake,” she says with that light-up-the-world smile.

I go around the counter and reach out to her. She doesn’t ask why. She wraps her arms around me and waits. I can’t picture my own mother, who died too long ago for me to remember, but Miss Mitzi is certainly mother material.

And when I begin to talk, I don’t even get to the heart of it, not yet. “All our plans,” I say instead.

There’s the letter we want to write to Admiral Byrd; we’re both dying to know how it feels to fly over the South Pole with the polar bears lumbering around below. And we still haven’t congratulated Babe Ruth, the baseball player, on hitting so many home runs.

But most of all, what about my secret plan for Pop to marry Miss Mitzi Madden?

After a while, Miss Mitzi walks me to the back of her shop. It’s the best room in the world. The table that runs down the middle is filled with snippets of greens and silky petals, of ribbons and white doilies. There’s always a pink flower, or a purple one, in a clear glass vase.

But not only that, on the small desk in the corner that’s piled high with papers are the books Miss Mitzi and I read together in our spare time, our writing paper, our stamps, and the list of all the people we’re going to write to.

Miss Mitzi goes to the front again to put the
CLOSED, BUT I’D LOVE TO SEE YOU TOMORROW
sign in her window. “Sit, Rachel,” she says over her shoulder.

And I do that; I sink into her white rocker with the pale blue pillow. When she comes back, I open my mouth, ready to begin.

But Miss Mitzi holds up her hand. She fills the tea-kettle at the sink. “We’ll have a cup together,” she says. “Remember, everything feels better when you sip some sweet hot tea.”

A moment later, I hold the cup in my hand, the warmth of it soothing me. Just opposite me, Miss Mitzi is perched on the edge of her table, her legs swinging a little. “Now,” she says. “What could be so terrible?”

“We’re leaving the city,” I say.

I see her face. That’s what’s so terrible. She stands up and goes to the sink again to run water slowly over her hands, then dries her fingers one at a time. “Well,” she says softly. It’s almost a question.

“We’re going to a faraway place called North Lake,” I say. “Pop’s heard of a bank job up there. A decent job. We’ll take the last of our money and rent a small farm.” I shrug. “It’ll be less than our apartment rent.”

“Chickens,” she says absently. “A cow.”

I hadn’t thought about that. But what about Mrs. Lazarus, my teacher? What will she do without me soaking up learning? And what about all the letters Miss Mitzi and I were going to write? What about—

“What about you come with us?” I cross my fingers. I’d give up school, I’d give up everything, if only we had Miss Mitzi.

She turns from the sink and knocks over a pitcher of irises. The pitcher shatters, the flowers drift down and cover the floor like a purple carpet, and water spreads everywhere.

Miss Mitzi bends over and picks up a flower. She holds it to her cheek and I can see that she’s crying.

Crying. Miss Mitzi.

“I’ll ask Pop,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

She lays an iris on the table and shakes her head. “Your father hasn’t asked—” She breaks off and comes close to me. “What would this place do without my flowers? What would my few rich customers say if I deserted them?”

Her hands are wet from the broken vase and there’s a small drop of blood on her finger.

“I don’t care about the rich people,” I say, and she probably doesn’t care, either.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “We’ll write back and forth. You’ll tell me about the chickens and the cows. And I’ll tell you about things down here.”

I look up at the green clock on the wall. It’s six-thirty; I’m supposed to be home for dinner.

“When are you leaving?” Miss Mitzi asks.

I raise one shoulder in the air. “Soon.”

She nods. Then I go out through the front of the shop and start for home.

There’s something else on my mind, something terrible, I know. But what it is, I can’t remember.

I walk slowly now, pulling my coat collar up around my neck. It’s cold and maybe it’s going to rain. Or snow. A Model A Ford flashes by on the avenue, and lights dim in the few stores that are left.

I reach the front door of our apartment house, still wondering what I’ve forgotten.

And then I remember.

What will happen to Clarence, the cat, when I’m gone?

“Please let this work,” I whisper as I climb the stairs.

Everyone is in the kitchen. Pop stands at the stove cracking soft-boiled eggs to go on top of baked potatoes. He puts his hand on my shoulder as I reach into the drawer next to him and pull out a few napkins. “Thanks, Rachel,” he says.

Joey and Cassie sit at the table waiting. It’s a wonder they don’t have their mouths open like a pair of sparrows waiting to be fed. But I do the same thing; I slide onto my chair and wait until Pop sits. Then I tap my plate with the edge of my fork. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

Cassie’s almost-nothing eyebrows disappear into her bangs. Joey frowns. He’s worried I’m going to tell Pop that he knows more about the sewers than the sewer men.

I begin. “When we leave, Miss Mitzi will be all alone
at Madden’s Blooms.” I look at Pop, trying to let him see by my face how terrible that would be.

And he does see. He runs his hands through his thinning hair. “I’ve thought about that. I keep thinking about it.”

“Suppose we bring her with us,” I say.

“Great idea,” Joey says around a mound of potato.

Pop’s face is …

It’s hard to tell how his face is. Serious? Worried? “That won’t work, Rachel,” he says.

But I can see that’s what he wants to do. I just have to convince him. “We have to take her,” I say desperately.

Pop leans forward. His voice sounds almost as desperate as mine. “I can’t ask her to give up her shop—she’s worked so hard—ask her to take us all on—” He breaks off and begins again. “Rachel, we don’t have an extra cent. We don’t know what kind of a place we’re renting. All we know is what the real estate agent wrote. It’s an old farmhouse with fields and a stream. There’s no electricity right now; we’ll have to heat the place with firewood.”

“Sounds great,” Joey says.

“Miss Mitzi would love it,” I add.

Cassie pours a ton of salt on her dinner. “It could be falling apart. It might take a lot of work, especially since one of us does nothing but read and mess things up.”

I want to reach across and pinch her freckled arm.

Pop ignores her. “Another thing,” he says. “I know so little about the new job. Mr. Elmendorf, my old boss, said
he’d fixed it up for me. I just have to be there two weeks from Monday.”

“Please.” I hold out my hands. I want some good news to take back to Miss Mitzi.

“Come on, Pop,” Joey says.

Cassie bites her lip and stares down at the table. “Miss Mitzi would probably love to come with us.”

At last, a little help from Cassie.

Pop reaches out. He takes my hand with one of his; he takes Cassie’s with the other. If he had a third hand, it would be for Joey, he always says. “I wish there was a way to stay right here. It’s your mother’s place as well as Mitzi’s. It’s where I remember her.”

I look around the kitchen. I forgot that Mom lived here. I struggle to remember her, but she died right after Cassie was born, so I was only a little more than two.

“So.” Pop squeezes our hands. “We’re taking a huge chance with the bank and a new place to live. But I farmed with my dad when I was a kid. I’ve missed the feel of the land. And there’s nothing here for us.”

“But, Pop—” Joey says.

Cassie has tears in her eyes and I open my mouth, but what else can I say? Then Pop stands up and walks by us, his hand sliding across my shoulder, his potato and egg uneaten on his plate.

I stand up next. “Thanks for trying,” I say to Joey and Cassie. It’s hard to get the words out. I go into the bedroom and throw myself on the bed.

An hour later, I remember that I haven’t even
mentioned Clarence. Who’s going to feed him if I’m not there to remind Charlie the Butcher? Clarence will simply have to live on birds and mice, a disgusting diet, and very sad for the birds and mice.

Poor Clarence. He’s dirty, unfriendly, and sometimes mean. But who wouldn’t be all those things if he was homeless and had one ear almost chewed off and one eye half closed?

In the bathroom I run a comb through my hair, which is straggly and knotted. I go down the hall and stop at the living room archway. Pop is sitting in his green armchair, staring down at the street.

“Pop, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, honey,” he says. “I have to have some pride. I can’t ask her …”

His voice goes on, but I’m not listening. I go back into the bedroom without mentioning Clarence. I promise myself that I’ll never give in on that. If Clarence can’t come, I’ll simply stay here. I’ll live in the shed in back of the library and survive on bologna slices from Charlie the Butcher.

Later we troop outside, all of us except Cassie, who is ironing everything she owns to bring with her. Mr. Appleby stops at the curb on his way home from selling apples. We’re looking at Pop’s old truck, which will take us to North Lake.

“If it holds up,” Joey whispers.

There are two seats in the closed-in cab, and the wide-open back is surrounded by wooden planks.

“The truck is—” Joey stops.

“The worst mess I’ve ever seen,” I mutter. It’s covered with a pale powdery dust; gray lumps litter the floor.

“My brother, Elliott, borrowed it for cement work,” Pop tells Mr. Appleby. He reaches between the planks, grabs a soft clump, and crumbles it between his fingers.

Joey kicks at the back tire as if he’s an expert. “She’ll hold up till we get there, I guess.”

“Of course,” Mr. Appleby says.

“You kids can take turns sitting up front while two of you sit in back, plenty of room,” Pop says.

My words slide out. “Clarence will have to sit in the front, too.”

They turn to look at me. “Who’s Clarence?” Pop asks.

I move away from the truck and stand with my legs apart, as if I’m facing a windstorm. “Clarence has fallen upon hard times.” I read that in a book about an orphan and cried myself to sleep. “Clarence is a cat.”

Everyone stares at me.

“We can’t afford—” Pop begins.

“I love cats,” says Joey.

And dear Mr. Appleby says, “Nothing like a cat in a barn to chase away the rodents.”

I look from Joey to Pop.

“I guess,” Pop says, sounding doubtful. “We had barn cats when I was growing up.”

Joey taps his fingers on the truck’s wooden railing. “Hope no one falls out.”

“We’ll hold on to each other.” I know I’ve won a victory. The problem will be getting Clarence from his tree to the truck, but I’ll face that on moving day.

In my pajamas, I raise my bedroom window, which faces the brick wall of the next building, and angle my head into that thin space outside. It’s freezing and the wind tears at my hair. Stars appear, then disappear between shreds of rushing clouds. I choose the brightest speck of gold and pretend it’s the planet Pluto, even though I know Pluto is too far out to see.

I think of Pluto as mine. Why not? It was discovered on my birthday a few years ago. Miss Mitzi and I even sent in a name for it, Diana, much better than Pluto.

I slide into bed. Cassie always hogs three-quarters of it. “You’re digging your elbows into my back,” I tell her.

“Excuse me for breathing.”

“Stay on your own side, if you don’t mind.” I pull my feet out of the covers and walk them up the wall.

“That’s a foul habit,” she says, but I know her eyes are drooping; she’s half-asleep. “You’ve made footprints all over the place, and big toe marks. I can hardly stand to look at them.”

I’m impressed that she knows the word
foul
. It’s a word Miss Mitzi and I might use.

“What are people going to think of us?” Cassie asks.

She’s losing her mind. “How many people parade through our bedroom?” I can almost stretch my arms from one side of this cubby of a room to the other. I peer at the blank brick wall across the way. “Maybe you think someone’s staring in at us.”

“What about the people who’ll rent after us?” Cassie says. “I hope I don’t get blamed for this mess.”

“Who cares what anyone thinks?” I wave my foot in a perfect circle.

Cassie can be such a pest. I do remember, though, what Miss Mitzi said once. She was arranging flowers in a vase: pink carnations, white daisies, and one orange rose.

“Does that orange one belong in there?” I asked.

“You know what I found out?” Miss Mitzi tilted her head. “Everything doesn’t have to go together exactly. It’s more fun when something doesn’t quite match.” And then she added so softly that I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right, “Like you and Cassie. Two different spirits.”

Cassie is definitely an orange something or other. I turn to another worry. What will the new school in North Lake be like? And will the new teacher be a fountain of information, like Mrs. Lazarus? I think about my old friends
Peggy and Mary. Both of them moved away this year, too, because of the Depression.