You Are My Only by Beth Kephart Page B

Rudd,” she says, but the dog pays her no mind, and the crows don’t show much interest one way or the other: they are busy with their tree play. Now when Miss Cloris looks up, toward the tree of crows, her eyes get stuck on me.
    â€œWhy, Sophie Marks,” she says. “Good morning to you.”
    â€œGood morning, Miss Cloris.”
    â€œYou busy over there?”
    â€œWorking on Kepler.”
    She swishes her spoon for a second or two, then “Aren’t you an interesting one?” she says.
    â€œHomework,” I tell her. “An essay for Mother.”
    â€œYou learning celestial mechanics?”
    â€œLearning Kepler,” I say.
    â€œI like that,” Miss Cloris says. She makes a funny little down strike with her spoon, then smiles wide. “You need a break, you come on over,” she says. “I’m making custard for Miss Helen, and with custard, there’s always extra.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œHarvey means to apologize for the noise.”
    â€œThat’s all right.”
    â€œI’m afraid that there will be no taming Harvey.”
    â€œMaybe he just likes birds,” I say.
    â€œMaybe that’s so.”
    â€œMaybe he just likes the big outside.”
    â€œNow, that’s the truth. You need a break, you know what to do.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.”
    â€œOtherwise, you carry on with Kepler. Perhaps you’ll share your findings when you’re done?”
    â€œYou’d like that?”
    â€œNow, don’t get silly with me, Sophie Marks. we like our learning at the Joey Rudd house.”
    From Nothing to Big Things, I think. From No One to Someone. It’s a whole wide world out there.
Emmy

    I fit my right arm along the long shelf of Arlen’s shoulder and lean in, trust Arlen, let him take us on through the station door. There is jitter in my bones, jitter and weight upon my heart. Up ahead, the station doors open and close, and we are three steps away; we are two.
    â€œYou okay?” Arlen asks.
    I feel like a fever.
    â€œWe should rest a bit,” Arlen says. “I recommend it.”
    Through the high-up windows of the station, cones of sun fight their way in.
    â€œBaby has jewels for eyes,” I remind Arlen, so he knows what he is looking for. “Baby smells like Baby.” I see her going back and coming near in the backyard swing beneath the sky above the green ant jungle. I feel the feather touch of her almost hair, sense her head bob on my shoulder. She is near. She must be near. And she is mine, nobody else’s.
    â€œWe’ll rest a bit,” Arlen says. “And then we’ll search.”
    The clutch of his hand at my waist. The leaned-into ache of his shoulders. I scan the room for Baby. Scan the pews. Scan the sunbeams. Scan the shadows. Where?
    From the sour smell of a cardboard box, a kitten pokes its furred head. From the polished wood of the waiting-room pews spill crates and luggage, shoes and hands, a jacket slung and a woman curved, her profile sliced by the sun. There are three girls playing jacks. There is that man with that dog.
    â€œSit awhile, Emmy. Get your bearings.”
    I can’t move without Arlen. I can’t go up and down between the pews, can’t find my way into the blue of shadows nor get near to the farthest corner by the ladies’ washroom, where the secrets of the station spool. On the signboards, the trains are laid out in their order—the name of the train, the departing time, the destination city. Up against one wall runs the slender ticket counter, with the agents lined up behind bars. Beyond the back doors the red caps stand, behind the smoke veil of cigarettes and fuel. Overhead, the speakers blare Washington, D.C.; New York City; Boston; Harrisburg; and here comes the lady in green, oozing up toward the ticket counter. She moves as if the air were made of honey. She carries the blade of a rose in one hand, a