Prince of Air by Ann Hood

doing?” he called to them.
    Little Francois LaSalle stopped.
    â€œLeaving,” he said, his voice sounding very small in the dark, quiet night.
    â€œLeaving? Now?” Felix asked him.
    Francois nodded. “We got kicked out. Said we were trouble.”
    â€œOh no!” Maisie said. “It’s my fault!”
    She ran across the muddy field to Felicity, whose red-rimmed eyes looked even redder than usual.
    â€œI’ll tell them it was my fault,” Maisie said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
    Mrs. LaSalle rested her hand on Maisie’s shoulder.
    â€œThere’s no use explaining to them, Maisie,” she said. “They think we’re troublemakers now, and there’s no changing their minds.”
    â€œBut where will you go?” Maisie asked desperately.
    â€œDon’t worry, darling,” Mrs. LaSalle said. “There’s dime museums all over the Midwest. We’ll catch up with another one, maybe in Pittsburgh or Cleveland. They’re always looking for freaks.”
    â€œBut you aren’t freaks!” Maisie insisted.
    Mrs. LaSalle tousled Maisie’s curls. “We’ll be fine,” she said.
    The three LaSalles started off again.
    â€œFelicity!” Maisie called.
    Felicity turned to her.
    â€œYou’re my best friend,” Maisie told her.
    Felicity grinned. “You’re
my
best friend,” she said, and then she blew Maisie a kiss before continuing on.

    That night on her narrow cot, Maisie couldn’t sleep. All she could think about was the LaSalles’ fate. What would happen to them now? Where were they sleeping? How would they get all the way to Pittsburgh or Cleveland? She hated to think of her friend homeless, ridiculed, and afraid.
    As soon as the first light of morning came through the small window, someone pounded on the door.
    â€œIt’s Harry! Open up!” Harry shouted.
    Maisie got up and let him in.
    â€œPack up,” he said, smiling wide. “I just got booked at Tony Pastor’s.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” Maisie said.
    â€œTony Pastor’s New Fourteenth Street Theater. In New York City,” Harry said. “We’re going back home.”

Mrs. Weiss was not happy to see Maisie and Felix again. She frowned at them and muttered in whatever language she spoke, banging pots and pans onto the small stove.
    â€œMama,” Harry said, throwing his arms around her, “are you making us your famous goulash?”
    â€œTo welcome you back home,” she said, softening.
    Two years earlier, when Mr. Weiss died, Harry had promised to take care of his mother. It was obvious to Maisie and Felix that Mrs. Weiss favored Harry. When he walked into a room, her usually stern face lit up.
    â€œMaisie here is helping me with my enunciation, Mama,” Harry explained. “And Felix is a magician, too.”
    Mrs. Weiss barely glanced at them. “Hah!” she muttered.
    When the oil in the pan began to sizzle, Mrs. Weiss set about slicing onions and tossing them into the hot oil. She sprinkled a big amount of paprika on the onions and stirred. The little kitchen filled with the spicy aroma.
    â€œThat smells really good, Mrs. Weiss,” Felix said.
    â€œAch!” she said dismissively as she took beef cubes from butcher paper. “Everyone out!”
    Harry laughed. “Okay, okay, Mama,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll leave you to your goulash.”
    Out in the parlor, Maisie asked Harry where his family came from.
    â€œAppleton, Wisconsin,” he said.
    â€œHarry,” Maisie said, “your mother is not from Wisconsin. And neither are you.”
    Harry sighed. “Mama and Papa were born in Hungary, yes. In Pest. Papa was a very wise man. A rabbi.”
    â€œHow did you get from Hungary to Wisconsin to here?” Felix asked.
    â€œPapa followed work wherever it went,” Harry said.
    â€œOur father,