The Orphan and the Mouse Page 4

  Caro laughed. She liked Melissa. She was lazy but also funny, and she could imitate people’s voices, too. Sometimes in the washroom she playacted Mrs. George, and all the girls howled with laughter.

  Like a lot of the children at Cherry Street, Melissa was not a true orphan. Rather, she had been an extra mouth to feed in a big family without means. One day, overwhelmed by responsibilities he couldn’t meet, her father had gone out for cigarettes and never returned. When Melissa first arrived, she wouldn’t talk about herself. Whether it was because their families didn’t want them, were poor, or didn’t exist, new arrivals were often ashamed.

  Eventually, though, they woke up to realize that everyone else was in the same predicament. They were “a bunch of poor unloved rejects,” according to Ricky. And so, over time, Melissa, like the others, had found her place.

  “Maybe you should audition for Miss Joanna Grahame,” Caro told Melissa.

  “Maybe I should.” Melissa reached for the polishing rag, only to see that Caro had already finished with it. “There, you’ve gone and done my work for me again.”

  “Fancy that,” said Caro. “Come on. It’s ten to eleven.”

  Caro and Melissa untied their aprons, returned the cleaning supplies, and hurried to the washroom, where the other intermediate girls—Barbara, Betty, and Ginny—stood at the sinks, toweling off their scrubbed faces.

  There was a good deal of noise in the washroom, a little pushing, moderate amounts of splashing, and some scrutinizing of blemishes in the mirror before—with one minute to spare—the girls raced down the corridor to the foyer, a grand room with a marble floor, a domed ceiling, and a far-off chandelier, to await the arrival of Joanna Grahame.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mr. Donald and Matron Polly did their best to keep the children quiet and in order, but it was a losing battle. First Billy and Louisa made faces at each other and giggled, then one of the boys, probably fourteen-year-old Ned, made a rude noise, causing all the boys to laugh and all the girls to roll their eyes, sigh, and shake their heads.

  Just as things threatened to get altogether out of control, the double doors opened wide to reveal—backlit by sunshine—the movie star herself.

  “Children?” Mrs. George said. “May I introduce a new friend of Cherry Street? This is Miss Joanna Grahame.”

  “Good morning, children!” Miss Grahame greeted them.

  “Good morning, miss,” the children replied.

  She was beautiful in the thin-lipped, strong-jawed way that had become popular during the war. Her dark-gold hair was straight and shoulder-length. She wore a snug pale-pink suit, matching gloves, and a hat crowned by a single black feather. She carried a pink patent leather pocketbook.

  The children watched in awe as Joanna Grahame tugged her gloves from her hands and made her way into the room, smiling her marquee-strength smile. Her movements were so straight-backed, elegant, and purposeful that Mrs. George, trailing in her wake, seemed diminished.

  Caro had always thought of herself as supremely sensible; certainly not star-struck like Melissa. Now, regarding a movie star for the first time, she felt her knees weaken. She had never seen anyone so beautiful. If only she could be like her. If only there were a magic wand powerful enough to make that transformation.

  The actress did not greet every child but only the ones who struck her fancy. She would have passed Caro right by, but Mrs. George directed her attention. “I’d like you to meet one of our finest young ladies, Miss Grahame,” she said. “This is Carolyn McKay.”

  Miss Grahame turned, met Caro’s eye, and held out her hand.

  Caro blanched.

  How could she have failed to anticipate this?

  There was nothing to be done, though. She held her hand out in return; the star grasped it automatically . . . and her smile turned to an expression of disgust. “Oh!” She looked at Caro’s misshapen fingers, the angry pink-and-white scars that reached almost to her elbow. Then she pulled away and snapped at Mrs. George, “Well, you might’ve warned me!”

  For one, two, three heartbeats, the room was silent but for the ugly comment’s reverberations. Then Mrs. George cooed something apologetic, and Miss Grahame—after wiping her offended hand on her skirt—moved on to greet Annabelle, who was so flustered that she burst out crying.

  This brought Miss Grahame up short. “Gee whiz!”

  Mrs. George recovered her poise. “Perhaps we’d better go upstairs to see the classrooms.”

  “Yeah, let’s,” said Miss Grahame.

  A moment later, when the two grand ladies were gone, Caro willed herself to breathe . . . and breathed. Her tears were not so obedient. Even though she closed her eyes, she could not stop them.

  Matron Polly tried to soothe her crying. And Mr. Donald. And Jimmy, her best friend, who called Miss Grahame an “old cow,” and Melissa, who said she’d never go to see another of her pictures, not if she lived to be a hundred.

  It was Annabelle who snapped her out of it. Annabelle needed her. Blubbering inconsolably, she tugged on Caro’s blouse till Caro picked her up and—ignoring the damp combination of baby tears and snot—squeezed her to her shoulder.

  “If that mean lady’s a princess,” Annabelle whispered in Caro’s ear, “then I don’t wanna be one.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mrs. George was disgusted with Miss Grahame for hurting Carolyn’s feelings. She would have to fix things, but right off the bat did not know how. The next two days were full of appointments, including one with her helpful friend, the sheriff. In the evenings, Judge Mewhinney would visit as usual. But—as soon as she could find a moment—she would have a word with Carolyn.

  For now, though, her principal concern was to keep this foolish woman happy.

  “Upstairs I’ll show you the classrooms, and then we’ll come back to the children’s dormitories. Does that suit you?” Mrs. George asked Miss Grahame as the two ascended the main staircase.

  Miss Grahame nodded absently. “Okay, sure. Say, what happened to that little girl, anyway?”

  “House fire,” Mrs. George replied. “Her mother died, and Carolyn . . . well, as you see.”

  “And she doesn’t have a daddy?” Miss Grahame asked.

  “The war,” said Mrs. George simply.

  Miss Grahame nodded. “I see. Some kids don’t have much luck, do they? Still, I suppose she can get some kind of factory work, some line where her looks don’t matter.”

  “She’s very bright.” Mrs. George suddenly felt protective. “Bright enough for higher education, I think. She would make a fine teacher.”

  Miss Grahame thought a moment, then shook her head. “Nah. She’d scare kids away with that red claw of hers. Better if she has a job that’s more out-of-the-way-like. One thing’s sure. She’ll never find a husband.”

  Mrs. George did not reply. You couldn’t call Carolyn attractive, but Mrs. George had realized she was special from the day they met. Frank Kittaning, the child welfare inspector, had brought her in for an interview, and six-year-old Carolyn had sat without once fidgeting, even though she must have been in great pain, her arm still swathed in bandages after the fire.

  Carolyn had answered Mrs. George’s questions in complete sentences. She hadn’t smiled, but neither had she seemed sullen.

  By that time, Mrs. George had been headmistress for eight years and knew a thing or two about how children get along. One thing she’d learned was that a certain type of responsible, sweet-tempered child could have a calming effect on the others. Carolyn would be just such a child, she was sure of it. And so—over time and out of Frank Kittaning’s hearing—she had reframed the little girl’s history in a way that ensured absolute loyalty to Mrs. George.

  “If I hadn’t spoken up, you might be living in some dirty orphanage without enough food to eat, someplace cold in winter and hot in summer, someplace where you didn’t even get to go to school. You understand that, don’t you?” Mrs. George had said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I do. Than
k you, ma’am.”

  “But I spoke to Mr. Kittaning. I told him I wanted you especially.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Carolyn had said this gravely.

  Mrs. George had told Caro much more than that—about the circumstances of the fire, how her mother had died, Caro’s childish actions at that time—all stories spun deliberately, all stories Caro took to heart.

  Five years later, she was indeed loyal to her benefactress, besides being popular with the other children, a combination that yielded precisely the pacific results Mrs. George had hoped for. As for Carolyn’s scars, sometimes—like today, when she had thoughtlessly introduced Carolyn to Miss Grahame—Mrs. George forgot all about them.

  It was a few minutes later in the older girls’ dormitory when Miss Grahame turned to Mrs. George and said: “You know, I have so longed for a child of my own, a son. But fate has not seen fit to favor me.” Then (the cue seemed to have been written into a script somewhere), she sighed.

  The two women had been surveying beds and shoes—lined up, well ordered, and pleasing to the eye. Mrs. George nodded sympathetically. “What a shame,” she said with feeling, even though the fact was already known to her, indeed the reason for Miss Grahame’s visit.

  “And I, uh . . . understand,” Miss Grahame went on, “that you’re often the first to hear of babies, healthy babies, who are available for adoption?”

  Mrs. George nodded. “Yes. It happens that unfortunate young women get themselves into trouble, or, in some cases, that families can’t afford another mouth to feed.”

  “Where I live in California, the agencies will only give babies to married couples,” Miss Grahame said. “An older kid I might be able to get, some kind of a desperate situation. But I say an older kid’s already damaged goods, am I right? I want a new baby so I can start fresh, make it my own.”

  Mrs. George knew most people felt the same way; they just didn’t express themselves so bluntly. Diplomatically, she replied, “I’m aware of the legal limitations, and of course, many children’s societies have their own restrictions as well.”

  “But your place, Cherry Street. It’s more lenient? At least, that’s what I hear.”

  “I’m a widow myself,” Mrs. George said, “and I believe a woman on her own is fully capable of raising a child. Furthermore, even though I’ve only known you this short while, I’m confident you’d make a wonderful mother.”

  Miss Grahame smiled, apparently confident as well. “So you can help me?”

  “We have helped other women in your circumstances.”

  By now the two women had made their way to the headmistress’s office. On entering, Mrs. George closed the door and invited her guest to sit down.

  “And you’ll help me,” Miss Grahame insisted. It had been years since a wish of hers had been frustrated.

  “There’s the matter of the woman signing over parental rights, and a judge’s approval. There will be expenses, and possibly certain additional fees, since yours is a special case.” Mrs. George sat down behind her desk. “Now, from what you say, you’re interested in a newborn boy? A newborn Caucasian boy?”

  “Blond,” said Miss Grahame, “so he looks like me.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the summer, the children at the Cherry Street Home had their afternoons free for games, or reading, or playing outside. With so many playmates, there was always something to do.

  On this evening, most of the children had listened to the RCA radio, newly purchased by Mr. and Mrs. Philips-Bodbetter. There were songs by Frankie Laine and the Andrews Sisters, and the new favorite serial drama, Dragnet. The combination of an exotic setting (Los Angeles!) with realistic police stories had proved irresistible.

  Mr. Donald never missed an episode.

  During the remainder of that bright, slow summer day, Caro had done her best to act normal . . . and had mostly succeeded, though Matron Polly noted her lack of appetite. The fact was, however, that Miss Grahame’s remark had been devastating.

  Caro was cheerful, reliable, and dutiful, but she was also a child like other children. She wanted to be pretty, and she never would be. She wished she had party clothes, and a dog of her very own, and books and toys and a canopy bed and a room she didn’t have to share.

  Most of all, she wished she had parents who loved her the way only parents could, a mother and a father who thought she was special for one single solitary reason, because she was Caro.

  She would never have any of those things, and most days she willed herself to believe that that was fine. But now that awful woman, that awful yet beautiful woman, had made a face and yanked her hand away—and just like that, a torrent of pent-up sadness had been let loose.

  In the washroom before bed, the girls in the intermediate dormitory completed their dissection of the visit of Miss Joanna Grahame, which, they all agreed, had been a bust—even leaving aside her rudeness to Caro. She hadn’t brought presents or shown the least interest in adopting one of them. And when you saw her close up—did you notice?—that hair of hers wasn’t so blond at the roots, and she had crow’s-feet.

  Listening to the other girls’ chatter, Caro had agreed when called upon to do so. Her own raw feelings she set aside.

  Now, minutes before lights-out, Betty, Ginny, and Barbara were reading comic books in bed. Lying down, Caro decided she couldn’t interest herself in either Archie or Superman, so she turned off her reading lamp and closed her eyes. The air in the room was sticky. Like the other girls, she lay on top of her sheets.

  “You okay, Caro?” asked Betty, whose bed was closest.

  “I’m okay,” Caro answered, eyes still shut. “Thanks.”

  When at last Matron Polly opened the dormitory door and said, “Lights out, girls,” Caro was alone in the dark. She was so exhausted, had so looked forward to this moment, that she drifted off immediately, only to suffer a long-forgotten dream: She was six years old and in her own house with her mother. It was a few days after the men wearing uniforms came to the door to tell them her soldier father—a hero, her mother said—was dead, killed in the desert at Kasserine Pass.

  Ever since that day, her mother had been distracted, forgetful. That evening she had left a kettle on the stove till the water burned away and the red-hot metal ignited the wooden handle, setting the kitchen curtains ablaze.

  In her dream, Caro saw it all, though she hadn’t known the story at the time. It was Mrs. George who told her later. That day in the flames, all she knew was choking smoke and awful heat and then the blessed relief of breathing cool night air as she ran away, away, away—thinking only of herself, leaving her mother alone in the house to die.

  Chapter Eighteen

  While Caro slept, the mice made final preparations. It was after eleven when Randolph gave the order: “First wave—depart!” And with that, ten divisions of mice, each numbering between twenty and twenty-five, flowed from the shelter’s cracks, gaps, and crannies into the deserted alley beyond.

  Lit only by the moon and streetlamps, the spectacle was rousing—an infinity of ears, furry backsides, and tails in skittering, purposeful motion. Watching from his vantage at the base of a broken drain spout, Randolph felt both pride and terror. Some of these mice would lose their lives . . . to stray cats, dogs, and rats, unexpected owls, uncharted holes in the ground, automobiles, stomping human boots, and every other thing that imperils the smallest creatures.

  The night progressed, and Randolph released the second, third, and fourth waves at intervals, measured by the angle of the shadows on the shelter’s back wall. In all, more than one thousand mice would depart their nests—nests some families had occupied for a score of generations.

  If resettlement proved a success—and there was every reason to think it would—the chief director who had greedily and unscrupulously clung to power (and pictures) would go down in history as the heroic leader who had saved the colony. The irony was not lost on the chief director himself.

  While every other mouse rushed to complet
e preparations, Mary had been confined to her nest with plenty of time to think. What had gone wrong? Had someone deliberately sabotaged her mission? Had someone sabotaged Zelinsky’s?

  But as the hours passed, the futility of that line of inquiry became apparent and her thoughts shifted. She questioned her ambitions for Zelinsky and her decision to accept her own appointment as thief. She wished she had not secretly enjoyed the deference other mice showed her. She wondered if she had become arrogant.

  Finally, her thoughts settled on the most important thing: her pups. She had let them down . . . and how would they get along? The directorate had assigned their care to an old auntie, but it would not be the same as having a mother.

  With a start, Mary realized her own girls would now be in the same position as the human pups who lived at Cherry Street. The one who had rescued her from the predator, Caro her name was, she had called them orphans.

  What a strange encounter that had been!

  The human pup had asked how it was to be a mouse with such polite eagerness that Mary had felt obliged to answer: “Very pleasant most of the time.”

  She hadn’t expected the human to understand. After eons of highly motivated practice, mice had learned human language, but humans had never got the knack of Mouse. Still, Caro had shown unexpected aptitude, even replying appropriately when Mary had squeaked, “Thank you and good-bye!”

  Mary wondered what had happened to Caro’s mama and papa. Was she sad that they were gone? Did she miss them? Or maybe—and this would be worse yet—she didn’t care anymore.

  Randolph had many faults, but gratuitous cruelty was not one. Assigned to the final wave of migrants, Mary’s three pups were given permission to visit their mother and say good-bye.