Mary Jane by Jessica Anya Blau

All weekend long, I thought about the Cones and the addict rock star/movie star couple who would be moving in. On Saturday, I walked up to Eddie’s market and flipped through People magazineto see if there was any mention of a rock star/movie star couple dealing with an addiction. I wondered if the addict would look like the addicts I’d seen downtown from the window of the car. Skinny people in dirty clothes, leaning against doorways. Or the man with only one limb who pushed himself around on a wide skateboard. I’d seen him many times. Once, I asked my father if we could roll down the window and give him money. Dad didn’t answer, but my mother said, “We can’t roll down the window here.”

That Sunday night, my mother was serving ham, peas with bacon, coleslaw, succotash, and corn muffins and a trifle for dessert. I always stood by and helped while she made dinner. Step by step she’d narrate what she was doing so that I could do it myself when I grew up. If she handed me a knife, she showed me exactly where on it I should place my fingers. If she handed me a whisk and a bowl, she showed me the angle at which I should hold the bowl in the crook of my left arm, and the speed and force with which I should use the whisk with my right hand. But that night she let me prepare the trifle all by myself. Mostly.

When it was time to eat, after I’d set the table, my mother and I sat in our padded-seat chairs, waiting in silence for my father. He finally arrived, still wearing the tie he’d had on at church that morning. The Sunday paper was tucked under his arm.

Dad sat, placed the paper on the table, and put his hands together for prayer. Before he spoke, he dropped his forehead onto the pointed tip of his first fingers. “Thank you, Jesus, for this food on our table and for my wonderful wife and obedient child. God bless this family, God bless our relatives in Idaho, God bless President Ford and his family, and God bless the United States of America.”

“And God bless that man with no legs and only one arm who hangs out near the expressway,” I said.

My father opened one eye and looked at me. He shut the eye and added, “God bless all the poor souls of Baltimore.”

“Amen,” my mother and I said.

“Mary Jane,” my mother said, forking ham onto my father’s plate, “what country club do the Cones belong to?”

“Hmmm.” I chugged from my cup of milk. “I don’t know. They haven’t gone to one since I’ve been babysitting.”

“Certainly not Elkridge.” My dad removed his tie, placed it on the table, and picked up the newspaper. My mother loaded succotash onto his plate.

“How do you know they don’t belong to Elkridge?” I asked. That was our country club.

“It’s spelled C-O-N-E,” my mother said. “I looked it up in the Blue Book.” The Blue Book was a small directory for our neighborhood and the two neighborhoods that abutted us on either side: Guilford and Homeland. You could look up people by address or by name. Children were called Miss if they were girls and Master if they were boys. The Blue Book also listed the occupation of every man, and any women who worked. Sometimes, when I was lying around the house doing nothing, I flipped through the Blue Book, read the names, the children’s names, the father’s job, and tried to imagine what these people looked like, what their house looked like, what food they’d have in their refrigerator.

“The Cones are Jews,” my father said. “Probably changed the name from Co-hen.” He turned the page and then folded the paper in half.

“Well, then not L’Hirondelle, either. What are the names of those two Jewish clubs?” My mother stared at my father. My father stared at the paper. She was holding a corn muffin aloft.

“Are you sure the Cones are Jewish?” I didn’t know any Jewish people. Except now the Cones. And Jesus, who, if I were to believe everything I heard at church, knew me better than I knew him.

“Jim Tuttle told me they’re Jews,” Dad said without looking away from the paper.

“I should have known sooner. A doctor.” My mother placed the muffin onto my father’s plate and picked up the coleslaw.

“They haven’t said anything Jewish,” I said. Though I had no way of knowing what Jewishness might sound like. I knew there was a neighborhood in Baltimore where they all lived—Pikesville—but I’d never been there and I’d never even met someone who’d been there. I’d just heard my parents and their friends mentioning the area in passing, as if they were talking about another country, a country far, far away, where they were unlikely to ever travel.

“I’m sure they’re just being polite.” My mother was onto the peas and bacon. “But being a doctor makes up for being a Jew.”

“What do they have to make up for?” I asked.

My father put the paper down on the table. “It’s just a different type of person, Mary Jane. Different physiognomy. Different rituals. Different holidays. Different schools and country clubs. Different way of speaking.” He picked the paper back up.

“They look normal to me. And they sound the same to me.” Well, there was the shouting. Did all Jews shout? And there were Mrs. Cone’s breasts, which usually seemed on the verge of being exposed. Was that a Jewish thing? If so, it would be interesting, though maybe embarrassing, to travel to Pikesville.

“Look at their hair. It’s often dark and frizzy.” My mother served herself now. I would serve myself after she had fixed her plate. “And look at their long, bumpy noses.”

“Mrs. Cone has red hair and a little button nose like Izzy,” I said.

“Probably a nose job.” My mother held the serving spoon over the coleslaw, stared at it, then dumped half back into the bowl.

My father put the paper down again. “It’s another breed of human. It’s like poodles and mutts. We’re poodles. They’re mutts.”

“One breed doesn’t shed,” my mother said.

“So Jesus was a mutt?” I asked.

“Enough,” my father said, and he snapped the paper in the air as he turned the page.

After dinner, I stood at my closet and looked for the best outfit to wear when I met the rock star and the movie star. Everything was so contained, tidy, new-looking. My mother even ironed my blue jeans.

I pulled out a pair of bell-bottoms. The hem was above my anklebone, what the kids at school would call floods. They had fit last time I’d worn them.

Mom and Dad were in the TV room watching the news. I quietly went down the hall into my mother’s sewing room. On the wall was a rack with hooks on which hung various-size scissors. I took down the heaviest pair and then leaned over and cut up the seam of the jeans. When I got above my knee, I paused. I wanted to go shorter, but would I dare? No, I wouldn’t. I stopped about four inches above my knee and then turned the scissors sideways and cut off the leg. When that leg was done, I did the other, then returned the scissors to their rightful spot.

Back in my bedroom, I stood in front of the door mirror and examined my work. The cut had left a toothed, uneven edge, and one leg was longer than the other. I rolled up the bottoms until they were even.

For my top, I picked out a red-and-white-striped tank top that covered my bra straps. I’d wear the rainbow flip-flops my mother had agreed to buy me after she’d seen the other girls at Elkridge pool wearing them. She didn’t like me to be out of sync almost as much as she didn’t like me to appear dirty or unladylike.

On Monday morning I put on the outfit, rolling up the shorts as little as possible. When I came downstairs my mother looked me over. “Where did you get those shorts?”

“I made them from my bell-bottoms that were too short.”

“You can’t wear them to Elkridge.”

“I know.”

“What if the Cones want to take you to their Jewish country club?”

“I’ll run home and change.”

“And they would be okay with that? It’s not very professional of you.”

“I don’t think they go to a country club, Mom. Izzy and I stayed home all last week. And when she wanted to swim, we walked to the Roland Park Pool.”

“I see.” My mother stared at the cutoffs as if she were looking at a bloody body.

“Please?” I asked.

“It’s your choice. I’m simply trying to lead you down the correct path.” My mother turned her head toward the brewing coffeepot as if she couldn’t bear the sight of me dressed this way.

“I really don’t think they’ll mind if I wear cutoffs.” There was no way I was going to tell her that Izzy spent half her day naked and that Mrs. Cone never wore a bra. And of course I’d never let on that the rock star and the movie star (the addict and his wife) were moving into the Cones’ house. There was the issue of confidentiality; the promise I’d made to Dr. Cone. And the issue of my parents, who would never allow me to set foot into a home where an addict was staying.

“Hmm.” My mother continued to stare at the coffeepot, and then she sighed and almost whispered, “Maybe it’s a Jewish thing.”

I slipped out of the house before she could say anything else. The pretty blond woman was gardening again; she waved as I passed, and I waved back.

I’d been instructed last week to just walk into the Cones’ house without knocking. Still, I stood for a moment on the porch and smoothed my hair back. I looked down at my shorts and felt panicky about the length. Surely a movie star and a rock star would think they were too long. I rolled them up a few more times, until they were binding my thighs like rubber bands.

I put my hand on the doorknob and walked in. The house was silent. Things were slightly tidier than they had been last week. Nothing had been removed, but the stuff that was around had been amassed, stacked. So instead of scattered magazines, there was now a small tower of magazines sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. I headed straight toward the kitchen, which was where I usually found Izzy. When I got there, I almost screamed.

Sitting in the banquette, alone, was Sheba, the one-named movie star who’d once had a variety show, Family First!, on TV with her two singing brothers. I’d watched the show the very first night it aired and never missed an episode. Each week in the opening, Sheba and her two brothers sang three-part harmonies about love, rock and roll, and family. There were always great guest stars like Lee Majors or Farrah Fawcett Majors or Liberace or Yul Brynner. Sheba went through about eight costume changes each show—she played Indian maidens, mermaids, cheerleaders, and even an old lady in one recurring skit.

Family First!was canceled shortly after Sheba had a falling-out with her brothers. The twins and I had read about it in People magazine. Sheba said her brothers thought they were the boss and she was sick of it. It turned out no one wanted to watch the show without Sheba; only two episodes aired without her before All Hat, No Cattle replaced it in the time slot. And Sheba didn’t need the show anyway—she was busy making movies with sexy costars or with horses, and on ranches in Africa. I’d only seen some of her movies, as my mother thought most of them were too racy.

On TV, Sheba had long black hair that hung like a curtain almost to her waist. Her eyes were giant circles with lashes that hit her eyebrows. And her smile flashed like a cube on a camera. As she sat in the Cones’ banquette, I could see that Sheba’s hair was just as long and beautiful. Her eyes were just as big. But her lashes were missing. She was wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top, no bra. Her feet were bare and tucked under her bottom. Her golden skin was as shiny and smooth as a piece of wet suede.

I couldn’t speak.

Sheba glanced up and saw me. “You must be Mary Jane,” she said. “Izzy’s been talking about you.”

I nodded.

“I like your cutoffs.” She smiled and I felt my knees wobble.

“I made them last night. Maybe they’re too long.”

“Well, hell, we can fix that, can’t we?” Sheba scooted out from the banquette and started rummaging around the counter. “How do they find anything in this house?”

“Izzy can usually find things. What are you looking for?”

“Scissors!”

I opened the drawer I’d sorted through one day last week when I had been looking for a vegetable peeler. Scissors had been there, nestled among bottles of nail polish, toenail clippers, a AAA map of Maryland, paper-wrapped (and ripped) chopsticks, sticky loose coins, Wrigley’s gum, rubber bands, and other odds and ends. Magically, the scissors were still there. I pulled them out and handed them to Sheba.

“Go stand on the bench,” Sheba said.

I went to the banquette and climbed up. My hands were shaking. I hoped my legs weren’t shaking.

“Let’s unroll them first.” Sheba unrolled one leg of my shorts. Her hands felt cool and gentle. I unrolled the other.

She laughed. “Were you drunk?!”

“What?”

“When you cut these? Looks like you were drinking!”

“No. I don’t drink.”

“I’m teasing.” Sheba winked at me, then inserted the scissors into the edge of one leg and started cutting upward. “Turn slowly.”

I rotated and Sheba glided the scissors, cold against my skin, around my thighs until I was facing front again. The shorts leg was barely longer than my underpants. My mother would die.

“Good?”

I nodded. Sheba dug the scissors into the other leg. I turned slowly. When I came back around, the Cone family had entered the room with a man who looked familiar but whose name I didn’t know. The addict, I presumed. He held a heavy hardcover book in one giant hand.

“We’re fixing her shorts,” Sheba said.

“Hurrah!” Mrs. Cone said, and she winked at me.

“Mary Jane!” Izzy shouted. “Sheba lives here now but we can’t tell anyone!”

Everyone laughed, even the rock star whose identity was coming back to me. I remembered reading about Sheba marrying him shortly after Family First! was canceled. Her brothers disapproved and her family disowned her. He was the lead singer of a band called Running Water. The cool girls at school loved Running Water, but I couldn’t name a single song of theirs.

“I’m Jimmy,” the rock star said, and he stuck out his hand. I put out mine, as I assumed he wanted to shake as Dr. Cone had done that first day. Instead Jimmy just held on. I paused, unsure as to why he was grasping my shaky hand, and then realized he was helping me down from the bench. I took a quick breath and stepped down, my eyes on the floor so no one could see my red face.

“I’m Mary Jane,” I almost whispered. I glanced up and then away again. Jimmy didn’t look like an addict. But he did look like a guy in a band. His dyed-white hair was spiked up all over his head. His shirt was open to his navel, revealing a flat surface of curly black hair with two nipples popping out like tiny pig snouts from a bramble. He wore a leather cord around his neck, three blue feathers hanging off it. He, too, was barefoot and wearing cutoff shorts.

“You know what we need,” Sheba said. Everyone looked at her expectantly.

“Popsicles?” Izzy asked.

“Well, those, too. But look at us. We’re a six-pack and only three of us have on cutoffs.”

“We all need cutoffs!” Izzy shrieked, and ran out of the room. Normally, I would have followed her—being with Izzy was my job, after all. But I was disoriented by Sheba in the room and the fact that I was now wearing shorts so small, it felt like there was wind blowing on my bottom. I went silent and still, as if that might make me invisible, and listened to the grown-ups talking. They were smiley, energetic, and happy. No one seemed insane or addict-y.

Mrs. Cone went to the freezer, pushed stuff around, and pulled out a single half Popsicle. The white paper looked like it had been ripped open with teeth; the Popsicle itself had the white acne of frost over it. “Mary Jane,” she said. “Maybe you and Izzy can walk up to Eddie’s and get some Popsicles.”

“Sure,” I said. Izzy and I had walked up to Eddie’s every afternoon last week except the first day, when we’d gone to the Little Tavern. It turned out that no one in the Cone family cooked. At the deli counter of Eddie’s, Izzy and I had picked out dinner, to be served after I went home to have dinner with my parents. I picked out pasta salads, bean salads, roasted chicken and fried chicken, steamed corn and peas, and cheesy twice-baked potatoes. Also, because Izzy loved them, we always got bags of Utz barbeque potato chips. Dr. Cone had given me the number to their account, and told me I could get whatever snacks and foods I wanted too. So far, I had been too scared to use it for food for myself.

Izzy tumbled into the kitchen, holding a heap of jeans. “Cutoffs!” she shouted. “One for me, one for Mommy, one for Dad.”

Sheba began singing a made-up song about cutoff jeans. “Cut them off, little Izzy, cut them off. . . .” She picked up Mrs. Cone’s jeans and held them out to Mrs. Cone. Mrs. Cone slipped them on right there under her flimsy cotton dress. Sheba got on her knees and started cutting. She was still singing the “Cut Them Off” song.

Dr. Cone examined his own jeans. “This is my only pair.”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Jimmy said, and then he started singing the “Cut Them Off” song too.

Dr. Cone unbuttoned his chinos and I turned around before he dropped his pants. No one else turned around, though, so I went to the refrigerator and said, “Does anyone want some milk?” No one responded, but I took out the milk anyway. Izzy and I had bought it last week. It was good. Smooth. No chunks.

By the time I turned around again, Dr. Cone was wearing his jeans, waiting beside Mrs. Cone, who had one leg cut off and one leg long.

“Me next!” Izzy stripped off her dress and underpants so she was completely naked. I put the milk back and went to her.

“You can wear your underpants.” I picked them up from the kitchen floor and held them open while she stepped back in them. “I’ll go get you a shirt.”

I picked up Izzy’s dress and rushed upstairs. Her door was shut, keeping the witch out. Last week I’d spent a little time each day putting things in order, and I was pleased to see that her room was still tidy and organized. All her shirts were in one drawer, folded and arranged by color. I was wearing a rainbow-striped tank, so I pulled out Izzy’s rainbow-striped tank. It seemed like a fun idea to match.

When I returned to the kitchen, Sheba was cutting Izzy’s jeans and Mrs. Cone had tied her dress around her waist like a shirt. “Do you want me to get you a shirt?” I asked.

“Maybe there’s one in the laundry pile,” Mrs. Cone said.

The laundry pile was on the couch in the TV room. Last Thursday, Izzy and I had watched Match Game ’75 while I folded and sorted everything. The piles of folded clothes remained where I had left them, lined up on the floor. But the couch now held a new pile of clean clothes.

I ignored the heap, went to what I’d folded, and pulled out Mrs. Cone’s only clean shirt, a white tank top. I’d seen her in it before, and it was embarrassingly see-through. Would Mrs. Cone worry about her nipples showing with Sheba and Jimmy in the room? Maybe not, as Dr. Cone had just removed his pants in front of everyone. And no one even noticed when Izzy was completely naked. I liked the idea of all the girls being in tank tops, so I took a chance and hurried back with it.

I handed Mrs. Cone the tank. She took it and then lifted her dress straight off her head so she was completely nude on top. My breath left my lungs. I tried not to stare, but I didn’t know how to stop. I quickly glanced around the kitchen. No one else was looking at Mrs. Cone. Not the rock star, who was monitering how Sheba cut the second leg of Izzy’s pants. Not Sheba, who had her eyes focused on the scissors. Not Izzy, who was staring at me, grinning, as if getting her pants cut into shorts was the greatest fun a kid could have. And not Dr. Cone, who stood with his hands on his hips, waiting.

At Sheba’s urging, Dr. Cone took a Polaroid picture of all of us in our cutoff shorts. How strange it was to see myself, Mary Jane Dillard, in a photo wearing shorts the size of underpants, standing with Sheba and her furry-chested rock star husband; Mrs. Cone, whose white circular breasts had recently been flashed at me; Dr. Cone, with his goaty sideburns; and sweet Izzy, who was pushed up against my torso like we were two Legos snapped together. I looked so happy. So in place. I looked like there was nowhere in the world I’d rather be. And, really, that was true just then. There was no place I’d rather be.

There was so much chatter and excitement around the new shorts that I’d forgotten that Jimmy was there for therapy. The moment ended when Dr. Cone gave Jimmy a little pat on the back and said, “Time for work, my friend.”

“Let’s go to Eddie’s for Popsicles,” I said to Izzy. I went to the drawer that had held the scissors and pulled out two rubber bands so I could put a couple of braids in Izzy’s hair before we left.

“Maybe we have to put a wig and sunglasses on you and get you to Eddie’s one day,” Mrs. Cone said to Sheba. “The customer-to-employee ratio is one to one. It’s a trip, man!”

“Are we south of the Mason–Dixon Line?” Sheba asked, and the two of them drifted out of the kitchen. I started braiding Izzy’s hair as Dr. Cone and Jimmy made their way out the screen door to the backyard, a package of Oreos dangling from Dr. Cone’s right hand. Before he crossed the lawn, Dr. Cone came back, opened the screen door, and said, “Mary Jane, will you get some sugary sweets at Eddie’s too? And bring them and one box of Popsicles to my office?”

“How many Popsicle boxes should I get?” I fastened a rubber band over Izzy’s braid.

“As many as you and Izzy can carry.”

“I can carry a lot!” Izzy lifted her soft little arm and made an invisible muscle.

I wanted to ask Dr. Cone exactly what sugary sweets he wanted, but he turned and followed Jimmy across the weedy lawn to the garage-barn-office.

Izzy dropped to the floor and shoved her tiny fingers between her tinier toes. She picked out fuzzy black dirt while singing Sheba’s cutoffs song. I had a feeling she hadn’t been washed since I’d scrubbed her Thursday afternoon.

“Do you want to go swimming after we go to Eddie’s or do you want to take a bath?” I squatted beside her and braided the other half of her hair.

Izzy shrugged and kept picking.

“We can decide after we get Popsicles.” I scooped up Izzy in my arms. She wrapped her legs around my waist and I hobbled out of the kitchen. In the entrance hall I found two flip-flops, each from a different pair. I searched around for the mate to either and then decided, what difference did it make?

I put Izzy down near the front door and placed the mismatched flip-flops in front of her feet. “Look, it’s like two different Popsicles.” I could hear Mrs. Cone and Sheba on the second floor and wondered what they were doing there. What would they do all day while Jimmy was being cured?

Normally, to get to Eddie’s, Izzy and I would walk past my house. That day we had to take an alternate route lest we run into my mother, who would disapprove of my short-shorts.

“Let’s go up Hawthorne,” I suggested. Hawthorne was one street over and ran the same direction as our street, Woodlawn, meaning my mother rarely had any reason to drive on Hawthorne (though she always made it a point to do so on any holiday so she could see how people had decorated).

Izzy took my hand and skipped, while I took bigger steps to keep us side by side. We looked at the big clapboard and shingle houses, most with a front porch of some kind and painted shutters. The colors were all Colonial, dictated by the neighborhood association. The white houses had black shutters; the ocher-colored houses had burgundy shutters. The yellow houses had green shutters, and the green houses had black shutters. The blue houses had either darker blue shutters or black shutters. Front doors were either black or red lacquer. And many of the porch ceilings were painted a sky blue.

Izzy spotted a plastic Barbie van on a front lawn and stopped to play with it. I figured if the owner had left it outside, she shouldn’t mind if Izzy pushed it around a bit.

“Do you think Sheba and Jimmy own a van?” Izzy asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “They might have lots of cars.”

“I bet they own a limousine.”

“We can ask them.”

“We’re not allowed to tell anyone they’re here.”

“I know.”

“What’s an addict?” Izzy scooted the van up the cobblestone walkway toward the steps of the wraparound porch.

“Mmmm, it’s a person who does something that’s not good for them, but they can’t stop doing it.”

“Like when I pick my nose?”

“No. Because you stop. You pick and then stop.”

“But Mom keeps yelling at me, STOP PICKING YOUR NOSE!” We were back at the sidewalk now. Izzy placed the van on the grass and took my hand.

“But picking your nose isn’t bad for you. Addicts use drugs or alcohol.” I didn’t mention sex, though the idea of a sex addict had poisoned my brain since Dr. Cone had mentioned it. The words sex addict came to me at the strangest times. I never said them, but they hovered behind my lips like a mouthful of spit that I wanted to hock out. Like when my mother asked me to iron the napkins, I wanted to shout, “Yes, sex addict!” And when Izzy and I went to the Roland Park Pool and the lifeguard had blown her whistle and told Izzy to walk, I wanted to say, “Don’t worry, sex addict, I’ll make sure she walks!” Maybe I was addicted to the words sex addict.

Izzy talked for the remainder of the walk. She named all her repetitive habits and activities so we could try to figure out if she was an addict. Right when we got to Eddie’s, she asked, “What about closing my door because of the witch?”

An old man with dark brown skin that looked more cracked than wrinkled opened the door for us. He winked at me. I smiled and said thank youas we passed. That man had been working that door my whole life. He always said hello or smiled, though I was never sure if he recognized me.

“Do you believe in the witch?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the witch is just in your imagination.” I led us toward the freezer aisle.

“Nah. Mom and Dad never said it was imagination.”

Why would a psychiatrist let his daughter think there was a witch in the house?I wondered. But I said: “Then closing the door is a good thing.”

“Do you believe in the witch?”

“Uh, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen a witch.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you seen him?” Izzy smiled. I wondered if she’d heard this argument elsewhere and was repeating it. Or maybe she was just that smart.

“Okay, I’ll believe in the witch. Let’s get a cart so we don’t have to carry the cold Popsicles in our arms.” On the way back to the entrance, we passed a man in a green apron stocking a shelf. A celery-stalk-shaped woman stood talking to him. I thought of what Mrs. Cone said to Sheba about the employee-to-shopper ratio being one to one. “I have an idea for a game, Izzy. You count the people shopping and I’ll count the people working.”

The carts at Eddie’s were smaller than the regular grocery store ones. Izzy climbed on the far end, clasped her tiny fingers through the metal-cage edge, and rode backward. This gave me a small, interior thrill, as it was something I’d always wanted to do. Cart-riding was forbidden by my mother, who thought it was the childhood equivalent of racing a motorcycle without a helmet.

“Okay.” Izzy’s head bobbed as she started counting. “Why?”

“So we can find the employee-to-shopper ratio.”

“What’s a ratio? I forgot my number.”

“Let’s start at the far aisle. We won’t shop yet; we’ll just walk and count, and then we’ll go through the aisles all over again and shop.”

“OKAY!” Izzy excitedly lifted a fist. “But what’s a ratio?”

“It’s one number compared to another. So the ratio of me to you is one to one. The ratio of you to your parents is one to two.”

“Because I’m one girl and my parents are two girls. Or a girl and a boy.”

“Yes, exactly. There are two of them and one of you. Two to one.”

“The ratio of me to the witch is one to one.”

“Yeah, but I’m on your side, so the ratio of me and you to the witch is two to one.”

“We’re a team.”

“Yeah.”

“The ratio of Sheba and Jimmy to me, you, my mom and my dad is two . . .”

“Two to four.”

“I was gonna say that.”

We’d reached the far right aisle. “Okay, let’s start counting, and then we’ll walk along the checkout area and you count people in line and I’ll count checkers and baggers.”

“Yes!” Izzy pumped a fist again and almost fell off the cart.

“Ready?” We were poised at the far end. “No talking until we’re done with the count. And don’t get distracted by food you see.”

“Okay.” Izzy nodded enthusiastically. She was taking this task very seriously. “Wait!”

“What?”

“Do you think any of these people are addicts?”

Only a day ago I would have said, No way, not in Roland Park. But now that I’d met Jimmy and he appeared to be so normal—well, rock star normal—it seemed like anyone could be an addict. I mean, the more the words sex addict popped into my head, the more convinced I was that I was a sex addict. One who hadn’t yet kissed a boy.

“Maybe,” I compromised.

“Maybe,” Izzy repeated. She seemed unbothered by the possibility.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

I pushed the cart and we carefully started through the narrow aisles. When we turned down the canned goods aisle I sucked in a huge breath. My mother was standing in front of the stacked Campbell’s soups, running her pink fingernail along the cans. Her blond hair was in a blue headband and she wore a knee-length blue dress with a white scalloped hem. I had a similar dress, which I often wore to church.

Izzy looked at me and I put my finger against my lips to make sure she didn’t speak. Slowly, I backed out of the aisle, turned, and went to the next aisle.

“Mary Jane—”

I violently shook my head and put my fingers to my lips again.

Izzy half-whispered, “Mary Jane, what about the ratio?”

I pulled Izzy’s head toward mine, put my mouth against her ear, and whispered, “We’re hiding from someone in the next aisle.”

“The witch?!” Izzy said loudly.

I wondered if anyone in the Cone house ever fully whispered. They yelled so much that it had started to feel like plain old talking to me. And when they talked, it felt almost like a whisper.

“Witches hate grocery stores.” I turned the cart around so I was facing the checkout counters. I couldn’t see each cashier, but would see if my mother went to the middle one.

And then my mother turned up on the far end of the aisle we were on.

I jerked the cart and dashed around to the canned soup aisle. What was my mother doing in the store now?She went shopping every Friday morning. Today was Monday! She’d already gone shopping for the week!

I considered pulling Izzy from the cart and running from the store. We could wait behind the newspaper boxes, spying to see when my mother walked out.

Then I remembered the gift corner. There wasn’t much there: packaged candies, boxed chocolates, and some coffee mugs and aprons that had eddie’sprinted on the front. The wheels of the cart wobbled and clacked as I almost sprinted toward the gifts and then came to a jerking stop.

“What are we doing?” Izzy whisper-shouted. “What about the ratio?!”

“Let’s pretend we’re chefs!” I pulled two aprons off the rack and put one on myself quickly. I put the top loop of the other apron over Izzy’s head and then tied it around her waist. It was like a maxi dress on her. I was double knotting it behind her back when my mother strolled up.

“Mary Jane?” My mother’s body was stiff, upright, an ironing board on end.

“Mom! This is Izzy.”

“Hello, dear.” My mother nodded down once at Izzy, who stared at her, openmouthed and bug-eyed, as if my mother were the witch. “Is it safe to ride on the cart like that?”

“What are you doing here?” I ignored my mother’s question, and Izzy didn’t answer either. She must have intuited that my mother’s words were a statement of disapproval disguised as a question.

“Your father called from work and said his stomach was upset. I need to change the dinner menu tonight.”

“Oh, poor Dad.”

“Why are you in aprons?” Mom’s head tocked to the side. I could almost hear her thoughts. She didn’t like dillydallying and obviously didn’t approve of what appeared to be dangerous game-playing in the grocery store.

Quickly, I blurted out, “Mrs. Cone asked me to buy some for them and I thought it would be fun to wear them while we shopped.”

“Are you doing the grocery shopping for Mrs. Cone?” Now she actually showed her disapproval on her furrowed brow. To my mother, shopping for one’s home was serious business.

“We need Popsicles,” Izzy said. Her voice wasn’t as jumpy and high as usual.

“I thought we’d start with the aprons, you know. To make the shopping more exciting.”

“Hm.” My mother nodded, examining me. “I suggest you don’t wear them until you pay for them.”

“But it’s so much fun for Izzy.” I held my mother’s gaze and smiled.

“I’d think twice about that if I were you.” Mom turned her head toward Izzy, balancing on the end of the cart. “And you need to be safe, too.”

“Okay. Yeah, maybe we’ll hang out here a few minutes, just for fun.” I finally glanced at Izzy, who was now staring at me. She seemed confused but also appeared to know that she shouldn’t say anything.

“See you tonight, dear.” My mother turned abruptly and walked to the closest checkout counter. She didn’t look back at us. I could feel my heart like a drum in my chest and knew it wouldn’t stop until my mother was entirely out of the store.

“Your mom is scary,” Izzy actually whispered.

“Really?” It never occured to me that she looked or seemedscary to anyone but me. Her voice was always in a steady, calm middle tone. She was tidy. Clean. Not many wrinkles. Her hair was blonder than mine. If she colored it, she didn’t let me know.

“Does she spank you?”

“No, not often.” She’d whacked me across the head many times. But she’d never pulled me over her knee. My father had never spanked me either, but he did have a big fist that balled up in silence when he was angry. Usually his anger was directed toward the newspaper, or the news. He disliked many politicians, and he particularly hated the heads of most foreign countries.

When my mother finally walked out of the store, my body relaxed, my blood felt like warm milk. I turned the cart and Izzy and I went down the nearest aisle.

“Uh-oh.” Izzy looked up at me, her mouth held in an O from the word oh. “I don’t remember my number for the ratio.”

“I do.”

“You remember my number?”

“Yes. Well. No.” It was one thing to lie to my mother; it was another to lie to Izzy. “We’ll start from this end and we’ll count all over again. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I returned the aprons before we checked out. Izzy had counted fifty customers and I had counted twenty-six employees.

“So our ratio is twenty-six to fifty,” I said.

“And the ratio of me and you to the witch is two to one.”

“Yes. And the ratio of me and you to my mom is two to one.”

“Because we’re on the same team?”

“Yeah.” I tugged one of Izzy’s braids. “We’re on the same team.”

I held a brown paper bag in each arm and Izzy held one with two hands in front of her. Nothing was too heavy, but we had bought a lot: five boxes of Popsicles, six bags of M&M’s, five boxes of Screaming Yellow Zonkers popcorn, five Chunky bars, five Baby Ruth bars, three rolls of candy buttons, six candy necklaces (one for each person in the household), and handfuls of Laffy Taffy and Bazooka bubble gum. I hoped that I had bought neither too much nor too little. Dr. Cone’s instructions had been so vague that failure seemed highly likely. When my mother sent me to Eddie’s to get something for her, the instructions were specific: one shaker of Old Bay Seasoning in the small rectangular shaker, not in the larger cylinder; one white onion the size of your father’s fist, no brown spots; and three carrots, each the length from your wrist bone to the tip of your middle finger. All Dr. Cone had said was “some sugary sweets.”

Once we had passed my cross street, we cut back over to Woodlawn. The blond woman was out gardening again. As we approached, she sat up on her knees, pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her gloved hand, and said hello.

“We got lots of sweets!” Izzy said, and we both paused.

I put down my bags and Izzy put down hers as well. The woman stood and walked to the edge of her lawn so she was standing right beside us.

“What did you get?” She peered at the bags.

Izzy pointed. “Popsicles and candy and popcorn and bubble gum and . . . what else?”

“Holy moly! Lucky you!” The woman smiled at Izzy. “Are you the summer nanny?” she asked me.

“Yes. For Dr. and Mrs. Cone.”

“I’m Izzy.” Izzy pulled out a box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. “Can we have this?”

“Sure.” I took the box from her and opened it, then handed it back.

Izzy stuck her little hand into the box and pulled out a fistful of shellacked popcorn with peanuts frozen in the gaps like insects in amber. “Want some?” she asked the woman.

“Sure.” The woman removed her gloves and stuck her hand in the box. “What’s your name?” she asked me.

“Mary Jane Dillard.”

“Oh, you’re Betsy and Gerald’s daughter.” She plucked a piece of popcorn from her palm and stuck it in her mouth. “I met your mom at the Elkridge Club. My husband and I are thinking of joining.”

“Do you know my mom and dad?” Izzy asked.

“Mmm . . . what are your parents’ names again? I’m new here, so I’m just getting to know people.”

“Mommy and Daddy!” Bits of popcorn flew from Izzy’s mouth as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll have to walk over and introduce myself.”

“Dr. and Mrs. Cone are very busy this summer,” I said quickly.

“My dad is Richard.” Izzy handed the box back to the woman, who took another handful and then passed the box to me. “And my mom is Bonnie.”

“I’m Mrs. Jones. But there are three Mrs. Joneses in this neighborhood, so you can call me Beanie.”

“Beanie?!” Izzy laughed.

“That’s what my parents called me when I was little. I was so skinny, I looked like a string bean. And then it stuck and now everyone calls me Beanie.”

“Does Mr. Beanie call you Beanie?” Izzy asked.

“Mr. Jones calls me Beanie. Yes.”

“Do your kids call you Beanie?”

“Mr. Jones and I haven’t been blessed with children yet.” Beanie Jones smiled. When my mother’s friend, Mrs. Funkhauser, talked about not having kids, she seemed sad, but this wasn’t a sad smile. Beanie Jones turned her head toward the house and then I could hear it too: through the wide-open front door, the phone was ringing. “Oh, I have to get that! You girls have fun.” She ran toward the phone.

“Should we leave her the rest of the box?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah.” I folded down the wax paper and closed the box, then set it on the cobblestone walkway.

“What if a dog eats it first?”

“Run it up to the porch.”

Izzy picked up the box, ran up to the wide blue-floored porch, and placed the box on a little glass table that stood between two cushioned wrought-iron chairs.

When Izzy and I walked in the house, the Cone phone was ringing. No one seemed to be answering, so I rushed into the kitchen, put the bags down on the table, and looked for the phone. I found it between a stack of phone books and a Hills Bros. Coffee can that held pencils, pens, and a dirty wooden ruler.

“Cone residence, this is Mary Jane.”

“Mary Jane! You’re back.” It was Dr. Cone.

“Yeah, we got lots of sweets.”

“Great. Can you bring some out to my office?”

“Okay. Popsicles and—”

“You pick an assortment. Just lots of sweets.”

“Okay.”

Dr. Cone hung up and I looked at the phone for a second before setting it in the cradle. My stomach churned. I was still worried about bringing the correct sweets to Dr. Cone and Jimmy.

“Can I have a Popsicle?” Izzy asked.

“Just a half. Don’t want to spoil your dinner.”

Izzy ripped open a Popsicle box and sat on the floor, removing Popsicles one by one. I could tell she was looking for the right color. The Popsicles had started to melt during our walk, so the colors were printing through the wrapper.

“Purple.” Izzy handed me a purple Popsicle. I placed the gully between the two sticks against the edge of the kitchen table and then slapped the top one with the heel of my palm. The Popsicle broke into two perfect halves. I ripped off the paper, gave one half to Izzy, and stuck the other in my mouth. I held it between my lips, melting, as I unloaded the sugary treats onto the kitchen table.

Next, I opened the freezer door and looked inside. A warty, hoary frost covered all the contents, like the Abominable Snowman had vomited in there. Few things could be identified past a shape: rectangle, edgy blob, carton. “How about we clean out the freezer today?”

“Okay!”

I took out a few boxes of unknowns and placed them on the dirty dishes in the sink to make room for the Popsicles. Then I shoved in all the boxes of Popsicles but one, which I placed in the bottom of an empty Eddie’s bag. On top of the Popsicles I put two boxes of Zonkers, and then two of each of the other candies.

“I’ll be right back.” I headed out the screen door as Izzy flipped over to her stomach and continued sucking her Popsicle. I was nervous about getting the sweets order right. But, I realized, far less nervous than when I’d run into my mother at Eddie’s.

I paused in the middle of the lawn, looked up toward the sun, and shut my eyes for just a few seconds. My heart wasn’t even beating hard. In fact, I felt wonderful.