Marie-Helene Bertino - 2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

Miss Greene and Ben catch her at the door.

“I sang,” Madeleine says, but that doesn’t get to it as deeply as she feels so she says it again, harder.

The door is blocked by an officer. “She’ll need to speak to us. Are you her mother?”

“I’m her teacher,” Sarina says.

“You can stay.” He points to Ben. “Is this your husband?”

“Friend,” Sarina says.

“He’ll have to go.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Ben says.

“No one will be allowed to wait outside,” the officer assures him.

He opens the door and lets people go one by one. The crowd steals glances at Madeleine as they heave toward the door. Ben takes Sarina’s hand to steel them against the current.

“Wait,” he says. “This can’t be the end.”

Sarina searches his eyes as if in them she has misplaced a set of keys.

Madeleine wants to tell them to hurry it up but her teacher’s pained smile stops her. It is the one she uses when a student struggles for an answer, to tell them she believes they have it in them. Even Madeleine knows to stay silent. If you are anything other than humbled in the presence of love, you are not in the presence of love.

“Keep me updated on the status of your everything,” Sarina says, and releases Ben’s hand. The space between them fills with other people.

A serious-faced boy approaches the bar, where Madeleine and Miss Greene wait to be interviewed. “Do you remember me?”

Madeleine nods. “You’re the guitarist.”

“I’m also the son of the guy whose club you helped close.”

Madeleine shifts her weight to her right, leading foot. She will spring through the club and out the quilted door if shit goes down.

“Girl.” He reaches out an arm to pin her. “No one’s mad.”

“Your dad is.”

“He’s always mad.” The boy grins. “How did you end up here?”

“I snuck here,” Madeleine says, “because I wanted to sing.”

His eyes register recognition but when he speaks, his tone is unfriendly. “Why?”

Madeleine is too tired to be tough. “Because they never let me sing at church,” she says. “Or at assemblies. Or anywhere. It’s always Clare Kelly. They say she’s the best singer in school, but her phrasing and pitch are bullshit.”

“Madeleine,” Miss Greene warns.

The boy works something over in his jaw. “You should worry less about whoever-the-hell and more about the fact that you can’t pace yourself. You almost blew it in the first verse.”

Madeleine knows he’s right. “Will you teach me?” she says. “I can sing while you play.”

“How old are you?” he says.

“Fourteen.”

He spits on the ground.

She is unaccustomed to wanting someone’s approval and can’t shear the desperation from her voice. “Nine,” she says. “But my birthday’s in two days.”

“I don’t play with children,” he says.

One of the officers emerges from the back and calls her name. “Screw off then.”

In the back room, an officer named Len Thomas assures her that there will only be a few questions. A man she does not recognize takes the chair next to her. “I have some questions, too.”

“Mr. Vega, this is not appropriate.”

“Call me Sonny.” He winks at Madeleine. “I won’t make a peep.”

“Name?” Officer Thomas begins. “Address and age?”

“Who do we know?” Sonny says. “Who’s your family?”

“My father is Mark Altimari,” Madeline says. “He used to be a vendor on Ninth Street.”

“That’s not it.” Sonny frowns.

“Mr. Vega,” Officer Thomas warns.

“Madeleine Altimari,” she tells him. “Eighteen South Ninth Street. Aged nine years and three hundred sixty-three days.”

“How did you come to find yourself here tonight?”

“It’s a long story,” she says.

Officer Thomas’s eyebrows jolt toward the ceiling. “I’ve got time.”

“I climbed out my window and walked.”

“You walked from Ninth?”

“It’s not that far if you take South all the way,” Sonny says. “Who’s your singing teacher?”

Madeleine turns to face him. “I don’t have one.”

“You sing like that with no teacher?”

“My mother taught me.”

Underneath Officer Thomas’s collar, a flush of red. “Mr. Vega, in many courts of law what you are doing would be considered interfering with police procedure.” He turns back to Madeleine. “What you’re saying is that tonight you climbed out of your window and walked across the city, to this club, got onstage, and sang of your own volition?”

“I wanted to sing,” Madeleine says. She is not afraid of police officers. Her only fear is roaches. At home on a recipe card labeled MISCELLANY, under NEVER SHOW UP TO SOMEONE’S HOME EMPTY-HANDED and DON’T TRUST A GIRL WITH NO GIRLFRIENDS, were the words: DON’T TRUST COPS.

The cop looks baffled, but the man named Sonny seems satisfied. “Your mother must be a great singer,” he says.

“My mother is dead,” Madeleine says. “Rose Santiago takes care of me.”

Sonny leans back in his chair, beaming. “Bingo.”

Officer Thomas makes furious scratches onto his pad.

Madeleine waits for Miss Greene to be interviewed at the front of the bar, where young people smoke and curse. She finds a cigarette in the front pocket of her vest. The young guitarist strikes a match and lights it for her.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll teach you.”

She chokes on an inhalation of smoke. “I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t care about money.”

She offers her hand and they shake.

“What’s it like to be born on Christmas?” he says.

She thinks about it. “It sucks.”

Sarina and Madeleine walk to Market Street to find a cab. A car slows next to them; its passenger-side window descends and through it Principal Randles calls their names. “I’ll drive you home.” Her tone is official, as if she is announcing the results of CYO games over the PA.

“No, thank you,” Madeleine says.

“I can’t have you walking by yourself,” the principal says.

“We would love a ride.” Sarina climbs into the front seat and gives directions. The principal turns the heat higher and adjusts the vents so they point to Madeleine, who climbs into the back.

“Seat belt,” the principal reminds her.

The girl sighs and clicks her belt into place.

Sarina eyes her boss, who wears lipstick the color of cotton candy. “How lucky you happened to be driving by.” A satiny dress peeks through the opening of her coat. Are those pearl earrings? The principal does not seem willing to explain. Sarina is not willing to explain either, so they are even.

They drive in silence. Crisp lawns, an overturned plastic Santa.

“Is that ‘Wonderwall’?” Principal Randles says.

Sarina’s phone is ringing in the bowels of her bag. She doesn’t recognize the number and dumps the call into voice mail.

Madeleine sulks in the unlit swell of the backseat. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Madeleine,” Sarina says. “That’s not polite.”

They stop at a red light. In a store window, a sign promises furniture sales in the new year. Principal Randles clicks on her turn signal. She clears her throat. “It was hard to be young with your mom.”

The light changes to green. They have almost reached their apartment complex.

Madeleine can feel the principal staring at her in the rearview mirror but refuses to acknowledge her. She is no longer a student at Saint Anthony’s.

“Your mother,” the principal says, “used to shrug whenever someone else would. Even on television. If someone on television shrugged, she shrugged.”