Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (14 page)

I don’t think Marissa and Dot were planning to stay, but Sister Bernice must’ve seen us, because she comes charging out of the NunMobile with a bundle of bright purple fliers and cuts across the lawn.

She’s not wearing cleats, but she’s
moving
. The lawn’s pretty soggy from all the rain, and you can see water splashing from under her habit as she calls, “Girls, you’re here! Oh, the Mighty One has answered my prayers! Thanks be to God!”

And you’d think from the way she was carrying on that the NunMobile was on fire and we had a hose, but all she wanted was for us to plaster the neighborhood with fliers. “As far and wide as these’ll take you,” she says. Then she shoos us off with, “Go on, lambs! Time’s a-wasting!”

So we paper the neighborhood purple. And when we’re rid of every last flier, I’m late getting to the soup kitchen and Marissa and Dot are late getting home.

When Brother Phil opens the back door for me, he doesn’t smile and say hello. All he says is, “You’re late,” like he’s
paying
me or something.

I say, “Sorry. I was putting up fliers for the Sisters of Mercy.”

Sister Josephine hears that and mutters, “Figures,” so I say, “I don’t get it. Why don’t you like them? Aren’t they doing all this work to raise money for St. Mary’s and the soup kitchen?”

She laughs, but it sounds more like a backfiring car. “They get fifteen percent of the money that’s donated. They’re not in service to God—they’re out for themselves! Sister and I can’t even afford to
rent
one of those
motor homes for a week to go on vacation, let alone buy one.” She thumps her cane on the floor and says, “ ‘Sisters of Mercy’ … hah!”

Now, I’m thinking that if the Sisters of Mercy take fifteen percent, that leaves the church with eighty-five percent, which, considering all the work Bernice and the others are doing, is quite a lot. But I don’t say that to Sister Josephine. I just go over to the serving line to relieve Sister Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret says, “Oh, hi, dear,” so I ask her, “Have any young people come through already?”

“A few children. Is that what you mean?”

“Uh, no. I meant someone more my age.”

Mary Margaret’s face lights up a bit. “Oh, her. No, she hasn’t been through today.” Then she whispers, “Do you know her?”

I shake my head. “I was just wondering.”

Sister Mary Margaret gives my shoulder a squeeze and says, “We can only be there for them and try to guide them. The rest we must turn over to God.”

I get to work passing out food, only my brain’s not doing a very good job of turning Holly over to God. And the later it gets, the more often I check the door to see if she’s waiting in line.

When there are no more people, Brother Phil says, “That’s it. Let’s clean up.”

Normally, that would’ve been fine with me, but since there were still a few sandwiches left, I said, “Can we give it another few minutes?”

Phil snorts, “You can if you want to.” He grabs a
sandwich and says over his shoulder, “Me, I’m ready for a snack.”

He leaves, so I duck under the table and peek out the door, and after I check up and down the street a few times, I make myself accept the fact that Holly’s not coming.

I go back inside, and as I’m moving the trays to the sink, I’m wondering if maybe she got sick or hurt or … or I don’t know what. And as I’m putting the leftover milks back in the refrigerator, I get a great idea: if Holly can’t come to the soup kitchen, maybe the soup kitchen can come to Holly. I stuff two sandwiches and a carton of milk in my backpack, grab my umbrella, and head off to the riverbank.

By the time I make it to the bushes I’m soaked from the knees down from walking through soggy weeds. And I’m thinking about that refrigerator box holding up in weather like this. A Hefty bag might be good for garbage, but a roof? And besides, it didn’t go
underneath
the box, and if the rain seeped in from the riverbed, well, cardboard in water lasts about as long as a graham cracker in the tub.

And I was so busy thinking about Holly’s poor house that I about jumped into tumbleweeds when I heard a voice. A man’s voice. And then, when I heard him laugh, let me tell you, I shivered. That laugh was
evil
.

Very quietly I peel off my backpack and set it down, then I grab the umbrella and sneak down the hill.

What I see is Mr. Tattoos from the soup kitchen. He’s got both of Holly’s wrists in one hand and her down sleeping bag in the other. Holly’s kicking and yelling,
“Give it back! Give it back!” but she’s not getting anywhere, and the harder she tries, the harder he laughs.

I go charging down the hill and he hears me coming, but not soon enough. I ram him in the back with the point of Grams’ umbrella and he lets go of Holly, but doesn’t go down.

He screams, “Ooooww!” and then cusses his head off while he’s hobbling back toward the box with one hand on his back. “There’s
two
of you brats?”

Holly says, “Yeah, there’re two of us. Now give it back!” She lunges for her sleeping bag and the next thing you know, Tattoohead stumbles and falls through the box like an axe through oatmeal.

Holly cries, “No!” but it’s too late. Her house is ruined. And he’s all tangled up in Hefty bags and tumbleweeds, trying to cuss his way out, when Holly snatches her sleeping bag. Trouble is it catches on the branch of a tumbleweed and feathers go flying everywhere. So she’s standing there holding one end of her ripped-up bag, and he grabs the other and yanks as hard as he can. More feathers go flying in the air and before we can even scream, Holly’s bed is in shreds on the ground.

Holly scoops up her sleeping bag, crying, “No … no…
no!”

He laughs and says, “That should teach you, you flea-bitten brat,” and takes off down the riverbed.

I go over to her and say, “Oh, Holly.”

She plops down in the wet sand, buries her face in her hands, and starts crying. And pretty soon she’s shaking from crying so hard, so I sit next to her, put my arm
around her, and say, “I’m so sorry,” because I don’t know what else to say.

Finally, she shakes her head and says, “What am I going to do? What am I going to
do
?” And sitting there on the soggy riverbank with her shivering in my arms, all of a sudden I had an idea. And the more I thought about it, the more I talked myself into thinking it was a good idea.

A very good idea.

The whole time we were walking Holly only said about two words. I think she was thinking about her sleeping bag, and how in the world she was ever going to replace it. I know she wasn’t thinking about spending the night at the Pup Parlor, because as I push on the buzzer, she looks through the window and says, “You want me to sleep in a
kennel
?”

I laugh. “It’s not a kennel. It’s a place where they groom dogs. But look—there are rooms upstairs.”

She steps back and looks up while I lean on the buzzer some more, thinking, “C’mon, Vera … c’mon!” because if she’s not there, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Now, I would’ve told Holly about how nice Meg and Vera are and how they’re always taking in stray dogs so of course they’ll take her in, only I’m not sure. I can just hear Meg saying, Sammy, a stray girl is
not
a stray dog! and then what?

So my brain’s busy scrambling around for a backup plan when Vera comes pattering down the stairs in her bathrobe and slippers. She squints at me through the glass. “Sammy! What brings you here at this hour?” She looks us up and down and asks, “Is it an emergency?”

“Kind of. Can we come in?”

She tightens her robe and says, “Sure. Would you like to come up? It’s a bit chilly down here.”

I say, “Thanks,” because it
is
cold, especially in soggy clothes.

When we get upstairs, Meg calls, “Who was it, Ma?” then turns around from a sink full of dishes and says, “Sammy?” like she can’t quite believe I’m there again.

“Hi, Meg. Do you have a minute? There’s something I have to talk to you guys about.” She doesn’t budge from her sink of suds so I look straight at her and say, “It’s important.”

Vera takes us into the living room, and the whole time she’s sizing up Holly. When we’re all sitting in chairs, Vera disappears a minute and then comes back with a floor heater. She doesn’t say a word, she just plugs it in and puts it at Holly’s feet.

Holly leans over it, rubbing her hands together. “Thanks.”

Vera and Meg both look at me like, “Well?” so I take a deep breath and say, “This is Holly. She’s a friend of mine and she needs a place to stay. I was thinking maybe you could work something out where she works in the shop and you give her room and board.” Then, before they can jump up and say no, I say real fast, “You’ve had that
HELP WANTED
sign up forever …”

They don’t say, Sure, let me tell you. They don’t say anything. They just check Holly over. Then Meg says, “But she’s a minor. There’s laws against doin’ that!”

I say, “Look, she doesn’t have anywhere else to go. She’s been living out at the riverbed in a refrigerator box,
but tonight this man with tattoos came and ripped up her sleeping bag and destroyed her box.”

Meg’s eyes pop right open and she says to Holly, “You’ve been
what
?” and Vera sits straight up in her chair and says, “He did
what
?”

I whisper to Holly, “Tell them. Just tell them!”

Holly looks back and forth between them and then looks down at her hands. “I ran away from this foster home I was stuck in. They promised me it’d be better than the last one, but it wasn’t. Instead of throwing me in the basement, they’d lock me in a closet. Instead of whacking me with a broom, they’d use a mop.… It was the same thing all over again.”

Meg’s eyebrow is arched way up, and she’s busy eyeing Vera, trying to get her attention. And at first I thought she was thinking, How could someone do that to her?! but then I realize that what she’s thinking is that there’s no way she’s taking in a girl that’s so wild you have to lock her up in a basement.

I say, “Wait! It’s not what you think. These people stuck her head in the toilet and flushed it. They made her eat dog food. It’s not that Holly’s bad—they were just mean.”

Vera and Meg sit there with their mouths hanging open, and finally Holly lets out a stuttery little sigh. “I’ve been in about eight foster homes, and they’ve always been the same. None of them wanted me—they wanted the money. So when I was big enough, I ran away.”

Meg starts pacing around, throwing her hands through the air, saying, “The Richters have foster children—they’ve
taken them in for years. They’re saints! So have the Montonyos. Their house is immaculate and their children are happy and loved. You make it sound like foster parents are just in this for the money, but I know for a fact that’s not so!”

Holly looks down and you can tell that she’s about to cry. So I jump up and say, “Maybe it’s like dog kennels—you know, some of them treat the dogs real nice and others, well, you pick your dog up and it smells like pee and it’s hacking with kennel cough and scratching from fleas. Maybe it’s like that, and Holly just happened to get stuck in some rotten … uh … kennels.”

Now, the minute it’s out of my mouth I’m thinking, Boy, was that stupid, but it seems to calm Meg down and she looks at Holly like, Hmm.

Vera says, “Holly, dear? Where are your parents?”

Holly shakes her head and shrugs. “They’re dead.”

We all look at her and wait, so she says, “I don’t even remember them, okay? All I remember is being bounced around from home to home. It’s not like I’ve ever even
had
a family.” She looks out the window. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to help me out. And believe me, I don’t really
want
your help. I just want to be old enough to be on my own.”

Very gently, Vera asks, “How old
are
you, dear?”

Holly keeps staring out the window. “Fifteen.”

Now, there’s no way she’s fifteen. No way. And Vera knows it, too. She says, “The truth, dear. If we’re going to talk about this at all, you need to tell us the truth.”

Holly looks at her, and then back out the window. She
sighs and says, “Okay, so I’m only fourteen.” She checks back, and when she sees that it’s not washing she chokes out, “I’m twelve,” and starts to cry.

Vera and Meg look at each other, thinking, What are we going to
do?
while Holly’s soaking the sleeve of her soggy sweatshirt, wiping tears off her face. And just as I’m thinking someone’s got to say
something
, out from under a chair comes the tiniest dog I’d ever seen. It’s like a cross between a chihuahua and a miniature poodle, and there’s no mistaking it—this dog belongs to Meg and Vera. It’s got black fur, and on either side of its little poofball-do are little red bows. At first I thought it was going to go sit in Vera’s lap, but instead it goes over to Holly, jumps up in her lap, puts its paws on her chest, and licks away her tears.

Holly gives it a hug, then lets out a little laugh and says, “Hi, there,” as she pets it. She looks at Vera and says, “What’s her name?”

“Lucy.” She laughs. “Or Miss Lucille, when she’s being naughty.”