A Corner of the Universe

  There is a no-food-or-drink rule at the library, which makes sense, so I wait until I have finished my ice cream before I visit Mrs. Moore. When I leave the library, my arms are full of books about Betsy and Eddie, and also Betsy and Tacey, and briefly I think how lucky Betsy McGruder is with her name. I can’t think of many book characters named Hattie.

  I am hurrying along Grant with my books when I see someone on our front porch, waving frantically.

  Adam.

  “Hattie! Ho, ho!” he shouts.

  “Hi, Adam,” I call. “What —” I almost say, “What are you doing here?” but realize that sounds rude, so instead I say, “Where’s Nana? Is she here too?”

  “Nana, Nana, no, no, no. I came here by myself, by myself, yes indeed. I came for a little walk, and to see the lovely Miss Angel Valentine, is she here?”

  “Angel?” I repeat. “No, she’s at work. She works at the bank, remember?”

  “Yes, oh yes, like the teller in I Love Lucy. What do you have there, Hattie? What’s all that?”

  “I went to the library.” I am showing Adam my books when I hear the phone ring. “I’ll get it!” I cry. Although I don’t know why I bother to feel excited since unless Betsy is around, the phone is never for me. “Be right back,” I say to Adam.

  I run inside and pick up the phone in the hallway. “Hattie?” says Nana’s voice when I answer. “Is Adam there?” She sounds breathless.

  “Yes. He’s —”

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “Didn’t you know he was coming here?” I ask.

  “No! He left without telling me. I wasn’t even sure he remembered the way to your house.”

  “Well, he’s here. I don’t know how long he’s been here. I just got back from downtown and found him standing on our porch.”

  “May I speak to him, please?”

  Uh-oh. Nana’s tone of voice makes me picture Adam with his hand in his drink.

  I call Adam to the phone and listen to his end of the conversation: “Yes? … Yes.… Okay … but I know the way like the back of my hand, the back of my hand.” All very calm. And then, “I don’t have to tell you everything.… No, I am not coming home! Not now, not when Hattie is showing me her books.… I am not a baby, Mother!” Adam tries to throw the phone to the floor, but the cord won’t reach. He leaves it dangling and slams his way onto the front porch.

  I pick up the receiver. “Nana? I was thinking. Could Adam stay here for a little while? We’re going to have lunch soon. I could walk him home after that.”

  “All right.” A big resigned sigh. But I hear something else in that sigh. Relief, maybe.

  So Adam stays for lunch that day. He is disappointed to find out that Angel Valentine does not come back to the boardinghouse for lunch, but he recovers, and seems to enjoy spending time with Mom and Dad and Miss Hagerty and Mr. Penny and me.

  After lunch Adam and I sit on the porch, and now he’s serious and thoughtful. Adam’s moods are like a deck of playing cards with someone riffling through them — dozens of cards, one after the other, in a blur.

  “The whole world passes by your house, Hattie,” Adam says after a moment. He’s looking toward Grant Avenue.

  “I know. That’s why sometimes I hate our porch.” When Adam looks at me sharply, I hasten to add, “I mean, I don’t really hate our porch —”

  “You can hate your porch,” says Adam.

  “Good. Because sometimes I do.”

  Adam is still just looking at me, waiting.

  “Some days,” I say, “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere in that world. That world out there.” I point to Grant. “People walk down our street and people drive down it and people ride their bicycles down it and all of them, even the ones I know, could be from another planet. And I’m a visiting alien.”

  “And aliens don’t belong anywhere,” Adam finishes for me, “except in their own little corners of the universe.”

  “Right,” I say.

  Later, Adam seems happy to let me walk him home. He loops his arm through mine and sings, “Oh, mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.” He stops singing before we reach his front door. “You’ve told me one of your secrets, Hattie, and soon I’ll tell you one of mine,” he says. Then he opens the door and disappears into the cool darkness of Nana and Papa’s house.

  On Tuesday I am just about to set off for downtown when Adam comes whistling up our front walk. “Hattie! Hattie! A great good morning to you!” he calls.

  I slip inside and telephone Nana right away to let her know Adam is here, and she is grateful but doesn’t ask to speak with him.

  When I return to the porch, Adam says, “Is Angel here? Is Angel Valentine at home?”

  “No, she’s at the bank,” I remind him. “Her job.” And then I realize that maybe Adam doesn’t know much about jobs. So I add, “She leaves every morning before nine o’clock and she comes back every afternoon just a little after five.”

  “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do,” Adam grumbles, but he doesn’t seem terribly upset. He leaps to his feet. “I must be on my way then. Tally ho and adieu.”

  “Wait, Adam! Where are you going?”

  “Home, James,” he replies, and sets off down Grant.

  I tail Adam all the way back to Nana and Papa’s, like a spy, to make sure he doesn’t do anything weird when he’s walking around town. Then I tear on home and phone Nana to tell her what I’ve done and that Adam knows his way home just fine.

  I feel a little like Adam’s baby-sitter, a little like his mother, not at all like his niece, and quite a bit like his friend.

  The next day, Adam shows up at our house at precisely 5:05 P.M. (This time I don’t bother to call Nana.) Ten minutes later, while he and I are watching Miss Hagerty swish those knitting needles of hers around, Angel Valentine turns up our walk.

  Adam is on his feet in an instant. “Angel Valentine! Oh, ho, ho, ho! A great good evening to you. How was your day at the bank?”

  Angel collapses into a chair, fanning herself. “It was fine, Adam, thank you. Very busy.”

  Adam can’t take his eyes off of Angel. I watch them travel from her face all the way down to her feet, then up again to settle on her chest. Miss Hagerty is occupied with her knitting needles, and Angel has closed her eyes briefly, so I am the only one watching Adam watch Angel. He is rocking back and forth, from one foot to the other, wringing his hands, and … just staring at her bosom.

  Angel opens her eyes and sees Adam. I cringe, but she smiles at him. Then she stands up. “I think I’ll make some iced tea before dinner,” she says. “Does anybody else want any?”

  “Oh! Oh! I’ll help you! I’ll help you in the kitchen, Angel Valentine! Honey what are you doing now mixing in the eggs oil vinegar eggs why don’t you put some anchovies make a Caesar salad?”

  Angel holds the door open for Adam. “Which I Love Lucy is that from?” she asks as they disappear down the hall toward the kitchen.

  I feel a flush start in my cheeks as I watch Adam hurry after Angel. I know he has been waiting for days to see her again. I try to tell myself that this is okay; that Adam is a grown man and Angel is a grown woman — a beautiful grown woman. It wouldn’t be right for him to look at me the way he looked at Angel. I am only eleven years old, not to mention his niece. But that flush won’t go away, and I stare out at Grant Avenue in confusion.

  There is nothing like feeling left out.

  On Thursday I try not to think about Adam. I take my walk into town. I paint with Dad in his studio. I lie on my bed and read a library book. I help Cookie in the kitchen. Finally I realize that I miss Adam. So I feel a happy flutter in my stomach when I hear him come whistling up our front walk late that afternoon. I run outside to meet him.

  “Ho, ho, and good afternoon, Hattie,” says Adam. He’s all dressed up, wearing a too-small summer suit with a lime green bow tie and a broad black felt hat, so I think he’s expecting to see Angel again. But he doesn’t ask about her. In
stead, he plops down in a porch chair, crosses one leg over the other, regards me seriously, and says, sounding as if we might be in a business meeting, “Very well. You shared one of your secrets with me, Hattie Owen. Now I’ll share one of mine with you.”

  “Okay,” I reply, trying to catch up with Adam. Sometimes I feel that he is miles ahead of me.

  “Give me a date, Hattie, any date,” says Adam.

  “A date?”

  “Yes. A month and a day and a year. January seventh in the year nineteen fifty-two, for example.”

  I think for a moment. Then I say, “Okay. September sixteenth, nineteen forty-one.”

  “Tuesday,” says Adam promptly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “September sixteenth nineteen forty-one was a Tuesday.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. It’s in my head.”

  “Are you sure you’re right?”

  “Positive. You can look the date up. Give me another one. A date that you know.”

  Well, I happen to know what day of the week Cookie was born on, so I give Adam Cookie’s birth date.

  “Saturday,” says Adam.

  “That’s right!”

  Adam is grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.

  “You can really do this with any date at all?”

  “Absotively.”

  “How come it’s a secret?”

  Adam leans forward and whispers loudly, “Because Mother says it’s a circus trick and it’s embarrassing and it must be kept in the family. The bosom of the family, I might add, although Mother didn’t say that.”

  No, I can’t imagine Nana saying “bosom” under any circumstances.

  “So there you have it,” says Adam, settling back in his chair and looking satisfied.

  I have missed something. “What?” I say.

  Adam’s eyes grow unfocused. He glances away, then back at me, then away again. “My little corner of the universe,” is all he will say.

  Early Friday morning I am on my way to Miss Hagerty’s room with her breakfast tray when I pause at our front door. The weather forecast has called for rain, but I don’t see a single cloud.

  What I do see, though, almost causes me to drop the tray.

  It is Adam. He is walking jauntily down Grant, wearing his pajama bottoms and nothing more. No shirt, no shoes.

  My heart pounds faster, and I draw in a sharp breath. Then I set the tray on the floor and dash outside and down the walk. Adam has already passed our house. I turn right, calling, “Adam! Adam!”

  Adam stops walking and swivels around. “Ho, ho! And a great good morning to you, Hattie Owen! A great good morning, a good morning to be alive. Alive, alive, oh! Alive, alive, oh! Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh! Do you know that song, do you, Hattie?”

  Adam is grinning, a grin that splits his face. This is the best mood I have ever seen him in.

  I catch up with him and take his hand. “Adam, where are you going?”

  “Where am I going? Where am I going, you ask? Why, I am on my way to the circus of life, the circus of life, Hattie, and I would be honored and delighted, D-E-lighted, if you would accompany me.”

  Adam has not slowed down. He is continuing in the direction of town, moving so fast that I have to run to keep up with him. How do I make him turn around? He must come with me; I’ll take him back to Nana and Papa. But I don’t know how to turn him around.

  I am a little afraid of making him mad.

  I think about what he said, about the circus of life. Has he seen the carnival posters? Is that what he’s talking about?

  “I do want to go to the circus with you, Adam,” I say. “But it isn’t here yet. The carnival, I mean. It doesn’t get here until tomorrow. Fred Carmel’s Funtime Carnival.”

  “Yes, oh yes. The famous Fred Carmel and his Funtime Carnival. Fun, fun, fun for everyone.”

  “So let’s turn around, then,” I say. “We can go to the carnival next week.”

  I stop, and tug at Adam’s arm. For one second I feel him resist, and I think, What will I do if he won’t come with me? What will Adam do if he gets mad?

  But the next thing I know, Adam has turned and we are walking back toward our house. Adam slows his pace, and soon we are ambling along, like we are just any old people out for an early morning walk, except that one of them is wearing only his striped pajama bottoms.

  We pass our house, and I wonder if I should run inside and wake up Mom and Dad, or at least pick Miss Hagerty’s tray up from the floor, but I don’t want to disturb things with Adam. Better just to return him to Nana and Papa.

  So we keep walking, arm in arm now. Silently.

  And it dawns on me that we will have to pass by Nancy’s house, then Janet’s.

  Okay. I will just pray to that god of my parents, the one who is always listening — pray that Nancy and Janet will be inside their houses sound asleep as we pass by.

  Apparently God is taking a break and doesn’t hear me, because as Adam and I approach Nancy’s house the front door opens and Nancy runs outside, chasing after her little brother. She chases him across their lawn and to within ten feet of Adam and me before she sees us. When she does, she screeches to a halt and stares.

  “Well, and good morning to you, friend of Hattie,” says Adam. “Friend who does not want lemonade. Friend who has a baby brother.” He salutes Nancy. “Would you like to come home with us and have some savory breakfast sausage?”

  Nancy’s mouth is hanging open. “No,” she manages to say.

  Well. Just plain no.

  I know Adam looks funny and all, but couldn’t Nancy at least be polite to him?

  Adam, hurt, turns away.

  And I hear Nancy mutter, “You big freak.”

  I let go of Adam’s hand and I spin around. “Hey!” I say. “Hey …” I am not very good at insults. “Hey, shut up.”

  It’s not much, but since Nancy has barely heard me say two words in all the time we’ve known each other, she looks surprised — and shuts up.

  “Come on, Adam,” I say.

  We walk the rest of the way in silence. And we do not run into Janet. By the time we reach Nana and Papa’s, I see that tears are sliding down Adam’s cheeks. I ring the doorbell, my heart starting to flutter.

  Ermaline appears, then finds Nana in a hurry. I tell Nana what happened. And even though Adam is still crying in that silent way, she says to him, “Now you march right upstairs, young man, and put on some proper clothes.” But she sounds more shocked than mad.

  Adam heads for the stairs. When he is gone from sight, I say, “Nancy O’Neil called Adam a big freak. He heard her.”

  Nana stands before me, as straight as a rod, her posture perfect. Nothing in her face moves. If Adam has been insulted, then Nana has been insulted. I can read her eyes as if they are a library book. Nana, one of the wealthiest people in Millerton, expected a perfect family, a family who would live up to the high standards set by Nana’s father. But her children have failed her, which means Nana has failed.

  “I have to go,” I say, and I leave to have breakfast with my own family. I try not to remember Adam’s quiet tears.

  I wake up on Saturday morning with butterflies in my stomach. Today Fred Carmel’s Funtime Carnival will arrive. Adam will not get to see it. Nana and Papa have chosen this day to take Adam to Philadelphia for some new clothes. I’m sorry Adam will miss the parade, but glad that Nana has noticed things like his too-small summer suit. I wonder who was in charge of Adam’s clothes while he was away at school. I think that maybe Nana didn’t care what he looked like when he was out of her sight. And then I tell myself to stop thinking mean thoughts about Nana.

  “Imagine, a parade right down your street, Hattie,” says Cookie as I help her in the kitchen after breakfast. We are both wearing aprons (made by Miss Hagerty), and Cookie has pulled her hair back with a net. Also, she has rolled her stockings down to just below her knees. It is not a good look, but Cookie is fanning herself and sweati
ng, and swears to God in heaven that the rolled-down stockings make her feel ten degrees cooler.

  I think of Fred Carmel’s posters. Several of them advertise that when the carnival arrives, the wagons and trucks and trailers will parade through town on their way to the carnival site. They will start on Nassau Street, then turn onto Grant and follow Grant to the other side of Millerton.

  “Who are you going to watch the parade with?" Cookie asks me.

  “Well, you know, Mom and Dad, Mr. Penny and Miss Hagerty. Angel, if she’s around. And you, if you want to watch.”

  “No one your own age?”

  I cross my arms. “Betsy is in Maine,” I remind her.

  “Is Betsy the only other eleven-year-old in Millerton?”

  “No.”

  Cookie smiles at me and puts her arms out. I step away. She sighs. “Oh, honey,” she says.

  “Well, you sound like Mom.”

  “Your mother just wants you to have friends.”

  “I do have friends.”

  “Friends your own age.”

  “Why does it matter how old my friends are?”

  Cookie sighs again. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  We are baking muffins, and I am filling the muffin tins with our batter. We work without speaking for a few minutes. Finally I decide I don’t want Cookie to think I’m mad at her, so I say, “Will you watch the parade with us?”

  “For a few minutes,” she replies. “Long enough to see some of those sideshow people.”

  It is not yet ten o’clock that morning when I hear shouts and some tinkly music. I run to the porch and look down our street. I see a long line of trucks and wagons moving slowly. I dash back inside.

  “It’s here!” I shout. “The parade is coming.”

  Everyone rushes to the porch and sits on the chairs I’ve lined up in front of the railing. Miss Hagerty is so excited, she squeezes my hand.

  The first truck in the parade is painted like a circus wagon. Red letters outlined in gold announce FRED CARMEL’S FUNTIME CARNIVAL. Two young women dressed in spangly costumes sit atop the wagon and wave to us. (Miss Hagerty waves back.) The tinkly music is coming from somewhere inside the wagon. Next come several trailers containing animals, and behind them trot three ponies, each led by a carnival woman in a spangly costume.