Mary Jane by Jessica Blau (best motivational books .txt) 📕

she’d never pulled me over her knee. My father had neverspanked me either, but he did have a big fist that balled up in silence when he was angry. Usually his anger was directedtoward the newspaper, or the news. He disliked many politicians, and he particularly hated the heads of most foreign countries.

When my mother finally walked out of the store, my body relaxed, my blood felt like warm milk. I turned the cart and Izzyand I went down the nearest aisle.

“Uh-oh.” Izzy looked up at me, her mouth held in an O from the word oh. “I don’t remember my number for the ratio.”

“I do.”

“You remember my number?”

“Yes. Well. No.” It was one thing to lie to my mother; it was another to lie to Izzy. “We’ll start from this end and we’llcount all over again. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I returned the aprons before we checked out. Izzy had counted fifty customers and I had counted twenty-six employees.

“So our ratio is twenty-six to fifty,” I said.

“And the ratio of me and you to the witch is two to one.”

“Yes. And the ratio of me and you to my mom is two to one.”

“Because we’re on the same team?”

“Yeah.” I tugged one of Izzy’s braids. “We’re on the same team.”

 

I held a brown paper bag in each arm and Izzy held one with two hands in front of her. Nothing was too heavy, but we had bought a lot: five boxes of Popsicles, six bags of M&M’s, five boxes of Screaming Yellow Zonkers popcorn, five Chunky bars, five Baby Ruth bars, three rolls of candy buttons, six candy necklaces (one for each person in the household), and handfuls of Laffy Taffy and Bazooka bubble gum. I hoped that I had bought neither too much nor too little. Dr. Cone’s instructions had been so vague that failure seemed highly likely. When my mother sent me to Eddie’s to get something for her, the instructions were specific: one shaker of Old Bay Seasoning in the small rectangular shaker, not in the larger cylinder; one white onion the size of your father’s fist, no brown spots; and three carrots, each the length from your wrist bone to the tip of your middle finger. All Dr. Cone had said was “some sugary sweets.”

Once we had passed my cross street, we cut back over to Woodlawn. The blond woman was out gardening again. As we approached,she sat up on her knees, pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her gloved hand, and said hello.

“We got lots of sweets!” Izzy said, and we both paused.

I put down my bags and Izzy put down hers as well. The woman stood and walked to the edge of her lawn so she was standingright beside us.

“What did you get?” She peered at the bags.

Izzy pointed. “Popsicles and candy and popcorn and bubble gum and . . . what else?”

“Holy moly! Lucky you!” The woman smiled at Izzy. “Are you the summer nanny?” she asked me.

“Yes. For Dr. and Mrs. Cone.”

“I’m Izzy.” Izzy pulled out a box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. “Can we have this?”

“Sure.” I took the box from her and opened it, then handed it back.

Izzy stuck her little hand into the box and pulled out a fistful of shellacked popcorn with peanuts frozen in the gaps likeinsects in amber. “Want some?” she asked the woman.

“Sure.” The woman removed her gloves and stuck her hand in the box. “What’s your name?” she asked me.

“Mary Jane Dillard.”

“Oh, you’re Betsy and Gerald’s daughter.” She plucked a piece of popcorn from her palm and stuck it in her mouth. “I met your mom at the Elkridge Club. My husband and I are thinking of joining.”

“Do you know my mom and dad?” Izzy asked.

“Mmm . . . what are your parents’ names again? I’m new here, so I’m just getting to know people.”

“Mommy and Daddy!” Bits of popcorn flew from Izzy’s mouth as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll have to walk over and introduce myself.”

“Dr. and Mrs. Cone are very busy this summer,” I said quickly.

“My dad is Richard.” Izzy handed the box back to the woman, who took another handful and then passed the box to me. “And mymom is Bonnie.”

“I’m Mrs. Jones. But there are three Mrs. Joneses in this neighborhood, so you can call me Beanie.”

“Beanie?!” Izzy laughed.

“That’s what my parents called me when I was little. I was so skinny, I looked like a string bean. And then it stuck and noweveryone calls me Beanie.”

“Does Mr. Beanie call you Beanie?” Izzy asked.

“Mr. Jones calls me Beanie. Yes.”

“Do your kids call you Beanie?”

“Mr. Jones and I haven’t been blessed with children yet.” Beanie Jones smiled. When my mother’s friend, Mrs. Funkhauser, talkedabout not having kids, she seemed sad, but this wasn’t a sad smile. Beanie Jones turned her head toward the house and thenI could hear it too: through the wide-open front door, the phone was ringing. “Oh, I have to get that! You girls have fun.”She ran toward the phone.

“Should we leave her the rest of the box?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah.” I folded down the wax paper and closed the box, then set it on the cobblestone walkway.

“What if a dog eats it first?”

“Run it up to the porch.”

Izzy picked up the box, ran up to the wide blue-floored porch, and placed the box on a little glass table that stood betweentwo cushioned wrought-iron chairs.

When Izzy and I walked in the house, the Cone phone was ringing. No one seemed to be answering, so I rushed into the kitchen,put the bags down on the table, and looked for the phone. I found it between a stack of phone books and a Hills Bros. Coffeecan that held pencils, pens, and a dirty wooden ruler.

“Cone residence, this is Mary Jane.”

“Mary Jane! You’re back.” It was Dr. Cone.

“Yeah, we got lots of sweets.”

“Great. Can you bring some out to my office?”

“Okay. Popsicles and—”

“You pick an assortment. Just lots of sweets.”

“Okay.”

Dr. Cone hung up and I looked at the phone for a second before setting it in the