Nora & Kettle (7 page)

13. FIELD TRIP

NORA

It’s been three weeks since Mr. Inkham visited and gave me the incomprehensible news. Since then, my father and I have slipped into a monotonous, but safe pattern. Avoidance. He leaves early, returns late. He’s working on something important, and we do our best not to run into each other.

The foyer tiles are wearing down, skirting where she landed. We’re digging a line in, carving a path around the shape of her body.

“Nora, are you listening to me?” Miss Candace, our tutor, swipes a hand in front of my face, a warm breeze heavy with perfume fluttering up my nose. A small, sticky claw clamps over my wrist and shakes me.

“Nora, we get to leave the house today. Field trip! Field Trip!” Frankie shouts, toppling her chair and galloping around the playroom with her ruler between her legs. I wince, still expecting tempers to flare and voices to rise to the rafters, but Miss Candace’s bosom jiggles with bubbling laughter as her eyes follow Frankie tearing around the small room that is now our classroom.

“Now that’s enthusiasm,” she says, tapping her heart like the laughter has stolen her breath. She bends over my desk and tries to connect with my eyes. “Do you think you can muster some energy and enthusiasm to go to the zoo with us today, Miss Nora?”

I nod, trying to lighten my expression, brighten my eyes. Watching Frankie makes me smile, and I haven’t been out of the house in days, at least not out the front door.

“Yes, Miss Candace,” I reply, trying to shake the deadness from my face when I look into her raisin-like eyes.

She gives a sharp clap and I jump, my heart sputtering before remembering that here is a safe place, a safe person. “Wonderful! Girls, get your coats and hats.” She rumbles out the room and tromps down the stairs. They creak under her weight as her short, bobbed hair bounces up and down with
enthusiasm
. Frankie runs all the way down the stairs and then back up, her energy exploding out of her socks. When Miss Candace reaches the bottom, she walks straight through, not around. My eyes sting and I sniff, wiping a tear away with my sleeve. She doesn’t know. It’s not her fault.

Miss Candace opens the foyer door and leans her sizable rump against it, wrestling with Frankie as she puts one arm in her coat backward. She sighs, but she doesn’t scold. Her patience is infinite.

A swish of leaves greets us at the slate step. I pause, pinned to the edge like a pigeon, my toes bending over. I gaze down at the crunchy, yellow leaves battling to get into the house and shake my head, warning them.
You don’t want to go in there.

Frankie climbs the brick guardrail of the stairs and tiptoes to the bottom, holding her hands out and jumping like she can fly. I’m still stuck on the step, my ashy-blonde hair curtaining my eyes. A hand wraps around my arm, and I flinch.

Miss Candace lets go as suddenly as she grabbed me, as if she’s afraid I’ll bite her. “Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to scare you. But shall we get going?” The concern in her eyes is like arms outstretched to a sinking boat. I want to, want to,
want
to take them, but I can’t. I’ve got to tread the water on my own.

Coated men storm down the shadowed paths underneath large oaks that are slowly molting. A homeless man drags a pram full of his belongings across the road, his face squished and angry. People sidestep him, and one woman hurries across the road when she sees him approaching. I raise an eyebrow; people are often scared of the wrong things. They don’t realize that sometimes, the menace lives in the lavish brownstone, sips expensive scotch, and defends laws they have no intention of abiding in their own home. Once upon a time, this man who grips the handles of a dilapidated pram so tightly had a different life. One that he lost or had taken from him. People don’t see. They don’t want to.

“Where’s the car? Where’s Sally?” I ask, taking one step down to follow Frankie, who I know is about to ask the homeless man what’s in his pram.

Miss Candace slings her purse crossways over her body and snorts, puffs of steam flowing from her nostrils like a racehorse. “We’re walking. We’re going to experience the city,” she says, tilting her chin at the old man with the pram. He tips his cap to her and shuffles along, and my affection for her grows. “Miss Frances, hold your sister’s hand.”

Frankie grabs my hand and swings from it, almost popping my shoulder out of its socket. When she grips my wrist tightly, I wince, quickly pulling my cardigan sleeve over my fingers. One kind, narrowed eye glances my way before turning down the street and ordering us to march.

***

Despite our street being wide, the brownstones lean in as if they’re trying to touch foreheads, leaving little room for light. Old trees line the sidewalk and dance with each other in the wind, holding hands and caroling for the world to skip the winter that’s coming. We hurry past the burned-out apartment block next door. It’s the first of many as you round the corner. The richer neighbors lament their presence and the effect the poorer folk that live in them have on the ‘value’ of the area. My family was never among the complainers. I remember the first time someone tried to get the building license for the one next to us revoked. The way my father’s temper had flared, opened, and swallowed every negative attitude. It confused me to see his anger used for good. It didn’t work in my head… like oil and water trying to mix. But then, he is a contradiction, a campaigner for those less fortunate, yet unable to afford his children the same consideration. It causes conflict in me I don’t want to be there. An itchy feeling I’d like to scratch out. I want to hate him. I don’t want there to be room for any other feeling.

Glancing up at the broken windows as we walk, I smell the old smoke clinging to the walls.

I used to love watching the families and listening to the trills and rolling of different languages clashing against common English.

I smile as I tread faster down the street, listening to crunching leaves under my feet and enjoying the feeling of dirt satisfyingly staining my new shoes. The upper-crust residents won’t win this one. They are outnumbered. The cleanup has already begun, and repairs will follow. Something flutters in my chest at the thought of new families moving in, new noises and smells wafting across the gap between us. I frown when I remember how out of reach they are to me.

We round the corner and the streets become narrower, busier, and dirtier. Life is opening up as shop fronts bloom, umbrellas rise, and canvas awnings are propped up. I pull Frankie closer. She’s playing with her aid. “Do you need it turned down, Frankie?” I ask, cupping her face with my hands so she can see my lips as I talk.

She blinks at me, screws up her tiny pink nose, and nods. Tapping her ear once, she says, “Too many people talkin’ at the same time. It’s too noisy. Ah, can’t hear propply.”

I kneel down and adjust it for her. “Better?”

“Batter!”

I scruff her hair up, and she wriggles under my touch. Miss Candace turns around, her face already flushed from walking one block. “First—coffee.”

We wait outside while Miss Candace enters a bar to get a cup of coffee. Frankie stands in front of me and plays with my skirt. I keep my hands pressed down against my thighs to stop her from showing the whole street my underwear and lean against the window of a cake shop, my eyes absently climbing the yellow windows of hundreds of apartments. My mind wanders through kitchens, my finger drags across someone’s dusty dresser. Sometimes I wish, like Alice, I could climb through a window, through a mirror, and into another world.

A crowd of people pours from the subway entrance across the road, hundreds of hatted heads spreading like a stain over the pavement. Cars honk and stop, and I anxiously play with the button of my cardigan while keeping the restless seven-year-old pinned to my leg. I knock a heel nervously against the black tiles that line the shop window.

Men approach me from across the road and I cast my eyes down, the button in my fingers coming loose and falling to the ground.

Frankie goes to grab it, and I pull her back. “Leave it. It’s dirty,” I snap.

A large hand scoops the button up, and I follow the hand down a long arm to a handsome face. The young man holds the button between his finger and thumb and smiles. “Did you drop this, Miss?” he asks, arching dark eyebrows at me.

I shake my head. “No.”

He places his hand against the window over my head and leans in. I can feel the blood rushing to my face. “No? I swear I just saw you drop it.”

His casual expression is at odds with the way he’s flexing his arms above me. He’s a full head taller than I am. Shrinking into the window behind me, I glance up at him with the sun spreading behind his face and burning my eyes. “I…”

A snap makes him jump away and I realize Frankie has grabbed his suspender, pulled it back, and let it go. She giggles as he dramatically staggers back, holding his heart. Another young man, his cap pulled down over his eyes, slaps the back of the taller one’s head and grunts, “That’ll teach you to bother girls who are way out of your league.”

They both laugh and turn away from me. I relax slightly, but then the shorter one turns back suddenly and marches toward me with purpose. He takes my hand gently and opens my fingers, placing the button into my palm, his eyes still hidden. “Sorry about him, Miss.” His voice is dark, like his skin, a smoothly poured consistency to it that warms the tips of my ears. Before I can answer or pull away like I should, he’s disappeared into the crowd.

Frankie pulls my skirt around her shoulders like a cape and laughs huskily. “That was funny!”

A bell rings by my head. “What was funny, little Miss Frances?” Miss Candace asks as she steps into the colder air, a new flush to her face.

“I pinged a man who took Nora’s butten,” she answers, placing her hands on her hips and giving us a self-satisfied grin.

“What on earth! Pinged?” Miss Candace splutters.

I cover my mouth and let out a quick laugh. It escapes my chest like a desperate dove trying to hit the clouds. “Yes. She pinged him real good.”

Miss Candace relaxes her shoulders and smiles, her red lipstick lining the bottom of her teeth like she bit into a candle. “Very well, girls. Follow me.”

***

The further we get from home, from the piles of brick that seem mortared with blood and tears, the better I feel. My chest opens to the brisk breeze, my feet step lighter, and the smile I’m wearing feels less false and forced.

Giant, wrought iron gates are set open, inviting us into the large, green park that is freckled with autumn leaves chasing each other across paths and irritating the groundskeepers. The scrape of a rake against gravel grabs my attention, and I turn my attention to the noise.

I hear Frankie asking Miss Candace a question, “Can we, can we, Miss, please?”

The reason for the question sits like a giant, stone potato in front of my eyes, as tall as a tree, wide and leaning. My smile turns from almost genuine to a complete grin. This rock is begging to be climbed.

Miss Candace’s breathy voice permits me. “Of course, young Deere. This park is meant for exploring, discovering, and adventure.”

Frankie’s thumping footsteps pummel the earth behind and she pulls up next to me just as I reach out and touch the giant monolith, feeling its surface for footholds and dips.

I look back at Miss Candace for reassurance. She simply waves her hand at me as if to say, ‘go on,’ plops herself on a park bench, and lights a cigarette.

Frankie scratches at the rock, trying to find a place to get up, and fails. “Nora, can you help me?” she whines.

I pat her head and heft myself up to the first ledge. “No way. If you can’t do it yourself, then you’re not ready. If you’re going to climb safely, it has to be your own way.”

She gives me a rather nasty glare and moves around to the other side. “Fine then,” she mutters, though with Frankie, it always sounds one decibel short of yelling. I shrug and climb.

It’s harder in a skirt and dress shoes, and I lose my footing a few times. I like the slipping and almost falling though. It does this electrifying thing to my heart, glazes it in a sparking, thrilling feeling.

I reach the top and sit down on the scooped-out plateau, my hands behind me avoiding the small pools of stagnant water breeding mosquitoes and algae. From here, I can see the whole park, sprouting out of the middle of this busy city, the tops of the evergreen trees looking like broccoli, thick and dense. The deciduous plants huddle together in patches of woods, desperate to stay warm against the coming cold. I breathe in and sigh out the large amounts of stress that have been sticking to my insides.
I could stay here forever.

“Nora. Nora.” Frankie jumps up and down, throwing herself at the rock’s surface in frustration. I look down and notice the park bench is empty.

“Miss Frances! Look at your dress. Where’s your sister?” Miss Candace’s voice sounds slightly panicked as she walks around the rock twice.

Frankie gazes up at me, and I put my finger to my lips to stop her from telling Miss Candace where I am. Her eyes sparkle with the mischief that always seems to be there, and then she giggles.

“Miss Nora!” Miss Candace shouts out. Then she whispers to herself, her head tipping as she holds her chest, “Well done, Candace, you’ve lost a child on your very first field trip.” Her bob shakes back and forth as she scolds herself.