sheâs in the sunshine and her mother gives her a vinegar rinse after she washes it.â Dotty spread her hands wide in an effort to bring Olive to life. âBut at night sometimes itâs brown. She wears glasses and she has three older brothers. Her fatherâs a carpenter and he came here because somebody told him there was work for carpenters here.â
She ran out of things to tell this man about the Dohertys. He continued to sort letters.
âGood luck is all I can say,â he finally said. âMore folks out of work here thanâs in.â
What if I canât find her? Dotty thought, for a brief moment panicking. Suppose he doesnât know where to look? What if we came all this way and Olive isnât here? Suppose they moved someplace else if Mr. Doherty couldnât find a job? Oh, my.
She laid her hands on the edge of the counter and stared at the man, willing him to give her the answers she wanted. Just when she thought all was lost, he reached underneath and brought out a piece of paper. âLooks like we got a E. Doherty at number five Carey Street,â he mused, running a knobby finger down a list of names and addresses. âCanât say he has a box, but he most likely picks up his mail here. General delivery.â
âOh, please,â said Dotty, âhow do I get to Carey Street?â
âYou alone?â the man asked, looking hard at her.
âNo, Mr. Clarkeâs with me, and Jud. Weâre only staying the one night. We have to get home because my father doesnât know where I am and heâs probably worried.â
âBetter watch your step over there,â the man said. âRough crowd hangs out around there. You be careful. Donât lose nothing by being careful, my mother used to say.â
Dotty shifted from one foot to the other. She didnât have time to waste.
âCould you please give me directions on how to get there?â she said, keeping her voice polite by an effort.
The man shrugged. âLongâs you know what youâre doing.â He went to the door of the post office and, after staring at the sleigh with Mr. Clarke and Jud in it, he said, âFollow this here main street for two blocks. Then bear right, take the next left and youâre there. Canât tell you exactly where number five is, but thereâs bound to be somebody there can. Mind what I say. Watch your step.â He turned and went back inside.
âDid you ask him about a telephone?â Jud said.
âI forgot.â She jumped up beside him. âWe can ask when we get to Oliveâs. Maybe they have one.â She gave Mr. Clarke the directions, leaving out the part about watching her step.
Carey Street was a sad little street. Everything in it was dingy: dingy buildings, dingy snow, dingy sky, dingy people. It looked as if it could use a good wash. The houses leaned against one another like weary people going to sleep with their eyes open. Thin men and women walked dispiritedly along the narrow sidewalks. The sound of Sarahâs hooves was loud in the stillness. Dotty felt eyes watching her from behind the murky windowpanes. She saw curtains pulled aside to allow the watchers a better view.
What a place for poor Olive to live, she thought. I wonder where she goes to play. I wonder if they jump rope here, or play marbles or Kick the Can. Or baseball. Or any of the games we played together. I wonder if her friends live here too.
âItâs number five,â she told Mr. Clarke. Just think. Oliveâs right near somewhere and she doesnât even know that Iâm here too. She doesnât even suspect that Iâm getting closer every minute.
âSlow down, Sarah,â Mr. Clarke said, pulling in on the reins. Sarah pranced and lifted her feet high. She had a new lease on life. Men passed, their collars turned up, their hats pulled down, their faces and hands red and raw in the cold wind and drifting snow.
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