âWeirdos.â
Donna didnât reply. These newcomers were not the poor she had always with her. She was used to cheats and crazies, drunks and dealers. She was fond of little retired chambermaids whose voices still shivered with brogues; they relied on the Ladle to augment their pitiful pensions. She liked hot-tempered sisters from the South and the South Bronx; she viewed with puzzled respect magic-mongers from the Islands; and she was even accustomed to certain outspoken religious zealotsâShrews of Christ, Josie called them. But plain-living Puritansâwhat were they doing in her facility?
The pair didnât look needy. But the Ladleâs policy must hold: no prying. Among the guests were a few batty gentlewomen who might well possess million-dollar trust funds, who probably
lunched at the Ritz on the days that the Ladle was closed. They were served without question. So too would this mother and daughter be served. It was the rule.
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In the months that followed, Donna and Beth and Pam learned a few facts about the mother and daughter, facts which they shared at the weekly staff meetings. The womanâs name was Signe. The childâs was Rhea. Signe was separated from Rheaâs father, a clergyman. Signe and Rhea lived in two basement rooms, just over the line in Boston. They received a monthly check from the clergyman. It met their wants. âBut only barely,â said Signe to Donna. âWe are grateful to the Ladle for our breakfasts and lunches.â
âIâm so glad. But there are other sources you could tap, too,â Donna responded. âThe state government supplements inadequate incomes, and the city itself . . .â
âNo.â
After a few minutes Donna said idly, âWe sometimes hear of jobs. Tailoring work.â
âRhea is my work.â
Donna looked at the severe little girl, who was reading a thick book. The Bible? Donna wondered, craning her neck.
âIt was Grimmâs,â she reported that week. âIn the Modern Library edition. No pictures. Impressive.â
âSigne teaches her at home,â said Beth.
âIsnât that against the law?â
âNo,â said Pam; and then looked down at her hiking boots. She was terrified of seeming to show off.
âTell us,â Donna laughed.
Pam ran both hands through her curls. âThereâs a law that even
provides for home schooling, sets down regulations. But the person who teaches has to take a test, and a curriculum has to be followed, and materials . . . Signe would probably meet the requirements.â Pam shrugged. âI doubt sheâs deigned to apply.â
Signe and Rhea spent most mornings in the Childrenâs Room. Shortly before lunch they selected places at a table in the dining room. Before they ate they bowed their heads in silent prayer, and then quietly and with perfect manners dispatched whatever was set before them; then they returned to the Room. There Rhea sat on a low chair beside her mother with her book, turning pages, rarely looking up.
A Maeve named Michelleâthe fifth of seven childrenâtook a sisterly interest in Rhea. She offered to play with the girl. She offered to walk with her to the park. On one occasion she offered to tell Rhea some Navajo fables. âIâm minoring in Folklore,â she confided to the Childrenâs Room at large. âIâm majoring in American Women. Iâm writing my senior paper on Donna.â
Donna was scraping dried oatmeal from the easel. She raised her eyes. âDonât you dare.â
âOh, itâs almost finished,â said Michelle.
Michelleâs invitations to Rhea were always met with a polite refusalâfrom the child; the mother listened without comment.
âThereâs a lovely pulpit upstairs,â said Michelle one morning. âShall we have a look at it together?â
âNo, thank you.â
âWouldnât you like to see my
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