Tricia Springstubb - What Happened on Fox Street

Not a dog. But a Vulpes vulpes .

“Poor Mo.” Dottie patted her shoulder with a juicy hand. “She’s smiling at a poop pile.”

“Not poop,” whispered Mo. “Scat.”

“Scat cat!” Dottie shoved in more berries.

Was this the sign she’d been waiting for? The sign that, if you were patient, if you believed hard enough and held on tight, good things would come? The world would right itself, and all, all would be well?

Mo put a berry on her tongue and crushed it against the roof of her mouth. Sweet, sharp, warm juice shot out. Deliciousness spurted all through her.

BACK HOME, Mr. Wren sprawled in front of the TV, where Mo saw at a glance that the Indians were down by five runs. The scent of earthworms drifted off him, and his fingernails were earth caked.

“Where you girl-illas been? What’d I tell you about being home here by five?” Without waiting for an answer, he hoisted himself off the couch. They could hear the refrigerator opening, the top popping on a can. “Don’t listen to me,” he said, coming back into the room. “I was underground eight hours today. My brain’s clogged with dirt.” He pointed at Georgene. “Nice score.” Mr. Wren only drank beer from cans, but still he took an interest.

“I brought you a feather,” Dottie said, holding it out. But Mr. Wren turned away to snap off the TV.

“Bunch of losers!” He trudged into the hallway and wrestled with the front door, which always stuck in the humidity. “This bleepin’ hole!”

“Hey, it’s the world’s best house! You always said so.”

“Yeah, well. Every frog praises his own pond.” Mr. Wren yanked the door open and stepped outside.

Dottie hung her head. “That feather’s not no magic.”

“Don’t worry.” Mo stroked her hair. “We don’t need magic. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Mo woke the next morning to hear her father on the phone, calling in sick. He made his voice weak and hoarse, claiming fever. By the time she came downstairs, he and Dottie were busy in the kitchen. Dottie was in charge of toast, and the stack was already about a foot high. His hair, still wet from his shower, curled in shiny black parentheses all over his head. Mr. Wren, who could not carry a tune in a bucket yet loved to sing, was belting out “Please Please Me” when a knock sounded at the side door.

“Bernard!” Mr. Wren opened the door wide. “You smell the bacon or what?”

“I know that front door of yours sticks in this kind of weather, so I moseyed myself up the side.” Bernard stepped into the kitchen, swinging his mail sack off his shoulder and onto a chair. Mr. Wren was getting an extra plate, but Bernard shook his head. “I gotta say, this is the eatingest street on my route! Already had some of Da’s biscuits and a killer cup of espresso at Mrs. Petrone’s. It’s a shame, but I can’t eat me one more bite. Day off?”

Mr. Wren tapped his temple. “Mental health.”

Bernard pulled a rubber-banded bundle of envelopes from his sack and handed one to Mr. Wren, who frowned at the return address.

“I pay my taxes. I’m up on the mortgage. What the bleep’s this?”

Bernard frowned, holding out a pen. “Looks to me like part two.”

“Then I missed part one.”

Bernard raised a brow in the direction of Mo, who bent her face over her eggs.

“Sign right there.” Taking the receipt, Bernard swung his gray bag back up on his shoulder. “Maybe opportunity’s come knocking.”

“Opportunity comes knocking on Fox Street, it’s got the wrong address, Bernard.”

“Remind me to stop here first next time.” Bernard flicked Mo another questioning look. “Well, you all have a fine day now.”

As Mr. Wren tore open the letter, Mo busied herself clearing the table. She was scrubbing the frying pan when he gave a long, low whistle.

“Either this Buckman’s wiggity or it’s our lucky day.”

“Buckman!” Dottie ran around the table flapping her arms like chicken wings. “Buck buck buck!”

Mr. Wren refolded the letter, looking thoughtful. “What do you say to a trip to Paradise, Little Speck?” He put the letter in his pocket and pulled on his baseball cap.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Mo struggled to make her face innocent and her voice casual.

“What’s up, Daddy?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

“Can I get a donut at Abdul’s?” Dottie was already begging.

“Who’s Buck…Buck Man, did you say?”

“Like the man said, we’ll soon find out.” He downed the last of his coffee. “A couple of weeks ago, I stopped into Paradise Realty just for the heck of it. I told Marcie-you know Marcie? She wears those suits that look like they’re made to withstand kryptonite? I told her, give me a ring next time some millionaire comes in wanting a nice little place with a view of the park. I love making Marcie laugh.”

He hoisted Dottie onto his wide shoulders. “Wait’ll she sees this letter-she’ll bust a gut. Hey.” His brow furrowed. “Why so thoughtful, Mojo?”

“Who, me?”

“You’re off babysitting duty.” He tickled the bottom of Dottie’s bare foot, then dug out his wallet and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Treat Ferrari to an ice cream. Go to the pool or see a movie. That’s an order.”

He wrestled open the door, Dottie ducking her head. “Toodle-oo!” she cried.

“Daddy! She’s in her pajamas! She needs shoes!”

Bam!

Mo wiped the ketchup off the scarred wooden table, put the milk away, and went upstairs to get dressed. The feeling that something very bad was about to happen-that it had, in fact, already started happening-made every step an effort. Was this what it was like just before you died, when your life flashed before your eyes? People said “flashed,” but time would have to crawl in order for you to review your whole life. Why, a single day alone would take several minutes, and if you added up all the hundreds and hundreds of days…

Of course you probably didn’t review every single day. Just a few moments, maybe. Like a highlights reel. But how could you ever pick which moments? Most of your life would be left behind, like the A.O.L. House, abandoned and hurt, sure you didn’t care about it.

Mo pulled on her shorts. Sometimes her thoughts got more knotty than the Wild Child’s hair. Sometimes being a thinker led her round and round and right back where she’d started. Only dizzy.

Still moving in slow motion, she walked down the driveway, pausing to admire Mrs. Steinbott’s roses. Somehow, even in the drought, the flowers were flourishing. Mo’s favorites were just coming into bud. Cream colored, flame tipped-by the time those flowers opened all the way, they’d be big as a newborn’s head.

“Pssst!”

Mrs. Steinbott peered down from her porch, her face a pink knot.

“You!” She crooked a bloodless finger. “Come here.”

Shocked, Mo looked around. No one else in sight.

“Are you a moron? Come here this instant!”

MO HAD NEVER, in her entire lifetime, which as everyone knew had been spent entirely on Fox Street, climbed Mrs. Steinbott’s porch steps. Not that she’d ever wanted to. The Baggott boys had, dozens of times, depositing a sack of dog poop or a dead mouse, ringing the doorbell and running for their cowardly, shrivel-brained lives. The Jehovah’s Witness ladies had, and a cookie-selling Girl Scout from two streets over who didn’t know any better, but nobody, nobody, was ever invited up those four gleaming white steps. Till now.