tricksters from beneath the finest hotels, twirling their bags with deft wrists, carrying hundreds of squirming rodents.
I’d brought home a stray cat once, thinking it would help keep the rats away. He was sleek and black, with ears so thin they looked like bat’s wings. I called him Soot. I named him before I caught him because I thought if he had a name, he’d be more likely to stay in one place. Mama scolded me as soon as she saw him and then she threw him out the door. “Shame on you, Moth,” she complained. “You know proper Gypsies don’t keep cats.”
Whenever she heard a rat in our rooms, she’d stomp around the place with a broom, banging the end of the handle on the walls, floors and ceilings. Then she’d pass the rest of the night in fits and starts, bolting up in bed and saying, “Ssst. Did you hear that? Damn rat. Oh, Moth, did you hear it?” I would lie next to her, listening hard, fighting to keep my eyes open. I hoped that if a rat did try to eat me, I’d be strong enough to beat the hungry, chattering thing to death.
There was a rat inside Mrs. Riordan’s mattress, moving underneath me. I felt it come up through a hole at the end of the bed, slither past my ankle and tug at the hem of my dress. Not wanting to startle my host, I grabbed hold of my skirt and shook it, desperate to scare the rodent away.
“Shh, child, don’t be afraid,” Mrs. Riordan cooed in the dark. “They’ll settle down soon enough. You’ll see. They’re sweet, like children. The more you don’t want them around, the more they wish to be near you.”
I gave up trying to sleep. I lay there in the dark trying to figure out why Mama had gone. Before she’d sent me away, she’d grown devoted to staying put, sometimes not leaving the house for days. She’d sat in her chair by the window, talking through memories of her youth and of travelling with her father’s medicine show, of horses pulling beautiful caravans and days spent rafting along rivers from place to place, stopping to camp when the moon was full. That life had sounded better to me than any other I could imagine—even the one where our rooms and clothes and Chrystie Street were new again and my father had never gone away. “Let’s go to the river tonight, Mama,” I’d begged. “We’ll find the Gypsies and go with them. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.”
Shaking her head, she’d told me no. Her face had turned pale as she said, “As soon as I leave this spot—that will be the moment your father will come home. This city is filled with too many women, each one waiting to take another’s place. If I’m not here, some other woman will be here to open the door. She’ll welcome him, she’ll feed him. He’ll forget all about me and take up with the new one. You know Mrs. Peale from two doors down? Well, I can tell you for certain that weren’t the same Mrs. Peale who was there a year ago. Where’s that first Mrs. Peale, the one I knew?”
Mrs. James, Mrs. Deery, the first Mrs. Peale—all the women who came to Mama ended up asking the same question, Does my man love me?
Mama would never tell them yes or no. She’d just look her petitioner in the eyes and ask, “Does he watch you when you walk away? Not with lust, mind you, but with care. As if he’s worried you might just up and disappear.”
At that, the woman would either sigh with relief or break down in tears. Then Mama would collect her fee and show the woman the door.
I’d often wondered if Mama’s test for love held true for everyone, even for mothers and daughters. The night Mrs. Wentworth took me by the hand and led me down the steps, I’d hoped to turn and see Mama wave one last goodbye. All she did was pull the curtain shut and turn down the light. She didn’t watch me walk away.
My heartbreak that night was terribly polite. It let me know it was coming for me, even when I insisted on ignoring it. This won’t end well , a quiet voice whispered from the centre of my
I’d brought home a stray cat once, thinking it would help keep the rats away. He was sleek and black, with ears so thin they looked like bat’s wings. I called him Soot. I named him before I caught him because I thought if he had a name, he’d be more likely to stay in one place. Mama scolded me as soon as she saw him and then she threw him out the door. “Shame on you, Moth,” she complained. “You know proper Gypsies don’t keep cats.”
Whenever she heard a rat in our rooms, she’d stomp around the place with a broom, banging the end of the handle on the walls, floors and ceilings. Then she’d pass the rest of the night in fits and starts, bolting up in bed and saying, “Ssst. Did you hear that? Damn rat. Oh, Moth, did you hear it?” I would lie next to her, listening hard, fighting to keep my eyes open. I hoped that if a rat did try to eat me, I’d be strong enough to beat the hungry, chattering thing to death.
There was a rat inside Mrs. Riordan’s mattress, moving underneath me. I felt it come up through a hole at the end of the bed, slither past my ankle and tug at the hem of my dress. Not wanting to startle my host, I grabbed hold of my skirt and shook it, desperate to scare the rodent away.
“Shh, child, don’t be afraid,” Mrs. Riordan cooed in the dark. “They’ll settle down soon enough. You’ll see. They’re sweet, like children. The more you don’t want them around, the more they wish to be near you.”
I gave up trying to sleep. I lay there in the dark trying to figure out why Mama had gone. Before she’d sent me away, she’d grown devoted to staying put, sometimes not leaving the house for days. She’d sat in her chair by the window, talking through memories of her youth and of travelling with her father’s medicine show, of horses pulling beautiful caravans and days spent rafting along rivers from place to place, stopping to camp when the moon was full. That life had sounded better to me than any other I could imagine—even the one where our rooms and clothes and Chrystie Street were new again and my father had never gone away. “Let’s go to the river tonight, Mama,” I’d begged. “We’ll find the Gypsies and go with them. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.”
Shaking her head, she’d told me no. Her face had turned pale as she said, “As soon as I leave this spot—that will be the moment your father will come home. This city is filled with too many women, each one waiting to take another’s place. If I’m not here, some other woman will be here to open the door. She’ll welcome him, she’ll feed him. He’ll forget all about me and take up with the new one. You know Mrs. Peale from two doors down? Well, I can tell you for certain that weren’t the same Mrs. Peale who was there a year ago. Where’s that first Mrs. Peale, the one I knew?”
Mrs. James, Mrs. Deery, the first Mrs. Peale—all the women who came to Mama ended up asking the same question, Does my man love me?
Mama would never tell them yes or no. She’d just look her petitioner in the eyes and ask, “Does he watch you when you walk away? Not with lust, mind you, but with care. As if he’s worried you might just up and disappear.”
At that, the woman would either sigh with relief or break down in tears. Then Mama would collect her fee and show the woman the door.
I’d often wondered if Mama’s test for love held true for everyone, even for mothers and daughters. The night Mrs. Wentworth took me by the hand and led me down the steps, I’d hoped to turn and see Mama wave one last goodbye. All she did was pull the curtain shut and turn down the light. She didn’t watch me walk away.
My heartbreak that night was terribly polite. It let me know it was coming for me, even when I insisted on ignoring it. This won’t end well , a quiet voice whispered from the centre of my
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