mom, “it's just the doorbell.”
If anything, Andre and Celestine were more horrified. Like, who were they expecting? The front door opened, because Jared's parents hardly ever locked it until bedtime. “It's me,” yelled the minister.
“Come on in, Pete!”
Dr. Nickerson came bounding in, looking very unministerish in his oldest tracksuit. He loved running up Prospect Hill and did it all the time; he wasn't even breathing hard. “How's everybody doing?”
Everybody—if by this, he meant the refugees—had sagged down in their chairs like stabbed balloons.
The minister held out his hand to the closest refugee, who happened to be Andre. “I'm the minister. Pete Nickerson. We're so glad to have you.”
Then he saw the arm stubs.
Mopsy was glad to leave the room. She couldn't stand that Andre had no hands. Mopsy had always loved God with herwhole heart, just the way they told you to in Sunday school. But shouldn't God have come down from heaven and stopped Andre from having his hands chopped off? What else had he been doing that he couldn't manage that?
I mean, how busy could you be? she asked him.
Mopsy shut the door to the little TV room and pulled down the blinds in case Alake knew it was dark out. Then she eased Alake onto the old sofa. She lifted a spoonful of rice toward Alake's face. Alake took the spoon in her own hand and licked off a single grain of rice. “Excuse me,” said Mopsy. “Who in the history of the world ate one rice at a time?”
Alake looked down at the plate, took it in her hand and ate like a person.
Mopsy was content. She made an executive decision and went and got Alake a can of Coke. Coca-Cola was sold worldwide, so maybe Alake would recognize the logo and feel safe with it. Mopsy yanked the pop-top and handed the fizzing can to Alake, who took a sip, swallowed, shivered and swallowed again.
Mopsy thought about taking Alake to school in the morning.
All her life, when teachers wrote reports on Mopsy, they would finish, “Young for her age.” When she was eight, they said she acted five. When she was eleven, they said she acted eight. Last year she'd actually been sent to a counselor. Mopsy was humiliated. She never acted up or talked back. Didn't pick on anybody, skip homework or fail tests. What was everybody annoyed about?
Mopsy took Alake's hand in hers. Alake's fingers werebeautiful—long and elegant. The double colors of her hand fascinated Mopsy: dark and warm on top, soft and pale on the palm.
Mopsy planned how she would introduce Alake to the sixth grade, and help her talk again, and laugh, and be American.
When Dr. Nickerson had recovered from the shock of finding no hands at the bottom of Andre's arms, and Andre had reassured him that it was all right, the minister fell into Mopsy's seat. Mom offered to fix him a plate. “No, thanks, Kara, I've lost my appetite.”
Andre bit his lip.
“I'm sorry! I didn't mean you, Andre! I've lost my appetite because we have problems in the church that…” He gave up without explaining.
Jared, who never stepped into church conversations, said, “You guys want to talk in the living room? I can take care of Mr. and Mrs. Amabo.”
His parents and the minister took him up on his offer and left the room. Jared hoped the church situation hadn't gotten even worse, because he was willing to help once, but he sure wasn't willing to do it twice.
“Please, Jared,” said Andre. “It will be our church too. May we know what the problems are?”
“A guy everybody trusted stole all the money.”
“Ah,” said Andre. “Only God can be trusted.”
“You
can't trust God,” said Jared irritably. “God let this nightmare happen to you to start with.”
“You confuse God with man,” said Andre.
Jared so didn't want to talk about God over dessert. He stuck two pies, a cake, a pan of Rice Krispies Treats and two half gallons of ice cream on the table.
“What is that?” asked Celestine, pointing to the ice
If anything, Andre and Celestine were more horrified. Like, who were they expecting? The front door opened, because Jared's parents hardly ever locked it until bedtime. “It's me,” yelled the minister.
“Come on in, Pete!”
Dr. Nickerson came bounding in, looking very unministerish in his oldest tracksuit. He loved running up Prospect Hill and did it all the time; he wasn't even breathing hard. “How's everybody doing?”
Everybody—if by this, he meant the refugees—had sagged down in their chairs like stabbed balloons.
The minister held out his hand to the closest refugee, who happened to be Andre. “I'm the minister. Pete Nickerson. We're so glad to have you.”
Then he saw the arm stubs.
Mopsy was glad to leave the room. She couldn't stand that Andre had no hands. Mopsy had always loved God with herwhole heart, just the way they told you to in Sunday school. But shouldn't God have come down from heaven and stopped Andre from having his hands chopped off? What else had he been doing that he couldn't manage that?
I mean, how busy could you be? she asked him.
Mopsy shut the door to the little TV room and pulled down the blinds in case Alake knew it was dark out. Then she eased Alake onto the old sofa. She lifted a spoonful of rice toward Alake's face. Alake took the spoon in her own hand and licked off a single grain of rice. “Excuse me,” said Mopsy. “Who in the history of the world ate one rice at a time?”
Alake looked down at the plate, took it in her hand and ate like a person.
Mopsy was content. She made an executive decision and went and got Alake a can of Coke. Coca-Cola was sold worldwide, so maybe Alake would recognize the logo and feel safe with it. Mopsy yanked the pop-top and handed the fizzing can to Alake, who took a sip, swallowed, shivered and swallowed again.
Mopsy thought about taking Alake to school in the morning.
All her life, when teachers wrote reports on Mopsy, they would finish, “Young for her age.” When she was eight, they said she acted five. When she was eleven, they said she acted eight. Last year she'd actually been sent to a counselor. Mopsy was humiliated. She never acted up or talked back. Didn't pick on anybody, skip homework or fail tests. What was everybody annoyed about?
Mopsy took Alake's hand in hers. Alake's fingers werebeautiful—long and elegant. The double colors of her hand fascinated Mopsy: dark and warm on top, soft and pale on the palm.
Mopsy planned how she would introduce Alake to the sixth grade, and help her talk again, and laugh, and be American.
When Dr. Nickerson had recovered from the shock of finding no hands at the bottom of Andre's arms, and Andre had reassured him that it was all right, the minister fell into Mopsy's seat. Mom offered to fix him a plate. “No, thanks, Kara, I've lost my appetite.”
Andre bit his lip.
“I'm sorry! I didn't mean you, Andre! I've lost my appetite because we have problems in the church that…” He gave up without explaining.
Jared, who never stepped into church conversations, said, “You guys want to talk in the living room? I can take care of Mr. and Mrs. Amabo.”
His parents and the minister took him up on his offer and left the room. Jared hoped the church situation hadn't gotten even worse, because he was willing to help once, but he sure wasn't willing to do it twice.
“Please, Jared,” said Andre. “It will be our church too. May we know what the problems are?”
“A guy everybody trusted stole all the money.”
“Ah,” said Andre. “Only God can be trusted.”
“You
can't trust God,” said Jared irritably. “God let this nightmare happen to you to start with.”
“You confuse God with man,” said Andre.
Jared so didn't want to talk about God over dessert. He stuck two pies, a cake, a pan of Rice Krispies Treats and two half gallons of ice cream on the table.
“What is that?” asked Celestine, pointing to the ice
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