Thames. Mister’s eyes nearly flew out. “Why, your Pops is really someone,” he said, and then I was, like, offended again: “You think?”
Mister said I should write Pops a letter. I said, “That’s okay, Mister. Pops must have other children now, his own missis.” “And that doesn’t make you sad?” Mister said, and I said, “No, it’s all good.” But on the inside I was, like, You think?
I think about my Pops sometimes. And I can’t get that stupid wheel out of my head, now that I lied about it. I see Pops by the wheel with his new kids and his new missis. It’s always dark and the wheel is always lit and spinning. The Thames smells like watermelon. My sister is with me, naturally, and we are hiding by a stand where they sell ham and cheese. Pops picks one kid up on his shoulder and lifts the other, like a demijohn of rakia , and carries them both to a basket on the wheel. His missis laughs, authentic, long-necked, pearl-eared. Dura-bura , Pops says in English, meaning, Now we’re going to have some good times. And then my sister turns to me and says, “God damn it, Maria, why does it have to be like this? This is your daydream. Make it better.” And when she says it, suddenly we are transported to the wheel, a hundred meters above the ground, and we walk across its metal frame, unscrewing one bulb after the other. There is no danger of falling. Gravity does not exist. Only the gravity between us. And the bulbs keep glowing even after we put them in our pockets and our pockets are full with one million stolen, glowing bulbs, burning fireflies so strong, they take us upon their wings. Then we fly, my sister and I, illuminated, hand in hand above the Thames. “Now, that’s a dream,” she says.
•
Violation of policy number, paragraph number, point number … that’s what the principal of the orphanage is droning about. I’m sitting in her office, waiting for a good moment to snatch a pen from the desk. An orange Bic with a blue tooth-marked cap. Long story short, they’re kicking Magda out on the street.
“She has no place to go,” I say, and the principal smiles at me, “Of course she does.”
On the bus home I can’t think of anything else. What if the baby turns out like Magda? Swollen tongue, inarticulate mumbling. I know that’s not how she got to be the way she is, but what if somehow with her blood or milk that swollenness gets passed on to the baby? It won’t be fair. And how would Grandmoms take the news? A stroke? A heart attack? A baby needs food to keep it quiet, clothes, a crib. A baby needs something better than Magda, Grandmoms and me.
Back in the village, I look for Mister. A spy of his caliber, with his connections in Sofia, will surely know what to do. But Mister isn’t home again, and Missis is bathing in the sun. “Hello, Mary,” she fakes.
“Dear God, Missis, you have to help me.”
I blurt this out before I know it. And I just don’t know what to do with my hands, my hair, my nails. Missis sits me on a large oak table inside and I can see my own face distorted in the table, with the sun slipping across the wood. I recognize that face and run my hands over its cheeks as if to smooth them. With light steps, Missis floats to the countertop. “Cocktail?” she says.
To save us time, I tell her I’ve seen the hide buyer come in and out of her house and promise not to tell Mister if she would help me. She sobers up. Her lips pursed, she holds the shaker like it’s a neck to choke. She dumps the drink in two tall cups, then adds some extra olives to my drink. “You are a little nosy snake,” she says. “I like that in a girl.”
We down the drinks.
“Nothing a drink can’t solve,” says Missis as I fight to breathe the fire away. “So, Marche, what do you want?”
I tell her all there is to tell.
She ticks her tongue, runs a finger over the glass rim, and suddenly she is alive. Her drowsiness evaporated, cheeks rosy, sparkling eyes. “Tell me more.
Mister said I should write Pops a letter. I said, “That’s okay, Mister. Pops must have other children now, his own missis.” “And that doesn’t make you sad?” Mister said, and I said, “No, it’s all good.” But on the inside I was, like, You think?
I think about my Pops sometimes. And I can’t get that stupid wheel out of my head, now that I lied about it. I see Pops by the wheel with his new kids and his new missis. It’s always dark and the wheel is always lit and spinning. The Thames smells like watermelon. My sister is with me, naturally, and we are hiding by a stand where they sell ham and cheese. Pops picks one kid up on his shoulder and lifts the other, like a demijohn of rakia , and carries them both to a basket on the wheel. His missis laughs, authentic, long-necked, pearl-eared. Dura-bura , Pops says in English, meaning, Now we’re going to have some good times. And then my sister turns to me and says, “God damn it, Maria, why does it have to be like this? This is your daydream. Make it better.” And when she says it, suddenly we are transported to the wheel, a hundred meters above the ground, and we walk across its metal frame, unscrewing one bulb after the other. There is no danger of falling. Gravity does not exist. Only the gravity between us. And the bulbs keep glowing even after we put them in our pockets and our pockets are full with one million stolen, glowing bulbs, burning fireflies so strong, they take us upon their wings. Then we fly, my sister and I, illuminated, hand in hand above the Thames. “Now, that’s a dream,” she says.
•
Violation of policy number, paragraph number, point number … that’s what the principal of the orphanage is droning about. I’m sitting in her office, waiting for a good moment to snatch a pen from the desk. An orange Bic with a blue tooth-marked cap. Long story short, they’re kicking Magda out on the street.
“She has no place to go,” I say, and the principal smiles at me, “Of course she does.”
On the bus home I can’t think of anything else. What if the baby turns out like Magda? Swollen tongue, inarticulate mumbling. I know that’s not how she got to be the way she is, but what if somehow with her blood or milk that swollenness gets passed on to the baby? It won’t be fair. And how would Grandmoms take the news? A stroke? A heart attack? A baby needs food to keep it quiet, clothes, a crib. A baby needs something better than Magda, Grandmoms and me.
Back in the village, I look for Mister. A spy of his caliber, with his connections in Sofia, will surely know what to do. But Mister isn’t home again, and Missis is bathing in the sun. “Hello, Mary,” she fakes.
“Dear God, Missis, you have to help me.”
I blurt this out before I know it. And I just don’t know what to do with my hands, my hair, my nails. Missis sits me on a large oak table inside and I can see my own face distorted in the table, with the sun slipping across the wood. I recognize that face and run my hands over its cheeks as if to smooth them. With light steps, Missis floats to the countertop. “Cocktail?” she says.
To save us time, I tell her I’ve seen the hide buyer come in and out of her house and promise not to tell Mister if she would help me. She sobers up. Her lips pursed, she holds the shaker like it’s a neck to choke. She dumps the drink in two tall cups, then adds some extra olives to my drink. “You are a little nosy snake,” she says. “I like that in a girl.”
We down the drinks.
“Nothing a drink can’t solve,” says Missis as I fight to breathe the fire away. “So, Marche, what do you want?”
I tell her all there is to tell.
She ticks her tongue, runs a finger over the glass rim, and suddenly she is alive. Her drowsiness evaporated, cheeks rosy, sparkling eyes. “Tell me more.
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