How to Fall by Edith Pearlman Page A

“Weirdos.”
    Donna didn’t 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 zealots—Shrews of Christ, Josie called them. But plain-living Puritans—what were they doing in her facility?
    The pair didn’t look needy. But the Ladle’s 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 woman’s name was Signe. The child’s was Rhea. Signe was separated from Rhea’s 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. “But only barely,” said Signe to Donna. “We are grateful to the Ladle for our breakfasts and lunches.”
    â€œI’m so glad. But there are other sources you could tap, too,” Donna responded. “The state government supplements inadequate incomes, and the city itself . . .”
    â€œNo.”
    After a few minutes Donna said idly, “We sometimes hear of jobs. Tailoring work.”
    â€œRhea is my work.”
    Donna looked at the severe little girl, who was reading a thick book. The Bible? Donna wondered, craning her neck.
    â€œIt was Grimm’s,” she reported that week. “In the Modern Library edition. No pictures. Impressive.”
    â€œSigne teaches her at home,” said Beth.
    â€œIsn’t that against the law?”
    â€œNo,” said Pam; and then looked down at her hiking boots. She was terrified of seeming to show off.
    â€œTell us,” Donna laughed.
    Pam ran both hands through her curls. “There’s 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.” Pam shrugged. “I doubt she’s deigned to apply.”
    Signe and Rhea spent most mornings in the Children’s 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 Michelle—the fifth of seven children—took 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. “I’m minoring in Folklore,” she confided to the Children’s Room at large. “I’m majoring in American Women. I’m writing my senior paper on Donna.”
    Donna was scraping dried oatmeal from the easel. She raised her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
    â€œOh, it’s almost finished,” said Michelle.
    Michelle’s invitations to Rhea were always met with a polite refusal—from the child; the mother listened without comment.
    â€œThere’s a lovely pulpit upstairs,” said Michelle one morning. “Shall we have a look at it together?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œWouldn’t you like to see my