The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,44
about the man’s private parts. If Bunny brings that up now in front of this priest, I swear I will kill her.
“Can I have a soda?” I ask.
“Oh, of course!” Father Connery jumps up to get it.
Dumpling digs her fingernails into Bunny’s wrist as a final warning. She gives me a look like maybe we should think about leaving, but just then the door opens and two elderly women step inside. They have crosses around their necks and long black robes. Their faces are red and they have little beads of sweat on their foreheads—possibly because they’re wearing black hoods that look like towels on top of their heads.
They smile at us and say hello, as if they always come home to find kids eating their crackers and drinking their tea.
“You three must be from the fish camp upriver,” the shorter one says.
Dumpling nods but doesn’t look up. She’s suddenly very interested in the blue pattern on the china cup.
“Well, I’m Sister Mary Pat and this is Sister Mary Louise. Welcome.” The one talking is skinny and wrinkled, but her eyes are sparkly and kind, like ripe berries. The other woman, who just nods and reaches for a cookie, is plumper and less wrinkled, and her glasses are so thick it’s hard to see her eyes at all. I wonder if all nuns are called Sister Mary something-or-other.
“We should really get going,” Dumpling says. “They’re probably waiting for us in the skiff.” She pulls Bunny up by the shoulder just as Bunny grabs my soda and spills it everywhere. We all look with horror at the mess, but nobody else seems concerned.
“Easy there, what’s your rush?” says Father Connery. “Was there something you wanted to ask?”
But Dumpling is now hell-bent on getting us out of there. She’s fumbling with her boots and Bunny and I are trying to get into ours as well—made even more complicated by Bunny’s juggling of the soda can, which by now has left a sticky trail all the way to the door.
“Thanks for the tea,” Dumpling mumbles.
And then we’re outside, Dumpling’s grip tight on Bunny’s arm, steering us past the statue and down to the slough where we left the three-wheelers.
I look back and see Father Connery and the two nuns standing outside, watching us. I lift my hand to wave just as another person comes out of the house. A woman in jeans with a black ponytail. Where did she come from?
Dumpling starts up her three-wheeler and turns to make sure Bunny is getting onto hers, when she notices the woman on the steps. They stare at each other and then Dumpling turns the key and the engine sputters and dies again. She slides off the three-wheeler without even looking at me and walks back up to the house. The woman seems to sense something, moving like a wild deer, hesitant but forward, as if she’s sniffing Dumpling out. I slide off my three-wheeler as well and follow, baffled.
“My dad said I might find you here,” Dumpling says when the two are standing face to face. “I have a note from Ruth.”
This surprises both me and the woman, who looks at Dumpling like she isn’t sure she can believe her. “She asked me to give you this.”
Dumpling holds out a piece of blue paper that she’s pulled from her pocket—the same one I saw Ruth give her the night she left on the bus. The woman looks at it for a long time, but her eyes are unfocused.
“What is it?” says the woman. Her voice sounds like cottonwood fluff blowing in the wind.
“It’s from Ruth.”
“Ruth?” the woman says. “Ruth is only five years old.”
My mind is trying to catch up with what is happening. Dumpling could have at least told me. I notice Bunny is just as surprised as I am.
“Have you seen her do ballet?” the woman is saying. “When her daddy gets home, Ruth is going to dance for him. We’re just waiting for his plane to land.”
“I can take that, dear,” says one of the Marys. She has swooped down with her winglike robes not making a sound. She reaches out to take the blue paper, but Dumpling won’t let it go.
“I promised only to give it to Ruth’s mother.”
Ruth’s mother?
“It’s okay, dear. We can sort this out.” The sister has her arms around the woman with the blank eyes, who is trying desperately to focus. The effort looks painful.