The Orphan and the Mouse (6 page)

Each week the chore chart rotated, and each Sunday evening Caro checked to learn the next day's assignment. Monday morning's was easy: clean the main parlor. Her partner was the star-struck Melissa, and the two dusted and mopped side by side.

“Will Miss Grahame bring us presents, do you think?” Melissa asked after they'd been working for a while. “Maybe perfume or chocolates or a mink coat . . .” Her voice trailed off dreamily.

Caro laughed. “A mink coat? What would you even do with one?”

“Wear it, of course!” said Melissa. “I'd put it on right now.”

“To clean the parlor in August?” Caro said.

Melissa amended her request. “A silk gown, and high-heeled shoes like Betty Grable's. Do you think Miss Grahame knows Betty Grable?”

Caro shrugged. “She's bound to, I guess. All those famous stars in Hollywood probably pal around.”

Melissa nodded. “And do nothing all day but get dressed in their silk clothes and style their hair and eat caviar and go to parties.”

“Caviar's just fish eggs,” said Caro.

Melissa made a face. “That's not true.”

“It is,” said Caro. “I read it someplace. And besides, those Hollywood stars have to work, too, so they can afford fish eggs and nice clothes.”

“Work? Ha!” said Melissa. “I could be a movie star, easy. You just stand in front of a big camera and say the words they tell you.” She struck a pose. “Oh! My darling, my darling! How I do love you so!” Melissa wrapped herself in her own embrace, closed her eyes, and puckered her lips—
kiss, kiss, kiss
.

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.

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.”

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. Thank 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.