scrape. “What is it?”
How could she explain without confessing her lie? She looked back to see Sister Dominic Agnes and a younger nun hurrying toward them. A ragged sob bleated from her throat.
“It looks like I’m about to find out,” Julian said. “It can’t be this bad. Let’s go inside. Whatever’s happened, it’s not for the whole neighborhood.”
He carried her, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. The screen banged closed behind them, but the wooden door Willow wanted shut and locked, Julian left open. Crossing the first room into the kitchen, he tossed her backpack onto the table and set her down. “You want to tell me something before they get here?”
She shook her head.
“All right.” He looked around his own kitchen. “How about a glass of milk?”
She could just manage to keep breathing; she didn’t want to try and drink milk. She ached to ask him about being “disfigured to match her soul.” Did that mean she couldn’t ever go to Heaven? Was disfigured the reason Mary Wolfe and Sister Dominic Agnes didn’t like her? She wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t say the words because she never wanted Papa to know about them.
Each time she looked through the screen door, her fear increased. Only the wire mesh stood between her and Papa learning what she said about him. Shadows climbed onto the porch and then toes of black shoes beneath glimpses of white-hosed ankles. Willow dropped her head onto her arms, and her heart banged as Papa took his time despite the knocking and opened the refrigerator, poured milk into a glass, and set it in front of her. He shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, still not hurrying when Sister Dominic Agnes knocked a second time, but lighting the cigarette and pressing it into a small groove on the side of the kitchen ashtray. How many times had Willow heard him and his partner, Red, chuckling about the length of some interrogations, how they counted the number of cigarettes that burned away—the slow crawl of the smoke unnerving to their suspects. A good confession didn’t cost them more than a couple of cigarettes.
He took a step toward the door, but Willow let out such a sob, he stopped and turned back. “Hey now,” he winked at her. “We’ll get this figured out.”
She kept her head down, wanting to beg him to slam the big door and take her to the back yard where they’d play catch with a football, his newest plan for strengthening her right arm. This was their house, only theirs, and she had a new rule: “No nuns allowed.”
She heard the squeak of the screen and Papa say, “Good afternoon.”
“I’m Sister Dominic Agnes. This is Sister Beatrice.”
Willow snuck a glance. Her teacher was inside, looking around the room at Papa’s shiny floors, his desk with the top rolled down, and the clean kitchen counter tops. Only when her eyes landed on a stack of folded towels, did she seem to relax. Willow wanted to jump up and put them away, but she was too scared to move.
“We’ve come to speak to you about Willow,” the nun said.
Papa looked over at her. “Drink your milk.”
Sister Dominic Agnes held out the sheets of Big Chief paper she’d rolled into a scroll. “Look at these. Something must be done.”
Surprised, Willow looked up to see Papa thumbing through the drawings. Had her teacher come to talk about the pictures? Not the lie?
Julian’s brow lifted quizzically. “Gnomes, maybe trolls, what’s the problem?”
An angry finger rapped the top picture, “It’s disrespectful,” Sister Dominic Agnes said, “mocking, even demonic.”
“Demonic?” He needed a moment. “She’s got a wild imagination, but they aren’t evil. She spends a lot of time in her grandmother’s garden, imagines fairies, trolls, and she reads make-believe.” He looked through a few again. “They’re pretty good. She’s trying to copy Arthur Rackham, Walter Crane, Dore, that kind of thing.”
The nervousness in Willow’s
How could she explain without confessing her lie? She looked back to see Sister Dominic Agnes and a younger nun hurrying toward them. A ragged sob bleated from her throat.
“It looks like I’m about to find out,” Julian said. “It can’t be this bad. Let’s go inside. Whatever’s happened, it’s not for the whole neighborhood.”
He carried her, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. The screen banged closed behind them, but the wooden door Willow wanted shut and locked, Julian left open. Crossing the first room into the kitchen, he tossed her backpack onto the table and set her down. “You want to tell me something before they get here?”
She shook her head.
“All right.” He looked around his own kitchen. “How about a glass of milk?”
She could just manage to keep breathing; she didn’t want to try and drink milk. She ached to ask him about being “disfigured to match her soul.” Did that mean she couldn’t ever go to Heaven? Was disfigured the reason Mary Wolfe and Sister Dominic Agnes didn’t like her? She wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t say the words because she never wanted Papa to know about them.
Each time she looked through the screen door, her fear increased. Only the wire mesh stood between her and Papa learning what she said about him. Shadows climbed onto the porch and then toes of black shoes beneath glimpses of white-hosed ankles. Willow dropped her head onto her arms, and her heart banged as Papa took his time despite the knocking and opened the refrigerator, poured milk into a glass, and set it in front of her. He shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, still not hurrying when Sister Dominic Agnes knocked a second time, but lighting the cigarette and pressing it into a small groove on the side of the kitchen ashtray. How many times had Willow heard him and his partner, Red, chuckling about the length of some interrogations, how they counted the number of cigarettes that burned away—the slow crawl of the smoke unnerving to their suspects. A good confession didn’t cost them more than a couple of cigarettes.
He took a step toward the door, but Willow let out such a sob, he stopped and turned back. “Hey now,” he winked at her. “We’ll get this figured out.”
She kept her head down, wanting to beg him to slam the big door and take her to the back yard where they’d play catch with a football, his newest plan for strengthening her right arm. This was their house, only theirs, and she had a new rule: “No nuns allowed.”
She heard the squeak of the screen and Papa say, “Good afternoon.”
“I’m Sister Dominic Agnes. This is Sister Beatrice.”
Willow snuck a glance. Her teacher was inside, looking around the room at Papa’s shiny floors, his desk with the top rolled down, and the clean kitchen counter tops. Only when her eyes landed on a stack of folded towels, did she seem to relax. Willow wanted to jump up and put them away, but she was too scared to move.
“We’ve come to speak to you about Willow,” the nun said.
Papa looked over at her. “Drink your milk.”
Sister Dominic Agnes held out the sheets of Big Chief paper she’d rolled into a scroll. “Look at these. Something must be done.”
Surprised, Willow looked up to see Papa thumbing through the drawings. Had her teacher come to talk about the pictures? Not the lie?
Julian’s brow lifted quizzically. “Gnomes, maybe trolls, what’s the problem?”
An angry finger rapped the top picture, “It’s disrespectful,” Sister Dominic Agnes said, “mocking, even demonic.”
“Demonic?” He needed a moment. “She’s got a wild imagination, but they aren’t evil. She spends a lot of time in her grandmother’s garden, imagines fairies, trolls, and she reads make-believe.” He looked through a few again. “They’re pretty good. She’s trying to copy Arthur Rackham, Walter Crane, Dore, that kind of thing.”
The nervousness in Willow’s
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