One Day and One Amazing Morning on Orange Street Read online

  Suddenly Ms. Snoops jumped from the couch, still clutching the doll’s head. “That’s it!” she cried. “Memories! ‘M’ is for memoirs! My wonderful idea was to write my memoirs! All these treasures you’ve shown me have brought back my memories, and I am so grateful.”

  “It’s been a lot of fun,” Ali said.

  Ms. Snoops had begun to pace the room. “I will write down all my stories about Orange Street, before I forget them. And I’ll add a brief history of orange trees, too. Did you know that citrus evolved at least twenty million years ago, near what became China? And then, eons later, the seeds and trees were carried by seamen to India where they called it naranga in Sanskrit. Naranga! Get it?”

  “Orange!” said Ali.

  “Right. And then the seeds were carried to Africa and the Mediterranean—” Here Ms. Snoops waved Shirley’s head, presumably in that direction. “Where the Greeks thought oranges were golden apples and wrote exquisite poetry about their beauty, and so did the Roman poets and the Muslim poets and the European poets, you name it. And did you know they didn’t even eat oranges long ago? They mostly loved the look of the tree and the wonderful smell of its blossoms. Sometimes they extracted oil from the fruit for an orangey perfume, or mixed powdered rind with hot water, a drink to soothe crying children. And they discovered lots of other useful things, for instance, that oranges cured scurvy. But not everyone realized you could just cut an orange into juicy chunks and have yourself a pretty good snack!”

  “Really?” said Ali, very impressed. Ms. Snoops knew so much about everything, even an ordinary orange! “I wonder if I could give Edgar some powdered rind mixed with hot water when he cries,” she said.

  Ms. Snoops stopped her pacing. “Edgar? Who’s Edgar?” she asked.

  “My brother,” said Ali, frowning. “You remember. He had an operation. He gets so cranky sometimes.”

  Ms. Snoops clapped a hand to her forehead. “Edgar, Edgar, of course I remember! How is he?”

  Now Ali began to cry, her tears making tiny wet circles on the orange and green stripes of the couch. Ms. Snoops placed Shirley on the coffee table, then quickly sat down beside Ali, putting her arm around her.

  “Edgar doesn’t talk anymore. And he’s so sad all the time,” Ali said, leaning her head on Ms. Snoops’s shoulder. “He just doesn’t seem to be improving.”

  Ms. Snoops pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table. “Sweetie, in today’s modern world, there are much more effective medicines than orange rind,” she said. “And our great friend time is the best medicine of all. If I could bottle it, and sell it, I’d be a billionaire. Ditto for love.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Ali said, blowing her nose into a citrusy-scented tissue. And then, because Ms. Snoops was a good friend (and how silly of her to think that age had anything to do with it!), Ali told her good friend about her own idea, her kind and generous idea, and how Leandra had said cutting their hair off to make wigs was dumb. Then Ms. Snoops told Ali about her old friend Gertrude, who used to live across the street from her at 306 Orange Street, where the empty lot was now. They’d had many, many disagreements over the years, all soon to be recorded in Ms. Snoops’s memoirs.

  Ms. Snoops held up the poor disfigured doll’s head.

  “Speaking of whom, Shirley was actually Gertrude’s doll. Gertrude and I buried Shirley ourselves, or what was left of her. Because, as you can see, poor Shirley was belimbed.”

  “Belimbed?” Ali stared at the doll, whose faint, sweet smile now seemed to say, I forgive you.

  “Not beheaded. Belimbed,” said Ms. Snoops. “And believe it or not, I was blamed.”

  “Not you!” said Ali.

  s. Snoops spooned more ambrosia into each of their bowls.

  “You know, my dear, you can live on the very same street and not know somebody very well at all. And that’s why I want to tell you the story about me, and Gertrude, and poor old Shirley. And also, a backyard mule named Malcolm.

  “We have to go way back to 1939, when I was nine years old. I remember so clearly the day I met Gertrude. I was looking out my front window and a dusty old rattletrap of a car with an Oklahoma license plate pulled up across the street. There was Gertrude, bouncing out of the car like a rubber ball, followed by an exhausted-looking man and woman. Gertrude was carrying a doll. She’s too big to be carrying a doll, I thought to myself. They all went into the Stott’s house (306), which is now the empty lot. Next thing I knew, the exhausted-looking man and woman rushed outside again, got back into the car and drove off. And there was that girl sitting on the front steps, hugging her doll. Of course yours truly had to find out what was what!

  “So I went over there. ‘I’m Ethel,’ I said. ‘Who’re you?’

  “‘Gertrude,’ she said, holding out a grimy hand. ‘I’m ten years old and I’m Mr. Stott’s second cousin, once removed.’

  “‘Those your parents who left you?’ I asked.

  “She sat up straight and regal-like, pulling her faded and torn gingham dress over her knees, even bonier than mine. Then she smiled real wide, and her words came spilling out. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They’re off to have some exotic adventures in the Imperial Valley! How about that? Doesn’t that sound grand?’

  “I nodded, because it sure did sound grand. Imperial Valley! It was like they were off to the Land of Oz, or something.

  “‘Mr. and Mrs. Stott are very kind,’ Gertrude continued. ‘They don’t have any children, so, lucky for them, I am available to be their adopted daughter for a while.’ Gertrude looked down at her doll, which was naked and dirty and missing one eye. ‘And I guess me and Shirley are lucky to be here, too, because the Stotts are rich. Very, very rich.’

  “I was surprised to hear that the Stotts had been hankering for a daughter. They didn’t seem like the parenting kind. Mr. Stott hardly talked to the neighbors, always puffing on a big, smelly cigar. Vain Mrs. Stott went around with her nose in the air and her hair in an up-do, just so. She ate ambrosia once a day, she told my mother, because she’d read somewhere it was the food of the gods, you see, and eating ambrosia would let her live forever. And they were always going off on far-away trips with their fancy pigskin luggage. Mr. Stott himself killed the hogs for that luggage. Well, that’s what the kids on the street whispered to one another. I didn’t know if it was true, but it sure gave me the willies, thinking of it.

  “And the Stotts’ new adopted daughter was just as stuck-up as they were. Whenever I saw her, she had something else to brag about.

  “‘Every day, practically, I get a new toy,’ Gertrude told me. ‘I keep them all in a big toy box in my bedroom. My bed is one of those four-poster kinds, with a giant canopy on top. And every night, practically, we eat roast beef and fancy desserts, with seconds, and even thirds, allowed. Lucky, lucky me!’

  “We kids on the street didn’t like stuck-up Gertrude much. We started singing a little song about her.

  Shirley and Gertie, always-be-dirty!

  Shirley and Gertie, never-be-purty!

  “We called her Gertie, even though she kept insisting over and over that her name was Gertrude. Then she’d chase us around the block, trying to punch a nose or two.

  “I guess I should have wondered why the Stotts didn’t buy Gertrude a new doll or a new dress, or why she had dirt under her fingernails. Those questions never even entered my head.

  “One day my mother heard us taunting Gertrude with that awful song. ‘How very, very mean of you!’ she cried, horrified. Let me tell you, my mother was formidable when she was horrified. (Formidable is a terrific word to know, by the way.)

  “My parents sat me down for a talking-to. I told them we kids didn’t like Gertrude much because of all the bragging about her lucky life with the Stotts, and also, her true parents’ exotic adventures.

  “My dad said, ‘Exotic, my foot. Her parents are poor farmers driving south to California’s border, to pick cotton and peas for pennies an hour. And sure, she’s lucky! Lucky not to live with her
parents in a tent in the mud, and fight for a sheet of toilet paper. And lucky to go to school in Los Angeles, and have enough to eat.’

  “‘I think it’s time you learned the truth about Gertrude’s life on Orange Street,’ said my mother.

  “And here’s where Malcolm the mule comes into the story.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stott didn’t have any children, but they did have this mule named Malcolm in their backyard. Mrs. Stott was crazy about Malcolm. She fed him candy, then brushed his teeth, and rubbed him daily with extract of rose petals.

  “‘My glorious chestnut Malcolm!’ she exclaimed.

  “An honest-to-goodness descendant of George Washington’s mule herd, according to her. But to me, he was just a lazy old mud-brown mule, who’d lost his job to a tractor.

  “The sad thing was, Mrs. Stott treated that mule better than Gertrude. She treated Gertrude like the servant girl she’d always wanted to have. There were no new toys or fancy desserts or four-poster beds; Gertrude had made that up. It was just ‘Gertie, do this,’ and ‘Gertie, do that,’ all day long. Washing windows and peeling carrots and ironing sheets and shoveling Malcolm’s manure. Just like Cinderella!

  “The day after my talking-to, my formidable mother marched across the street, had some words with the Stotts, and Gertrude got to come to our house for supper two times a week. And yours truly sure found out the truth about Gertrude’s life. My formidable mother made me help Gertrude with her outside chores in the backyard, such as gathering fallen oranges, and hanging laundry, and shoveling up all that manure.

  “Well, we became friends, Gertrude and I, believe it or not. At my house we played board games and made peanut brittle and played with my cat Mitzi. And after the chores at her house were done, we lolled around and read under the orange tree. Sometimes we pretended the tree was a magic theater, its leaves and blossoms a curtain, the ground around it a stage. We were chorus girls and cackling witches and princesses in faraway kingdoms. Gertrude’s deepest wish was to be an actress. Then she could be Someone Else and Somewhere Else, you see. Under that tree, her wish came true.

  “True, Gertrude was a pain. She was just the bossiest girl, and stubborn as a mule!

  “Speaking of which.

  “‘Oh, that mule Malcolm,’ Gertrude always said. ‘Look at him giving me the evil eye!’

  “If anyone was giving any evil eyes, it was Gertrude. Malcolm was the same old gentle Malcolm, smelling like roses, thinking everyone loved him like Mrs. Stott did. Not so. Gertrude hated Malcolm. She hated shoveling his manure every day, and she hated knowing she was loved less than a mule.

  “One day we were in her backyard and Gertrude announced the cast for our next performance under the tree.

  “‘I’m Prince Valiant,’ she said, waving an old curtain rod for a sword. ‘You can be the fair Ilene, a damsel in distress. And Malcolm over there is my trusty steed.’

  “Prince Valiant was a knight in a comic strip we loved. ‘I want to be Prince Valiant this time,’ I said. ‘He gets to brandish the Singing Sword, and joust and kill ogres and fight crocodiles. Ilene isn’t supposed to do anything except cry and beg him to be careful.

  “‘You’re not right for the part,’ said Gertrude. ‘I have straight hair like Val. Your hair is too curly.’

  “‘But I can ride a horse!’ I shouted. ‘I ride my grandfather’s horse on his farm every summer!’

  “Gertrude looked like she was ready to pinch. ‘Well, I rode horses on our farm!’ she shouted back.

  “We both looked over at Malcolm the mule, and I knew the idea hit us both at the same time.

  “‘Prove it,’ I said. Of course, Malcolm wasn’t a horse, but his mother was.

  “‘That’s easy,’ said Gertrude.

  “She led Malcolm to the tree, climbed onto a branch, and hoisted herself onto Malcolm’s back. Malcolm did a little shuffling around, and Gertrude said, ‘See? I told you I can ride.’

  “Malcolm circled around a few times, then suddenly reared up on his hind legs and let forth a sneeze like a geyser. And that’s when he decided to buck. His limbs went in all directions at once. His head moved up and down and sideways, with his big ears flopping. GALUMPH, GALUMPH! Gertrude held on to his mane for dear life, bouncing up and down, baring her teeth just like Malcolm. He bucked a few more times, but mules aren’t dumb. Malcolm finally understood that Gertrude would not be thrown. Gertrude was more determined than he was. He stopped bucking and stood still.

  “‘There!’ said Gertrude, red-faced and panting. ‘Now he knows who’s boss.’ She jumped off the mule and said, ‘Your turn.’

  “‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘You can be Valiant.’

  “Gertrude grinned. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘you can be my helper knight.’ She pointed to her doll lying propped up against the tree trunk. ‘Shirley over there can be Ilene, the damsel in distress.’ She brandished her curtain rod, and hollered, ‘The terrible sword rises and falls! Hear my ringing battle cry: For Ilene!’

  “Well, Shirley was a damsel in distress, all right. Malcolm ambled over to the tree, and next thing you knew we heard a loud crunch. That mule ate Shirley’s leg! Gertrude screamed, but I was frozen to the spot, speechless. Malcolm munched his way through another leg, then the torso, then the arms. Gertrude kicked Shirley’s head to safety, and threw herself on top of it, sobbing her valiant heart out.

  “Malcolm brayed as if he were asking Who did you say was the boss? Then he washed down all that wood and glue with an orange for dessert.

  “Now Gertrude gave me the evil eye. ‘It’s all your fault, Ethel!’ she cried. ‘If you’d only let me be Prince Valiant in the first place! Your fault! Your fault!’

  “She didn’t talk to me for a few days. I still had to help her with her chores, though. I missed being friends. One afternoon, I apologized, even though it was Malcolm’s fault, too. And Gertrude’s, for riding Malcolm so hard. I even gave her Patsy, one of my favorite dolls, cleaner than Shirley used to be.

  “‘I’m really too old for a doll,’ Gertrude said, but she took Patsy anyway.

  “Then we lovingly placed Shirley, or Shirley’s head, in a cookie tin, and gave her the dignified funeral she deserved.”

  Ms. Snoops took a sip of her orange-raspberry zinger tea. “And guess what? Gertrude’s wish eventually came true!”

  “She became an actress?” Ali asked.

  “Well, no. But one sunny morning that rattletrap of a car came clattering up Orange Street. Her parents had found better jobs working in a shipyard, and they’d come to pick her up and take her Somewhere Else, just like she’d wished. And she never let anyone call her Gertie, ever again.” Ms. Snoops sighed. “Oh, that girl was a pain! Fun, though, and I grew to love her. Our friendship has been infrangible.”

  Leandra was fun, too, when she wasn’t being a pain. Ali had to admit she even liked the Girls With Long Hair Club, except for its focus on long hair. “What’s infrangible?” Ali asked.

  “Go look it up.” Ms. Snoops pointed to her giant dictionary across the room. “Infrangible is an important word to know, especially where friendship is concerned. And remember, as hard as we try, and it’s so very, very important to try, you can’t know everything that’s going on behind people’s front doors, or in their hearts and minds.”

  “I wish we could,” said Ali.

  t was so hot on Orange Street that afternoon, you could practically see steam rising up from the sidewalks. Even if your side of the street had the afternoon shade, as Leandra’s did, that wasn’t really an advantage, temperature-wise. It was a good idea to stay inside for a while until the day cooled down.

  That was fine with Leandra. All she felt like doing, really, was sitting around and complaining in her grandparents’ living room. Her grandparents, Big Mom and Little Pop (301 ½ Orange Street), lived in a one-room apartment with a bathroom, built on top of the garage attached to Leandra’s house.

  Big Mom and Little Pop had made the apartment cozy and cheerful. The walls of th
e sleeping section were painted Sea Breezy Blue and the living room and eating section Jasmine Pink and the cooking section was painted Hot Banana. The bathroom was Sail Away Green. Every chair had a plump pillow for the crook of your back and a footstool to put your feet on. Their home was always the right temperature for sitting around and complaining; toasty warm on chilly days, or deliciously cool in summer because of a giant, squeaky fan on the ceiling. In a corner was a big golden birdcage with a sign that said 301 1/16 orange street, inside of which was an old African Grey parrot named Nelson, who could talk. (He also sang “All You Need Is Love” every evening as the sun went down.)

  Big Mom was tall, with soft flesh on her arms that wriggled like pudding. Little Pop was short in stature, but muscular and strong. Even so, Leandra was worried about him. That’s because Little Pop had once had a heart attack. He had a tiny pacemaker (which Little Pop called his “battery”) deep inside his chest. Seventy-five early morning push-ups helped keep that battery running, Little Pop said. And while he exercised, he and Nelson could sing “Dem Bones” straight through, without missing a single beat. Leandra sometimes did push-ups with Little Pop. After a while she could sing “Dem Bones” straight through, too.

  The foot bone connected to the leg-bone,

  The leg bone connected to the knee bone,

  The knee bone connected to the thigh bone,

  The thigh bone connected to the back bone,

  The back bone connected to the neck bone

  The neck bone connected to the head bone

  Now hear the word of the Lord!

  “Whee-hoo!” said Little Pop when he got to the end of the whole song.

  “Whee-hoo!” squawked Nelson.

  The best part about being at 301½ was that Big Mom and Little Pop listened to every word Leandra said, even when they were all in the middle of an exciting card game.

  “It’s funny that our girl lives on Orange Street,” said Big Mom to Little Pop.