Penny from Heaven by Jennifer L. Holm

“This is what you get for going around with that cousin of yours.”
    “It was Veronica! She smacked me!”
    “And just look at that eye! It’s going to be black by morning!”
    The doorbell rings.
    “That’s Mr. Mulligan,” she says, standing back to survey my face. “I guess there’s no helping it. Go let him in. I have to check on the chicken and make sure your grandmother hasn’t put her hands in it. She insisted on making her peas and onions.”
    Mr. Mulligan’s standing on the front porch with a huge armload of cut flowers. It looks like someone died. I’m so used to seeing him holding bottles of milk that I just stare at him.
    He raises his eyebrows when he sees my eye. It’s all red and puffy.
    “Evening, Penny,” he says nervously.
    He looks about as comfortable in his suit as I do in the getup Mother made me wear. I’ve got on a white sleeveless blouse and a checked skirt with an itchy crinoline underneath.
    “These are for you,” he says, handing me one of the bouquets.
    I hear my mother’s voice trill behind me.
    “How lovely!” she says. “Wasn’t that thoughtful of Mr. Mulligan, Penny?”
    “Sure,” I say. “Real swell.”
    But they’re not paying any attention to me. My mother’s too busy taking his hat and coat like he’s the president. Mr. Mulligan gives the remaining two bouquets to my mother and Me-me, who can’t get over that someone brought her flowers.
    “You shouldn’t have,” Me-me keeps saying in a pleased voice. “No one ever brings me flowers.”
    “What are you talking about?” I say. “I brought you some flowers me and Frankie picked just last week!”
    Me-me shoots me a disapproving look and says, “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Mulligan? Whiskey? Maybe a beer?”
    “How about a glass of milk?” I suggest.
    “Iced tea, if you have it,” Mr. Mulligan says. “And please, call me Pat.”
    Me-me shoos us all into the dining room, where my mother has laid out the table with our best linen and silver and china, which we only use on holidays. This doesn’t count as Christmas in my book, no sirree Bob.
    Then something catches my eye. The sideboard. The wedding photograph of my mother and father is gone!
    “Why don’t you sit here,” Me-me is saying as she ushers Mr. Mulligan to the head of the table.
    My mother comes in carrying a perfect chicken, all golden brown. She’s nervous, and she keeps running back into the kitchen saying she forgot to put out the butter, the rolls, the salt.
    “It sure looks good,” Mr. Mulligan says.
    “You forgot the peas and onions,” Me-me points out.
    “Of course,” my mother says with a forced smile. She returns a moment later with a covered dish.
    “Would you carve, Pat?” Me-me asks Mr. Mulligan.
    “Of course I’ll carve,” Pop-pop says, and picks up the knife and fork.
    Mr. Mulligan looks around a little awkwardly, but nobody says anything.
    “You want white meat or dark meat?” Pop-pop asks Mr. Mulligan.
    “White meat, please,” he says.
    Pop-pop cuts off a huge chunk of dark meat and puts it on Mr. Mulligan’s plate. “Here ya go, dark as night,” he says.
    My mother puts her hand on her forehead.
    “So, Penny,” Mr. Mulligan asks, “how about those Dodgers? Think they have a chance?”
    “My uncle Dominic says they have a shot at the Series,” I say. “My uncle Dominic, that’s my father’s brother, he used to play baseball in the minor leagues. He even got invited to spring training with the Dodgers.”
    “Your uncle sounds like an interesting fella,” Mr. Mulligan says.
    “He is,” I tell him. “And my father was a newspaper writer.”
    “That’s very impressive.”
    “You got to be really smart to be a writer. You go to college?”
    Mr. Mulligan nods again, uncomfortable. “Uh—”
    “Pat,” my mother says in a bright voice, “can I serve you some mashed potatoes?”
    “Please,” Mr. Mulligan says. “You’re a wonderful cook.”
    “Thank you,” my mother says,