everything.”
Nora patted Molly’s shoulder. “Come now, girls, get yourselves dressed. Breakfast is ready. Pancakes!”
Friend let out a mew, as though he knew what “pancakes” meant, and Nora turned. “I’ve a few sardines for you too, you scampy scrap.”
“So,” I said, reaching for syrup, “that was your dad.”
Molly ignored me and began to spoon up grapefruit in tiny bites.
“Shall we look at our list?” I asked, chewing. “Pick something to do today?”
Molly nodded.
“Or should we stay in? The doctor did say you need to take it easy.”
Molly frowned. “He always says that.” Then she shouted out, “Oh, Nora!”
“Yes, miss?” Nora was heading for the door with last night’s dishes.
“How much do you suppose something like a pretty glass lamp shade might cost? At the Woolworth’s store. Just out of curiosity.”
“Hmm. I’d wager about six dollars, if I had to guess,” she called over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” said Molly.
“No reason, eh?” Nora shot her a funny look as she closed the door behind her.
I did the math. There had to have been at least six lamp shades. In a world where a Hershey bar cost a penny, there was no way Molly had forty dollars lying around.
But after breakfast was over, Molly reached into a box on her bookshelf and came out with a thick roll of bills.
“Whoa! Where did you get
that
?” I exclaimed. Even in 1987, it would have been a lot of money for a kid to have. I’d never had forty dollars, I didn’t think.
Molly shrugged. “We get pocket money, Ginny and Maggie and me. I’ve never had a chance to spend mine. But Papa’s very fair, so he pays me each Sunday, just like the others. I’ve been saving for a long time. Years.” She shoved the money deep into her pocket.
Outside, the rain was gone, but it had brought cool air. Below me trees swayed. The wind was strong as I leaned into the railing. In the street an engine sputtered to life. A man in a hat was getting into a car.
“Hey,” I said, elbowing Molly, “isn’t that your dad again?”
Molly nodded.
For a minute we were both quiet. Then Molly said, “Annie?”
“Uh-huh?” I looked at her.
“You really want to go home, don’t you? To your mother?”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course. And I will. It’ll work out. It has to.”
“But you never mention your father at all,” Molly added. “Why is that?”
“Because I don’t have a father,” I said. “It’s only me and Mom.”
“I’m sorry,” said Molly right away. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Really, no big deal. He left us. I never knew him.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” said Molly, staring out at the street.
“Well, yeah, but only because my mom is super cool,” I said.
Molly looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Hmm. It’s kinda like—” I tried to think of a way to explain. “Life
might
be better if you had four hands, right?”
“What?” Molly was smiling now. “No! You’d look
very
queer.”
“Well, yeah, but you could hold a book and eat spaghetti at the same time! You could do things twice as fast. The thing is, two hands are plenty, and that’s what you’re used to. So you’ve never thought to want four.”
“I … suppose.”
“My mom is like that. She’s two hands. She’s plenty. And she was, long before I knew I was supposed to have a dad. So I never thought to want one.”
“
Plenty
sounds nice,” said Molly. “What sort of person is she, your mom?”
I didn’t know what to say. Mom was just Mom.
“Annie?”
“Mom’s just—she’s my
person
, I guess,” I said. My voice felt shaky. I didn’t like it. “She makes terrible jokes and always runs late. But she’s
—there
. You know? She heats up soup when I’m sick. She reads to me, even though I can read to myself. She yells, and I yell back, and that’s okay. She isn’t perfect, but she’s
mine
. Does that make sense?”
Molly was
Nora patted Molly’s shoulder. “Come now, girls, get yourselves dressed. Breakfast is ready. Pancakes!”
Friend let out a mew, as though he knew what “pancakes” meant, and Nora turned. “I’ve a few sardines for you too, you scampy scrap.”
“So,” I said, reaching for syrup, “that was your dad.”
Molly ignored me and began to spoon up grapefruit in tiny bites.
“Shall we look at our list?” I asked, chewing. “Pick something to do today?”
Molly nodded.
“Or should we stay in? The doctor did say you need to take it easy.”
Molly frowned. “He always says that.” Then she shouted out, “Oh, Nora!”
“Yes, miss?” Nora was heading for the door with last night’s dishes.
“How much do you suppose something like a pretty glass lamp shade might cost? At the Woolworth’s store. Just out of curiosity.”
“Hmm. I’d wager about six dollars, if I had to guess,” she called over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” said Molly.
“No reason, eh?” Nora shot her a funny look as she closed the door behind her.
I did the math. There had to have been at least six lamp shades. In a world where a Hershey bar cost a penny, there was no way Molly had forty dollars lying around.
But after breakfast was over, Molly reached into a box on her bookshelf and came out with a thick roll of bills.
“Whoa! Where did you get
that
?” I exclaimed. Even in 1987, it would have been a lot of money for a kid to have. I’d never had forty dollars, I didn’t think.
Molly shrugged. “We get pocket money, Ginny and Maggie and me. I’ve never had a chance to spend mine. But Papa’s very fair, so he pays me each Sunday, just like the others. I’ve been saving for a long time. Years.” She shoved the money deep into her pocket.
Outside, the rain was gone, but it had brought cool air. Below me trees swayed. The wind was strong as I leaned into the railing. In the street an engine sputtered to life. A man in a hat was getting into a car.
“Hey,” I said, elbowing Molly, “isn’t that your dad again?”
Molly nodded.
For a minute we were both quiet. Then Molly said, “Annie?”
“Uh-huh?” I looked at her.
“You really want to go home, don’t you? To your mother?”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course. And I will. It’ll work out. It has to.”
“But you never mention your father at all,” Molly added. “Why is that?”
“Because I don’t have a father,” I said. “It’s only me and Mom.”
“I’m sorry,” said Molly right away. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Really, no big deal. He left us. I never knew him.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” said Molly, staring out at the street.
“Well, yeah, but only because my mom is super cool,” I said.
Molly looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Hmm. It’s kinda like—” I tried to think of a way to explain. “Life
might
be better if you had four hands, right?”
“What?” Molly was smiling now. “No! You’d look
very
queer.”
“Well, yeah, but you could hold a book and eat spaghetti at the same time! You could do things twice as fast. The thing is, two hands are plenty, and that’s what you’re used to. So you’ve never thought to want four.”
“I … suppose.”
“My mom is like that. She’s two hands. She’s plenty. And she was, long before I knew I was supposed to have a dad. So I never thought to want one.”
“
Plenty
sounds nice,” said Molly. “What sort of person is she, your mom?”
I didn’t know what to say. Mom was just Mom.
“Annie?”
“Mom’s just—she’s my
person
, I guess,” I said. My voice felt shaky. I didn’t like it. “She makes terrible jokes and always runs late. But she’s
—there
. You know? She heats up soup when I’m sick. She reads to me, even though I can read to myself. She yells, and I yell back, and that’s okay. She isn’t perfect, but she’s
mine
. Does that make sense?”
Molly was
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