How to Fall by Edith Pearlman

mess like always?”—by producing an article of clothing or feinting at mopping some milk. But the staff felt their hearts sink, and the Maeves claimed that theirs broke in two, at the premonition of outrage that might follow, back in the welfare motel, or the scabby apartment, or the room grudgingly loaned by a sister-in-law, places where even the bare-bones rules of Donna’s Ladle did not prevail. “He had such a nice morning,” shuddered a Maeve one mild November afternoon, as the voice of Nathaniel’s mother shot through an open basement window from the sidewalk: “You do what I say, hear? Or else!”
    â€œâ€˜Or else’ may mean no more than a slap,” said Donna to the worried girl. “And he did have a nice morning. That’s important.”
    It was important to keep the Children’s Room open, even though maintaining the play area meant that there were fewer hands making lunch in the kitchen. Some children had become regulars—Nathaniel, Cassandra, Africa, Elijah. Others visited from time to time. These days—because of the Helping Hands’ clothing drive—the Ladle’s youngest guests wore outfits that had originated in Neiman-Marcus and Bloomingdale’s.

    But the erect and solemn girl of about seven who appeared one December morning was not wearing the castoffs of a Godolphin child—not of a twentieth-century child, anyway. Her long dress of gray flannel might have belonged to an early citizen of Massachusetts Bay if it had not had a back zipper. The woman who accompanied the child was garbed also in a long plain home-sewn dress. They wore identical brown capes. Each had a single braid, thick and fair. The child’s straight-browed gray eyes resembled her mother’s. But the girl lacked the scar that ran down the left side of the woman’s face from the lower lid to the middle of the cheek.
    When they arrived Beth was circulating through the large basement dining-room with a tray of knishes. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Beth.”
    A silence followed. “Yes,” said the woman at last.
    At Donna’s Ladle the staff restricted its questions to matters of food and comfort. And so: “Would you like a meat pastry?” said Beth, bending down to the child. “Take two.” But the child, with murmured thanks, took only one.
    Beth straightened up. “We’re glad to have you with us,” she said. “Please feel at home. We serve lunch at noon. Sit at any table. Breakfast fixings are on the buffet against the wall. The Quiet Room is behind you,” and she pointed with her free hand. “The Children’s Room is next to it.” She backed away. “Feel at home,” she repeated weakly, realizing that this couple would not feel at home anywhere.
    Beth reported her encounter to Donna, who was concocting a sweet-and-sour sauce in the kitchen. Donna handed the wooden spoon to a volunteer and moved to the pass-through, from which vantage point she could see the entire dining room.
    â€œOn the right,” said Beth.

    Donna was distracted by the sight of twenty-year-old Bitsy crooning to a stuffed animal. “Off her meds?”
    â€œYes. Says they addle her.”
    Donna shifted her gaze to the next table. She saw the new guests. They were seated side by side. The child’s hands, clasped, rested on the table. The mother’s hands lay in her lap. Each was attentive to the space in front of her eyes . . . to the vision of some New Jerusalem, Donna suspected.
    â€œAdventuresses, do you think?” said Beth. “I’ll go have a chat with poor Bitsy.”
    â€œActresses on their lunch break,” suggested Pam, at Donna’s other shoulder. “What’s that Arthur Miller play?”
    â€œThe Crucible,” said Donna. Pam moved off.
    â€œThey’re like from another world,” breathed a Maeve who had replaced Beth.
    And Josie had replaced Pam.