Mary, Mary

Diana picked up the book from the children’s table—So Much Depends On The Dragonfly by Mary Crane. She looked at the back cover. A vaguely familiar face stared back at her. Diana’s mind raced, her hands shook as she opened the cover. Her other books included Hitchhiking With Whooping Cranes and Chicken And Egg. This had to be the Mary she found lurking in the grape arbor so many years ago. She read the first paragraph.

“Her mother had named her Imagine, like Imogene Coca, but her handwriting was careless, much like the rest of her life. Her intentions and what actually happened were separated by a chasm of haphazardness.”

She looked at the author’s name again. Mary Crane. She hurriedly went to the counter and bought the book, excited to get home to read it.

Traffic was always terrible at this hour. Diana, stuck in the long, slow line of cars thought back to that day, the day she met the girl who lived in the woods near her house in a hole. It wasn’t an ordinary hole. It was lined with concrete and had a wood plank cover that fit over the top. Someone walking by the bushes would not notice anything unusual because the ground was covered with leaves or mown grass.

All of that came rushing back, but here Diana was in her driveway. She turned off the ignition and got out of the car grabbing her purse and her incredible purchase.

She hurried into the house. It was quiet. Dave was on an out of town trip. Diana put her purse and the book on the kitchen counter, and headed toward the bedroom to get into her at home clothes, her sweatpants and a t-shirt. She fixed herself a meatloaf sandwich and a glass of milk, hurrying to get to the book. She settle into her big armchair, but before she could begin to read, the back door opened and closed. Diana heard her daughter Edie call out, “Hello? I’ve come with my bundle of joy.”

Diana rose from her chair to greet her daughter and her granddaughter, Winnie.

“I didn’t expect you two tonight.”

“I know, me either,” said Edie, “but I’ve been called to go to Chicago to a conference because Ken, who was supposed to go, had a family emergency. I thought maybe you’d like to spend a couple days with Winnie if you haven’t any pressing engagements.”

“Well, it just so happens that my meeting with the Secretary of State has been postponed.”

“Dear, how will the world survive without your consul?”

“I’m sure it will muddle through somehow.”

Diana gave Winnie a squishy hug and assured Edie that they’d find something to do. “As a matter of fact, I happened on a little book today by someone I knew a long time ago and I was just about to read it. I think you might like it, Winnie. I think it will perfect for a big eight year old like you.”

“I’ll be going then and leave you two to your books.”

Diana sat back in her armchair and Winnie climbed up beside her and settled in to listen.

Diana opened the book and began.

“Her mother had named her Imagine, after Imogene Coca, but her handwriting was careless, much like the rest of her life. Her intentions and what actually happened were separated by a chasm of haphazardness.

“Imagine’s life sprung from her mother’s untethered existence. She could not count on her mother being home, being sober, being grounded. Imagine looked for connections, like Miss Sara Abigail next door. Miss Sara Abigail was an old lady with white hair piled on her head and a round, plump face that exuded a cheerfulness that flashed from her eyes behind her steel-rimmed glasses. Everyday Imagine knocked on her door. Miss Sara Abigail sang out, ‘Come on in, my little friend.’

“Once inside they would read stories or plunk out tunes on the old upright piano, have some cookies and milk. Sara Abigail taught Imagine to read and brought books from the library and sometimes on special occasions took Imagine along with her on her trip to the library and grocery store.

“Today the story was about a dragonfly. Imagine thought of them as little helicopters flying around snagging up mosquitos. Imagine hated mosquitos because they bit her all summer long.

“But there he was on the cover, his four lacy wings spread wide and his striped tail stretched out behind. As Miss Sara opened the book, there was a picture of a bug, more like a beetle. It was called a nymph. It didn’t look anything like a dragonfly.

“‘That’s not a dragonfly,’ Imagine said.

‘Miss Sara said, ‘Sometimes you have to wait for things to become what they can become.’

“Imagine wasn’t much for waiting, but she knew Miss Sara was very smart.

“She read about the nymph coming out of the water and crawling up the cedar siding of the lake house.

“The little girl, Alice, who lived in the house, spied the nymph and she watched. Soon its back broke open and something pushed out from the crack. She couldn’t tell what it was. Then the creature gave a great heave and out from the shell pulled a long appendage that had been folded up inside the shell.

“‘What would it be?’ Alice thought as she watched.

“Things started to happen. Two pair of wings, translucent and filled with rainbows, sprung out from the main body and the long body gradually extended to its full length.

“She waited for what came next and she waited. The dragonfly was waiting. He wasn’t ready to leave. Maybe his wings weren’t dry, maybe he wasn’t strong enough to fly on his own.

“Alice saw that he was changing color and his glistening disappeared as he dried.

“Miss Sara read, ‘Then Alice jumped back. Suddenly the dragonfly flew off in an instant, finally ready to move on. Alice, her mouth open, watched the flurry of wings carry him skyward. She looked at the empty brown shell with the crack in its back and a white ribbon dangling which had anchored the new dragonfly until he was ready to go off on his own.

“Miss Sara closed the book.

“‘Is that all? What happens to him?”

“‘I guess the writer thought she had written what she thought was important.’

“‘What does the dragonfly do?’

“‘You can make that up for yourself. That’s what stories can be about. You get to write what you want to happen.’ She look up at the clock on the wall. ‘How about some cookies?’

“As they had their cookies and milk, Imagine wondered, ‘Do you think the dragonfly just got too big for that shell? It must have been very uncomfortable for him all doubled up in there.’

“‘That happens with some animals. Butterflies come out of a chrysalis and then their wings spread out. Little chicks hatch out of eggs, cracking the shell with their beaks and grow much bigger than their shell.’

“Miss Sara waited to see if Imagine had any response. Then said, ‘Are you ready to go home?’

“‘I guess.’

“Imagine thought a moment.

“‘Do you think people’s houses get uncomfortable?’

“‘Sometimes, I guess.’

“‘Do they move someplace that fits?’

“‘If they can, I guess.’

“Imagine opened the door and looked at Miss Sara and then toward her house.

“Miss Sara said, ‘See you tomorrow?’

“‘I guess.’”

Diana stared at the last page, thinking of this strange little girl she had known so long ago. Winnie looked up at her grandmother, “Is that the end?”

Diana looked at her granddaughter. “That’s it.”

“You said you knew the lady that wrote this.”

“Yes. When I was a little girl just a little older than you.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you wish you could talk to her and find out what happened to Imagine. I want to know what happened to her.”

“I really would, but when you grow up, your life just seems to move on. One summer a long time ago I wrote a story about that summer we met, but I couldn’t figure out how it ended so I put it in a box.”

“Where’s the box?”

“I supposed it’s in the attic somewhere.” Diana thought a while. “Maybe I’ll try to find it.”

“I could help you look Grandma.”

“No, it’s all dusty up there, and it’s about your bedtime. Maybe we should have a little ice cream first.”

“Oh, yes. What kind is it?”

“I think I’ve got vanilla and some strawberry and a little chocolate. What do you think, Missy?"

“I think I’ll have strawberry.”

Diana dipped the ice cream into small bowls and set them on the kitchen table. They ate their desserts quietly with just the clinking of their spoons against the dishes. Diana took Winnie’s hand and they headed down the hall to the bedroom Winnie slept in which was once her mother’s room. Winnie got ready for bed and Diana tucked her in.

“See you in the morning,” said Diana.

“Goodnight, Grandma.”

Diana soon found herself thinking about Mary’s story. She went up to the attic. There were lots of brown cardboard boxes, but fortunately most of them were labeled with their contents. She spotted one that said “Writing,” and she pried open the flaps. There were scraps of stories, poems, journals, and near the bottom was the story she’d begun so many years ago about her mysterious friend.

DIANA’S STORY

It has always been unclear to me whether she meant for me to know her because I never knew anyone else who was aware of her presence except Miss Annie, although once or twice I let it slip that I had this friend, but they had just assumed that this was like Elsa, the friend who traveled with me to California and the moon. It didn’t seem worth the effort to convince them that this friend was different.

I actually met her on August 14, my birthday, but I first saw her the day before. It was a warm summer day. My mother had left for work and Grandma was dusting the venetian blinds. My best friend, Becky, who lived across the alley was on vacation for two weeks, and I was drifting around the neighborhood finding things to do here and there. I went to the garage to get my bike, a blue Roadmaster I had gotten for Christmas. There’s not much to do with a bike in December in Iowa, but that’s when I got presents. It was the final present I got that year and the neighbor brought it over to our house late Christmas morning.

It was the biggest present I’d ever gotten, and to assure my parents that they had taught me manners I called the neighbors and thanked them for the bicycle. My mother overheard this conversation since she was standing by her favorite heat register in the dining room. Her eyes flashed, her face reddened. “We got you the bicycle.” I hung up the phone, understanding how naive I was to think neighbors would buy me such a big present.

Anyway, when spring came I rode by bicycle around in my known territory, as far as my security would allow me. I rode to the park, I rode to Joe’s corner store, to Sandy’s house, and I raided the apple trees and grapevines within three or four blocks of my house.

This day, the day before my birthday, I got on my bike. I felt like riding fast and feeling the wild wind in my face and feel free. I had learned to be careful about going around corners too fast on cinders still left on winter streets. A kneeful of cinders hurt like crazy and stung when Mother cleaned it with a washrag and dabbed iodine on it. I sucked in air though clenched teeth while she nagged, “Hold still.” But today I rode down the alley, no brakes, and swerved onto the street at the bottom of the hill, pedaling as fast as I could. Soon I felt the pressure on the pedals as I cranked them around to turn up the hill to the schoolyard. The streets were empty. Then I saw old lady Preston out tending her garden, her hose rolled down onto her ankles, a kerchief tied around her hair. She glared in my direction as my bicycle climbed up the street. Old battle-ax.

Grapes would be nice. White grapes. Most of the vines around were Concord grapes. Best sun-warm and very grapey off the neighbor’s vine. Slip the grape right out of the skin, like eyeballs, into your mouth, seeds and all, down the throat. I used to spit out the seeds, but it was too much trouble so I swallowed them whole. White grapes were different. They didn’t lose their skins so readily. You polished them slightly on your shirt and swallowed them down. There was only one white grapevine I knew about. I don’t know who they belonged to, but they never seemed to be home when I passed by. I would stop my bike, straddling the bar, always ready to make an escape.

The white grapes grew on a latticed arbor densely covered with vines. It provided an archway from their garage to their house and camouflage for little girls stealing grapes. There were other vines like old lady Nebergall’s across the alley that were out in the open. The old witch caught Becky and me one day and told our mothers, and we had to cough up our whole week’s allowance, all for a handful of grapes.

When I neared the arbor that summer morning I noticed nothing unusual. The garage doors were closed, the door to the house was shut, the shades were pulled down at the windows. As I rode under the arbor, a shadow leaned across the other end of the vines. I stood still watching for the shadow to move, listening for a sound as a giveaway. Nothing moved. I thought maybe someone had leaned something up against the arbor that cast this long shadow across the ground early this morning.

Then I saw leaves at the end of the arbor part, an eye staring out at me. As soon as our eyes had made contact, the opening in the leaves fell shut. All was quiet except for the vine crackling in the morning breeze and an occasional car humming by on the next street. I thought I saw the shadow shorten. Then it got thinner as the eye moved behind the arbor wall. I listened and stared at the vine. The vine was so dense that I couldn’t see anything through it. Suddenly running footsteps grated on the gravel down the alley. I backed my bike out of the arbor as fast as I could to see who was running away. I fastened for a moment on a girl with wild curly hair and jeans just before she cut behind a garage halfway down the block. I wavered a minute deciding whether to track this girl down or continue my mission of eating grapes. I had a whole summer day with nothing to do, so I urged my bike to the alley and cautiously began pedaling down the cracked, rock-strewn concrete looking in between all the garages and houses hoping to glimpse that strange girl. I rode around the streets and alleys for a good portion of the morning, pushed by the welling of adventure that makes young minds keen and wary. Nancy Drew and the Lone Ranger emerged in my breast and entered my mind. I stalked my quarry, moving from tree to tree to garage, circling in opposite directions, lying low and still behind a berm waiting for a false move from my elusive prey. But one could only carry on this way for so long without results. Then one sought other amusements. Lying in wait below on a grassy knoll I caught myself watching the clouds and even rolling onto my back for a more studied view. I knew the chase was over for that day. White cottony clouds drifted as lazy as summer across the sky, trailing me with them. Nearly hypnotized by the levitation, I realized the morning game, as fun as it had been, was over. I hoisted my bike and rode back past the grapevine for only last look and rode home for lunch.

The next morning, after my bowl of Cheerios, I headed out on my bike for the arbor. Maybe she went there every morning. Maybe she had just moved into the neighborhood, or maybe she was visiting her grandma. I dropped my bike in the schoolyard and ran crouched over to the edge of the school. I could see across the street to the grape arbor from there. I didn’t see her. I edge up behind one little tree after another until I was directly across the street. I stared intently at the wall of leaves, looking for movement or a flash of color in some minute gap in the leaves. Then my gaze dropped to the bottom of the arbor. Was that a shoe? That could be a shoe. Then it shifted a little to the right. She’s there. I just know it.

As stealthily as I could I crossed the street and approached the vines. I watched the shoes, now still. I walked around the side of the arbor, and she was there staring at me. It was such a direct stare it frightened me a little. I began to think that while the chase had been exciting, it might have turned on me. Covering as best I could, I mumbled a “Hi” that caught in my throat and pretended to concentrate on eating grapes. I picked one at a time and methodically placed them in my mouth while fixedly staring at some large leaf that had been laced by some sort of bug. I felt the heat of her gaze.

The awkward intensity increased until I burst out, “What’s your name?”

There was a long moment of silence.

Then she said, “Mary. What’s yours?”

That seemed normal enough, I thought. I said my name to myself to see how it sounded, and out loud I said, “Diana.”

Stillness settled again. We returned to eating the sweet grapes. I tried to look at her without her noticing. Her wild blonde hair hid much of her face. I once asked my mother if I could wear my hair flowing down my back, but she said it gets all tangled and she continued braiding my pigtails. I thought Mary’s mother must let her do what she wants.

I cast a glance her way. “Do you live around here?”

She flung her arm to her right, pointing toward the edge of town. “I live over that way.”

I wasn’t very familiar with that area. I thought there were woods and some fields beyond which I saw on our Sunday drives in the car. But that was out of the territory I roamed on my bicycle. I followed along her finger with my eyes. “Very far?”

“Sometimes it’s very far.” She put her arm down and turned to me. Her wild curly hair hid a rather ordinary, plain face and very searching gray eyes. She spoke softly and calmly. I had the feeling that everything she said, she’d said before. “Where do you live?”

“Not far. On the other side of the school about half way down Locust Street hill. I watched for her reaction. She seemed to accept that as merely a straight forward fact. She put none of her values on it.

“Do you go to school there?” She pointed across the street.

“Yes,” I answered. “Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school.” She noticed that my eyes grew wide at this. “I don’t have to go to school because nobody knows I’m here.”

“No one knows you’re here? Doesn’t your mother make you go to school?”

“I don’t have a mother right now.”

I didn’t know how you couldn’t have mother right now. Did she lose her at the grocery store or had she been temporarily misplaced?

“Did your mother run away?”

“No, she was carried away by great weeping cranes.”

“You mean ‘whooping cranes,’” I corrected, but as soon as I had said this it sounded small. So I added, “How do you know? Did you see it?”

“No, it happened one night when I was sleeping. When I got up the next morning, she was nowhere I could see. I called her name and looked everywhere I knew she might be and I could not find her.”

“How do you know it was whooping cranes?”

“I heard them as I was falling asleep and they sounded like they wanted something.”

“What does your father do?”

“I have no father.”

“Did the whooping cranes take him, too?”

“No, they couldn’t ever find him.”

“Where did he hide?”

“I don’t know. I have never found him either.”

“So who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I have grapes and rain and Luna when I need her.”

“Luna? Who’s Luna?”

“My aunt.”

All this was very bewildering to me. I stared at her, my brow furrowed, trying to understand the circumstances of this girl that were so different from anything I knew. I had to think about this by myself. I had no real reason, but I said, “I have to go home now. My grandmother said.” I left her standing there as she fingered a firm white grape like touching a wondrous Christmas bulb on the tree that one handled with care so it wouldn’t shatter.

I backed out of the arbor and then turned and ran across the street and around the school to my bike. I coasted down the alley and into the backyard, letting my bike drop near the back door.

Grandma was in the kitchen. She had on her usual housedress with tiny flowers—sometimes pink, sometimes blue or purple—and a checked apron tied in the back and her black shoes she wore every day. Her hose hung on her bone-thin legs. Her thin steel-grey hair was pulled back into a small button at the nape of her neck. She looked at the clock on the breakfast room wall when I came through the door.

“You’re back early.”

“Well, there’s nothing to do.”

“There’s lots of things to do. You could read a book or bake some cookies or weed the flower garden.”

“I don’t want to do those things.”

Grandma shrugged. We had had this conversation before.

“Are you ready for lunch?”

“Ok.”

Grandma took the bread from the bread drawer and reached into the cupboard for the peanut butter.

I was thinking about how to ask about Mary in a casual sort of way, but I couldn’t think of one. I stared at my thumbs of my hands folded on the table.

I said, “What do they do with children who don’t have a mom or dad?”

She looked quizzically at me. “What do you ask that for?”

“Oh, nothing. I just was wondering.”

“Sometimes other relatives take care of the children. Sometimes they go to an orphanage.”

“You mean like that place out there with all the little houses all alike?”

“The Shuster Home?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes,” she said adjusting her rimless glasses on her nose.

“Yes,” I corrected.

She put down a plate with a peanut butter jelly sandwich, some carrot sticks, and a glass of milk.

“I have to go downtown to the bank today. You’ll have to come with me.”

“Why do I have to go?”

“Because there’s no one here to watch after you.”

“Mary doesn’t have anyone to watch after her.”

“Who’s Mary?”

I hesitated. “Oh, just someone I know.”

Grandma looked at me. I knew she was wondering whether this was just my imagination working overtime. Finally she said, “Well, your name isn’t Mary.” She had finished with that part of our conversation. “I’m going to go get dressed and you change out of your play clothes when you finish.”

We left the house to catch the 12:30 bus. Grandma had on her good walking shoes, her blue dress, her black pill box hat stuck on with a large hat pin, and she carried her good black purse under her arm. Grandma wore hats I think because she had so little hair or maybe she just thought it proper when a lady went out.

We climbed on the bus and put our coins into the slot in the box. The bus moved forward. We lurched from side to side as we made our way to seats in the middle. I sat on the outside. I always got bus sick. I got car sick, too, but bus sick was quicker. I needed to sit by the window. I opened the window as far as I could and stuck my face partway out to breath in all the fresh air I could. But the awful smelling fumes came in, too. Grandma sat next to me with her legs together, her feet primly on the floor, her black purse on her lap and her blue-veined hands folded on top of her purse. She sat that way for the entire ride downtown which must have been at least three miles.

I had taken the bus along this route before. Sometimes I went with my mother downtown to shop and a few times with my grandma. This year my mother even let me go downtown to the movies with my friend Becky. The bus didn’t pass any place very interesting. It drove through what we called the east end where some poor people lived. It drove past the Wonder Bread factory, and on certain days the smell sifting through the walls and windows drifted for blocks through the air. I loved that smell, all that yeast and rising hot bread with its crust brown and chewy, its inside doughy and soft.

Downtown was on the river. That last part of the ride paralleled the river, the railroad tracks, the idle train cars, the flour mill, the factories, and then the bus veered right, past the entrance to the bridge that crossed the river and then into the business district.

The bus turned toward the river again and we got off at Third Street where the bank was. We climbed down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Grandma, head forward, started for the bank. Grandma didn’t dawdle. I followed at her side, looking at the people passing in the streets and watching the pigeons swooping from one building to another and alighting on the sidewalk in a flurry of wings that sounded like Grandma furiously shaking the rugs out the back door. Grandma tugged my hand to come along.

We entered the big main door of the great gray bank on the corner. If you could stand back far enough, you could see the big clock in a spire at the top. You could see it at night coming across the bridge over the river because it was all lit up. I always knew our money was safe in such a big bank with such a grand clock on top.

The marble floors echoed our footsteps as we crossed the lobby to the teller’s window. I don’t know what banking Grandma had to do. She didn’t work and she didn’t very often spend any money. But she kept her bank book in her purse and her purse in her bureau drawer because she was afraid some burglar would steal it when no one was home. She took it out when we went out somewhere and when we went to the bank.

At the window she took out her book and passed it under the window bars to the teller. I went to the back of the bank where they had this water machine with little cone-shaped paper cups. I liked to work the fountain, even though I wasn’t all that crazy about water. I held my cup under the spigot and pushed the button. The cool water splashed into the cup and huge bubbles of water gurgled in the water tank. I drank four cups of water just to see the giant bubbled float up through the tank. I got so full I couldn’t drink any more.

As I looked back at the cavernous bank lobby, I saw Grandma looking around for me. I tossed my cup into the wastebasket and ran to catch her. The water sloshed in my stomach as I galloped across the lobby.

“I finished my business here.”

“Can we get a soda?” I asked. That was something Mother and I always did. Mother liked to stop for lunch or some ice cream not only because she liked the luxury of eating something she didn’t fix, but her legs got so tired she needed to get off her feet.

“We’ll go see if your mother’s had lunch yet.”

We walked down the street to the jewelry store where Mother worked as a bookkeeper and sometimes saleslady. Mr. Goldman was waiting on a customer when we came in. He nodded his head at us as we went to the office at the back of the store. Mother was bent at her books copying numbers from sheets of paper into a book. We stood at the counter until she happened to look up.

“Oh, you’re here. Let me put my books away and we’ll go get something.”

She stacked the papers in a pile and closed her book and put everything in a drawer in her desk. She put her glasses in the case and her pen in her purse. Mother had a thing about her pen. It was a green Parker fountain pen and only she could write with it. If someone else wrote with it that would wreck the nib. If John Hancock had asked to borrow it to sign the Declaration she would have said, “ I’m sorry, but it’s broken in just for me and you might wreck it.”

He wouldn’t have understood since he would have just sliced off another feather, but Mother would have held her ground.

As we came out of the store, three girls a little older than me passed by giggling and pointing. “There she is. Let’s follow her,” they were saying in loud whispers.

I looked in the direction they were looking. Across the street was an old lady dressed in wild layers of clothes. She had on layers of skirts and dresses and blouses in wild floral prints in orange and pink. She won a large purple straw hat. In her right hand she carried a large canvas bag bulging with who knows what and in her left hand she held up a red umbrella. Her gray hair flew out from under the brim of her hat. She padded down the street in her red tennis shoes.

I shook Mother’s arm. “Look over there, Mom.”

“Don’t stare. It’s not polite,” she said to me in low tones, meant only for me.

“Who is that?” I whispered back

“That’s Miss Annie Mundy.” I understood I wasn’t to chance embarrassing anyone by pressing this subject.

We arrive at the corner on our side of the street at the same time this apparition arrived at the corner on the other side. As we turned to wait for the light to change, from behind the skirt of Miss Annie Mundy appeared the face and form of the girl at the grapevine this morning—Mary.

When the light turned, Mother took my hand. I saw that we were coming near enough to touch. As we met, I smiled at Mary thinking she’s recognize me from this morning, but she stared past me, clutching a handful of skirts of this strange lady. I looked up into Miss Annie Mundy’s face expecting some aged, creased face, blotched with brown spots, like Grandma’s, but from the shade of her hat brim glowed a porcelain face with doll-rosy cheeks and bright red lipstick smeared unevenly way outside her lip lines and black eyebrows drawn in hairless profusion over each eye. A smile seemed permanently fixed and blue eyes riveted on her destination, which I thought might be heaven.

We passed each other. I turned my head to follow them across the street. Miss Annie Mundy, with her brisk, determined walk, moved relentlessly forward while Mary skipped along behind her.

As we turned along the sidewalk, I could see them no longer. I turned back to Mother who was talking to Grandma about what we needed from the grocery, as if nothing unusual had just happened.

While Mother and Grandma ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee, I sipped a chocolate soda in a glass so tall I had to stretch myself up to reach the tip of the straw. As I neared the bottom of the glass, I grew full, stopped drinking, and slid back in the booth. Mother and Grandma were talking about ordinary things. When their talk stilled a moment, I looked at Mom and asked, “Who is Miss Annie Mundy? Is there something wrong with her?”

“She’s just eccentric, I guess. Her family is Mundy and Co., the factory down by the river that makes boat engines.”

“So she’s rich?” I interjected.

“Her family has lots of money,” Mother confirmed

“Why does she walk around with all her clothes on and look like that?”

Mother tapped her temple with her index finger a few times. I know what that meant. Miss Annie Mundy was a little tetched in the head, a little crazy.

“Is that her little girl?”

“What little girl? Miss Mundy’s too old to have a little girl, and besides Miss Mundy never married.”

The waitress asked if we needed anything else.

Mother said, “ I guess not.”

The waitress tore off a green sheet from her order pad and turned it over on the table.

“Thank you. Come again.” the waitress said.

I saw that she had gotten that off the back of our ticket.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work,” said Mother, taking out her billfold.

We walked back with her to the store and then waited for our #5 bus for the ride home.

When we got home, Grandma and I baked a cake and I frosted it. I bathed and Grandma washed my hair. Then I waited until Dad came home from work and took his nap and Mom came home from work and read the mail. Aunt Julia and Uncle John were coming to dinner.

After dinner all the adults sat around the dining table with coffee talking. I thought they had forgotten it was my birthday. But Mother finally said, “Well, we have a birthday, I believe.”

She smiled knowingly around the table and everyone grinned at me. Grandma brought in the cake blazing with eleven pink candles, everyone sang Happy Birthday in their uneven way, and presents were laid at my place. I thought maybe I wouldn’t get all the candles blown out this year, but I made my wish and kept blowing with the last of my breath until the last flame gave out.

I unwrapped the presents—a Nancy Drew book, a blue school dress, a game, a telescope, and a pink diary with a lock and key. Aunt Julia and Uncle John had a brand new $5.00 bill in a card and Grandma had two new one dollar bills in her card. I bet she got those at the bank this morning.

“Go try on your dress so we can see how it looks,” said Mother.

“Now?” I asked.

“Oh, go on,” said Aunt Julia. “ I want to see how pretty you look.

I couldn’t refuse Aunt Julia. She was my favorite. I took all my stuff upstairs to my room. I put my diary on my desk where I envisioned I would sit writing down my exciting days. I put on my new dress and went back downstairs. They all said how pretty I looked.

That night I wrote the first thing in my new diary.

“Today was my birthday. I am now eleven. I got this diary. I met a girl today. Her name is Mary.

”DIANA’S STORY

Chapter 2

The next morning I got up and looked at what I had written in my diary. It didn’t seem anything like how I thought about the day. I felt like yesterday was different from all the other days that ran together like slices of Wonder bread. I looked out the window and it was raining, a steady all day kind of rain under a solid gray sky. My shoulders sagged as I peered out through the venetian blinds, heard the steady splashing on the roof and watched the confluence of water tumbling in the gutters and down the sewer grate.

The cars driving up and own our hill whistled on the wet streets. I did not have to close my windows since no wind blew the rain in. I sat on the kitchen stool with my chin in my hands wondering why it had to rain today. Now all my plans were ruined. I couldn’t go out on my bike, I couldn’t find where Mary lived.

I practiced my piano, and Grandma and I played a few games of Chinese checkers. I won, as usual, as I march my men across the board in the same slalom pattern that had worked for me since I was three. Then until lunch I sat slouched on the davenport, staring moodily at nothing in particular. After lunch the sky grew lighter and the rain diminished to a light steady drizzle. Then there was only the drippings from the leaves, the water running off the garage roof making a trough in the flower bed and the dwindling trickle of rain from the gutters signaled the rain would end.

I put on my old shorts and T-shirt and went out on the front porch. I heard Grandma from upstairs call out, “Don’t catch your death.” Grandma was always worried about catching your death.

“I won’t, Grandma.”

I stuck my hand out in the rain to feel how cold it was. Warm, soft drops fell onto my hand. Once my hand was baptized, I stepped off the porch and spread my arms out and turned my face up to see how a rose must feel, glistening with diamonds and rainbows as raindrops gathered on its petals.

I went down to the corner and turned up the side street to splash through the gutters in my bare feet and crouched down to listen to the hollow gush of water falling into the sewer and look for nickels and stuff on the bottom. All I could see was dark. I sat on the curb wishing I had someone to play with. As the afternoon became brighter, my hopes rose that I could go out on my bike. I went in and changed into dry clothes. By the time I was ready, the rain was a slight drizzle and the sun was finding rips in the clouds to blaze through.

I rode up the hill, the world smelling fresh and nourished from its bath—the smell of green summer rain. I don’t know how smells can have color, but the smell of summer rain I know is green. I rode directly to the grape arbor. She wasn’t there. Why did I think she’d be out here on this rainy day? She’s probably home, wherever that was, playing Crazy Eights with a friend. I rode around the neighborhood and went to Joe’s for a candy bar. I ate my Baby Ruth on the steps of the store, gradually pushing it out of its wrapper as I bit off another piece.

Maybe I’d ride over to the park. Maybe some kids have come out to play by now. I pulled up my bike by the handlebar, placed my foot on the pedal and hoisted my leg over the seat. I waited at the busy street for a while to cross to the park. I rode up the grassy slope and cut across the grass to the playground. There sitting splay-legged on top of the jungle gym was Mary. As I pedaled toward her, she didn’t seem to notice my presence. She stared out to the south over the tree tops lost in her thoughts or in a trance of some sort.

I let my bike drop to the ground and began climbing the bars. My weight shook the maze of pipes, and Mary finally looked down to see what was happening.

I looked up at her as I made made my way through the bars. When she turned my way, my eyes met her steady gaze.

“Hi,” I said. She continued to stare. “I saw you downtown yesterday.”

She turn to look out toward the gardens. I followed the path of her eyes. Across the park road a young mother sat on a bench with her daughter. The girl, about five or six, was leaning into her mother’s breast intent upon the story her mother was reading to her.

While still staring across the road, Mary broke the stillness. “Is your mother at home?’

“Not now. She works.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a bookkeeper.”

“Who takes care of you while she’s gone?”

“My grandma.” A thought occurred to me. “Was that your grandma yesterday?”

“No.”

“Who is she?” Now I’d see how the stories matched up.

“She’s just someone I found.”

It sounded like she was talking about a dime or a ball or a stray kitten. “Where did you find her?”

“At the bus depot.”

“Why were you at the bus depot?”

“I didn’t have enough money to get where I was suppose to go so I came as far as I could. That was there. When I stepped down off the bus with my bag, she was waiting on the bench just inside the door.”

“She knew you were coming?”

“She seemed to be waiting for someone, but it wasn’t me, I don’t think.” She paused. “But I think she’s always waiting for someone.”

I couldn’t think of what to say. The conversation wove great tangling webs in my brain. Finally I asked, “Who is she?”

“If you ask her she says, “They call me Annie Mundy. I don’t feel like Annie Mundy, but I don’t know what my real name is.”

“Where does she live?”

Again she swept her arm out in a general direction. “Over there.”

“Do you live with her?”

“No, I live under the ground.”

“You mean you live in a hole?” I picture this opening to a large burrow with dirt flung all around the entrance as she scrambled to build her house. She really didn’t live in that kind of hole, probably.

“Do you want to come see my house?”

“Oh, I do.” We began to climb down off the jungle gym. I looked at the sky and tried to guess what time it was. I had to be home for dinner.

“Is it far?”

“Not so far.”

“I have to be home for dinner. Mother expects me.”

“That’s one good thing about not having a mother right now. She doesn’t expect

you.”

I didn’t want to miss this chance to find out where Mary lived. I thought I had enough time to go with her for a little while and still get home in time.

“Can you ride me on your bike?’

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried that.”

“Come on. It’s easy. I’ll sit on the seat and you stand up and pedal.”

We got to the asphalt road and she climbed onto the seat. I put my leg over the bar and stepped onto the high pedal. We wobbled at first but as we gained speed on the decline, the tires wobbled less. Her weight must have just balanced because I couldn’t feel much difference and her hands on my shoulders were light as dragonflies. This wasn’t so hard.

We rode down around the huge loop road in the park. When we were part way up the other side she told me to stop. I looked around. I had been here before—the park on one side and woods on the other.

I looked at Mary quizzically, but her face belied no disturbance.

“Just leave your bicycle here.”

I wasn’t going to leave it in plain sight. I pushed the bike into the woods and laid it down behind some fallen trees. Mary was already forging through the woods. As I followed I could discern a tentative path where the leaves were trodden down and occasional footprints left in the soft earth. I had seen these woods edging the park but never had reason, curiosity nor courage to penetrate their depths.

Mary plunged onward, pushing aside slim branches on her way through. I followed dodging the backlash of the twigs. Suddenly there was an opening. Mary halted and turned to wait for me to catch up. As I came up behind her, I knew why she stopped. Ahead was a steep, narrow ravine with a small creek spilling past over the rocks and dead branches lying along the bottom. The slopes down were bare earth, still oozy and slick-looking from the morning rain.

I glanced sideways at Mary, wondering whether she expected me to slide down this mud and cross to the other side.

“Come on, this way,” she motioned down stream. We walked along the edge of the ravine until we came to a big oak tree that spread its branches out part way across the creek. Mary reached up and loosened a rope from a knot on the tree trunk. I looked at the rope, the ravine and understood what came next.

“You want me to swing across on that rope?”

“It’s easy. You’ll see.” Mary grabbed the rope in one hand and walked back from the precipice. She faced the chasm with the rope in both hands and ran to the edge and at the last second lifted her feet to the knot at the base of the rope and swung over the ravine and lit on the other side with the litheness of a kitten.

“See how easy it is. Now you do it.”

I stood staring down the eight feet or so to the creek bottom. It might look easy but my head said it was not so easy.

“Here comes the rope.”

Mary flung the rope back across the ravine. I just caught a few hairs of the unraveled tail below the knot.

“Isn’t there another way to your house?”

“It’s way too far around. You can do this. Really.”

I probably could do it, but I didn’t think it would be today. I was nearly paralyzed with doubt.

“Just swing. I’ll catch you.”

I was pulled back and forth. I wanted to see her house, I feared my hands would slide down the rope and let me fall into the muddy creek, but Mary said she would catch me.

I slowly stepped back from the bank and gripped the rope tightly in both hands and ran for the edge. I sailed off into the air, my arms stretching out of their sockets with no earth beneath my feet. My feet searched frantically for the knot. As the other bank came near I knew I was suppose to let go, but the moment of release was suddenly past and I was swinging back over the creek. As I began the flight back again, my feet dragged along the bank and held just before I was airborne again.

“You had it. You have to trust and let go.”

That was much easier for her to say. She had obviously done this over and over.

I had some feel for the action now. I’d give it one more try. I began my assault once more, but this time my toes caught the edge and slowed my take off. I could see I wasn’t going to make it to the other side.

“Come on. Push yourself,” I heard Mary yell.

I tried to urge my body forward, but I had lost momentum. The rope swung short of the other side and as it swung back it was not going to reach the other side either.

As I neared land on my second swing to the other side, I lunged for the far bank, a split-second choice I made between dropping into the creek at the bottom and taking my chances of landing on the bank. I reached out for the bank but fell decidedly short and came down front first on the muddy embankment, scrambling to hang on to anything to stop me from sliding to the bottom.

As I clutched at the slippery mud and wet tangled roots, Mary held out a branch toward me. I had an instant to grab it. I thrust my hand upward and caught the end. I hoisted myself hand over hand up the bank, my toes digging into the soft mud and Mary pulling steadily. Finally I lay face down on the other side, my front side from forehead to the toes of my shoes slathered with black frosting.

Mary had landed with a thump on her rear end. When she looked up at me, she began to laugh. The laughter crescendoed until she fell back on the grass and her body shook uncontrollably. I just stared at her, then looked down at my shirt and realized how I must look. I felt laughter rising in my chest and soon both of us were Jello with laughter.

As the laughter ebbed, Mary said, “Nothing broken?”

I raised myself from the ground, arching my body like a defensive cat. I pulled my t-shirt away from my body. “Guess not. As least not until my mom sees this.”

“It’ll dry and brush off. Come on.” I stood flapping my shirt front and then followed Mary through the brush. At the edge of a clearing, we turned right by the edge of the bushes. Across the field was a big white house with white fences marking off a large field around the house.

“Whose house is that?” I asked.

Mary marched on, her eyes fixed on her path.

I pressed on. “Is that where Miss Annie Mundy lives?”

“I guess sometimes, but not all the time.”

Mary stopped and looked back at me as if making some final decision. I stared into Mary’s eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Mary looked down and said, “It’s in here.”

She crouched down and spread the fine branches of the bushes back and entered the tangled brush. I followed. Mary swept away leaves from one place, grabbed an iron ring and pulled up a heavy wooden door and propped it up with a wooden pole.

Mary swept her arm in a grand entrancing motion and I crouched on all fours and climbed backwards into the hole in the ground. At first little was visible, but as my eyes adapted to the darkness, I began to discern the aspect of the underground space. I found I could just stand fully upright without bumping my head. The hole was lined with concrete, like a tiny basement. Here and there a piece of colored glass had been pressed into the wet cement and on each side a piece of mirrored glass was set, centered on the wall. The wood door, too, had a square of translucent plexiglass that let through a vague light.

There was a wide berth built along the far wall. Slung across the corner was a canvas hammock. Two small play chairs and a small round table sat just to the right as we entered. The floor was covered with a worn Chinese-looking rug with string fringe on the ends.

While I was taking everything in, Mary lit two candles that cast a dim yellow glow over the room.

“Did it seem far to you?”

I thought about what a short distance we were from the park road and how long it seemed to have taken to get here.

“Far and near, both, I think,” I answered.

“That’s what I think.”

I could see a few books on a shelf above the bench and a blue suitcase lying on the bench. A chrome bread box caught the flickering of the candlelight.

“How did you find this place?”

“Miss Annie Mundy showed it to me. She has many houses, but none of them fit her. They are too big or too small. She thought this one might fit me.”

“How did she know you needed a house?”

“She knew. It’s like when the outside ring of an atom has an empty space…but I suppose you haven’t had that yet at your school”

I didn’t know about atoms. I was confused enough by constellations and why Miss Hassett was so insistent that we find bears and dippers and warriors in the slew of stars spilled onto the night sky. But I pasted the little silver stars on the big blue paper, hoping to finally see the things I supposed everyone else could see. But atoms sounded like they might be easier with rings and spaces.

“When I got off the bus with my blue suitcase, she was sitting there on the bench. She acted like she was waiting for someone and we both thought it could be me. Annie’s uncle was always saying, ‘They must be busin’ them in.’ He said it about Mexicans, locusts, crows, whatever there was a lot of that he didn’t like. Annie thought if things were bussed in, maybe her mother would be bussed in. She often went to the bus station to watch and wait, but if no one looked familiar, she went back home. When Mary stepped off the bus it was as if they saw themselves reflected in each other’s eyes. That empty space in her eyes pulled me like a magnet.

“She picked up her bag, her umbrella and said, ‘Come along now.’

“We walked a long way. She didn’t speak, but we got to know each other. I put my hand in hers. I could feel her fingers close lightly on mine, while her eyes were fixed on some spot out ahead.”

“And she brought you here?”

“Not right away. She took me to her house which is a little ways further. We had tea and animal crackers. I met her five cats, and she read to me about Winnie-ther-Pooh and his house. Miss Annie Mundy has her clock stopped, too, but at two minutes after four. She says then she always knows what time it is and she can have tea and animal crackers every time she comes home.”

“My mother says Miss Annie Mundy is a bit luny.”

“I think her eyes can only look a certain direction. She sees what she sees and what she doesn’t see isn’t there.”

“How do we know things are there if we can’t see them?”

“Exactly.”

I was beginning to feel like I had eaten too much sugar, my brain stirring like coffee and cream being swirled with a spoon.

“Where were you going?” I asked after silence had sat awhile.

“Well, I was going to Luna’s, but my money only came to here.”

“Who is Luna?”

“She’s my aunt.”

“Where does she live?”

“In Peoria.”

“Isn’t she worried about you?”

“No, I don’t think she knows I’m coming.”

“Why are you going there?” I was beginning to feel like Sam Spade, private eye.

“My mother left a note and some money for me and said to go to Luna’s. “Before she was taken by the whooping cranes?” I tried to make sure I understood what had happened.

“Yes. When I woke up she was gone. I had these instructions to Luna’s and money for a bus ticket, but I spent some on candy and I bought a yo-yo from a brown man who could carve wonderful things on them with his jackknife. I asked him if he could do whooping cranes and he could. Then I didn’t have enough money to get to Peoria.”

“So you came to here.”

“You can see that yourself.” There was a piece of silence, then Mary asked, “Are you hungry?”

“It’s almost dinner time. My mother doesn’t like me to spoil my appetite.”

She opened the bread box, reached in and pulled out a box of graham crackers. She took out one cracker, closed the box and put it back in the bread box.

She sat down on the chair opposite, nibbling on the edges of the cracker.

I look again at the books on the shelves. “Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school anywhere.”

“Everyone has to go to school. If you don’t go to school, the truant officer comes to find you and takes you to school”

“As you said, if you can’t see things, how do you know they’re there.”

“I can see you.”

“It may be that some eye atom of yours fits into some space in my outside circle.”

“You mean other people can’t see you.”

“Not so much. A few, but not any truant officers, I guess.”

“Are those your books?”

“I put my name in them because they felt like mine.”

“How did you learn to read?”

"Miss Sara Abigail. She lived next door to me. My mother was out a lot and Miss Sara Abigail invited me into her house and read to me and took me to the library. But then she went to live with her daughter and I had to go by myself.”

The light was getting dimmer. The candles were still flickering, but I could see through the opening in the door that daylight was ending. I had to get home.

I stood up abruptly. “I have to go. It’s almost dark and I have to be home. Can you play tomorrow?”

“I’ll see.”

I had to go. I scramble outside and through the bushes. Mary came after me. “If you go up a ways from where we crossed, these’s a shallow place where you can jump across.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” I turned to her crossly.

“Sometimes it’s good not to feel the ground under your feet.”

I found the crossing up stream and came back to my bike and pedaled home as fast as I could.

Mother looked sternly. “What did you do to get so muddy?”

“Oh, I just slipped in some mud.”

She frowned. “Go get cleaned up for dinner. I hurried through dinner and went to my room. I hadn’t thought I’d have such wonderful days to begin my first diary.

So much of Mary was bewildering. It was very difficult to write about confusion. But just writing, “It rained this morning. Went to Mary’s in the afternoon,” came so far from what the day felt like. I just had to try to write about how everything really was, if I could.

Mom came upstairs. “What are you still doing up? I thought you’d be fast asleep after such a big day.”

I felt a bubble of laughter rising in my chest. Mom wouldn’t understand how funny that seemed to me. I swallowed the bubble and only said, “I’m writing in my new diary.”

“That’s nice. You should be asleep by now. You’ll be crabby tomorrow for our trip to Grandma Herron’s.”

I had forgotten that. “Do I have to go?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course, you have to go. Now get to bed.”

Going to Grandma Herron’s was not much fun. It was a long drive on squiggly roads and I had to sit in the back seat and smell the smoke from my dad’s icky cigars. Sometimes I got sick. There were no kids to play with and Grandma Herron was an old lady with a hump on her back like a camel. Her toilet was outside in a little wooden outhouse, and she had a little pump on her kitchen sink and a big pump in the backyard for water. Working the pump for water was fun, but even that lost interest in a day.

We really didn’t go visit her very much. Usually when we got there, I’d go knock on the front door and wait to see if she recognized me. It was sort of a game. She usually acted confused, but finally guessed who I was. I wondered sometimes if she saw Dad in the car before she knew it was me. After we got there I just sat around or maybe went for a walk around town. There wasn’t much to do.

On the drive home, Dad let me steer the car for a while. Then I fell asleep in the backseat until I was awakened by the tires crunching on the gravel in our driveway. I always seemed to be waking up just as we turned into the driveway, and the crunching gravel was as comforting as warm, dry clothes after being caught in a cold rain.

When I went down to breakfast the next morning, Grandma was stirring the oatmeal.

I sat at the table, still in a sleepy daze and read the milk carton again, for something to do.

“Remember your tennis lesson this morning.”

I had asked Mom if I could take tennis lessons. Mom and Dad bought me a racket and signed me up.

“Do I have to go?”

“I thought you liked it and besides they’re already paid for.”

I really had wanted to go, but now things were different.

“Your bat’s by the back door,” she continues. “Eat your breakfast and be on your way.”

Grandma called everything a bat that hit a ball.

I rode to the park. As I dropped by bike in the grass by the tennis courts, I realized how close Mary’s house was, even though no one could see it. I wondered what she was doing right now.

Mrs. Hamilton was calling the class together. She was a tall lady who was very tan from teaching tennis all summer, I saw her once dressed up for church in her heels and hose and she had this dark line around her ankles where her socks came and then her real skin color started. She was very nice to all the kids and really loved tennis.

We worked on our forehands this morning, with our shake hands grip and stepping into the ball. We drilled, tossing balls to each other across the net. I kept looking up to see if Mary was running across the park. Maybe she would be looking for me.

After class, Sandy, a friend from school, asked if I wanted to go to the playground. On any other day I would have said yes because I like the older kids who ran the playground and the stuff they did, but today I had something else planned.

“Maybe later. I’ve got something else to do.”

Sandy looked at me quizzically, but shrugged her shoulders and headed off to the playground.

I picked up my bike, and holding my racket in my grip, headed down the loop road in the park to look for Mary.

It was harder than I thought to find the spot we entered the woods along the road. It all looked so much alike today. I stopped where I thought we had gone in. I hid my bike and racket behind some bushes and pushed on through the undergrowth to the creek. I looked for the rope where we had crossed. I had to walk down stream a little ways to find it. Then I had to retrace my steps back upstream to ford the shallow crossing.

I walked up and down the edge of the shrubs on the other side, but I couldn’t find where Mary lived. She must cover over the door every time she leaves.

On my last try, I kept going further than I knew we had gone, just in case. Just past a tall row of lilac bushes, a little pink house sort of blossomed against the green shrubbery.

That must be Miss Annie Mundy’s house, I thought. It was like a play house only bigger or a real house shrunk down and pink. I crept closer to look. The door was closed. It didn’t seem anyone was home. I glanced around in case someone was spying on me. I edged toward the window and peeked in under the shade.

The only light inside came from small cracks between the bottom of the shades and the bottom of the windows. I could see a big overstuffed chair just in front of this window. I thought I saw something moving. The cats, I bet. There were papers and magazines stacked beside the chair. The rest of the room was hazy in the dim light, but I could see enough to know Miss Annie Mundy was messy.

I looked around to see if anyone was coming. In the distance across the field by the big house, a large black dog was barking. As I stared at the house for any signs of Mary or Miss Annie Mundy, it became clear that the dog was running toward me. I began running along the edge of the bushes. The last time a big dog had chased me when I was five, he bit my leg and tore my boot. I wasn’t staying around here any longer. I plunged into the bushes where I thought I had come out and found my bike and headed home fast.

I was sweaty and out of breath when I dropped my bike in my backyard and ran into the house. I threw my racket on the daybed on the porch and went into the kitchen for a glass of cold milk.

Grandma came through the door from the dining room. She had probably been dozing in her rocking chair after her morning work.

“I expected you home an hour ago.”

“I stayed a while to play.” I put my empty glass beside the sink.

“Mrs. Wilson called. She invited you to come spend the day with Ruth tomorrow.”

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

“Now don’t be like that, Diana. I told her you’d be happy to. She’s picking you up tomorrow morning at 10:30.”

“Grandma, that’s a whole day.”

“You can do this. You know Ruth lives out in the country and there aren’t any children to play with. You’ll have a good time.” She pulled her blue-flowered apron off the hook by the basement door and tied it on. “Do you want some tomato soup and grilled cheese for lunch?”

She was already opening the can so my answer wasn’t necessary. Suddenly the two weeks that had looked deadly dull with Becky gone were bursting with the mystery of Mary and Miss Annie Mundy and now were being jam packed with things that might have been fun another time but were now annoying.

“Jeez, I don’t know why I can’t decide what I want to do?”

“I believe, Missy, you pretty much go and do as you please. Everyone has to do things they don’t want to do.”

I’d heard all that before. I sat down at the kitchen table, my fist propping up my cheek, and riveted my eyes as angrily as I could on the opposite wall. I could hear Grandma stirring the soup. My theatrics were being ignored.

I had my soup and sandwich. Grandma had toasted the sandwich just right with the cheese melted on the inside and the bread brown and toasty on each side. There was a chocolate cupcake for dessert.

“I’m going to the park. “You might want to wash your face.”

I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth. Chocolate frosting came off on my hand. I licked my fingers and rubbed them over my mouth and chin.

“Ok?”

She tilted her head up to look closely at my face through her bifocals.

“Ok.”

Maybe I’d make a lanyard this afternoon or another bracelet. I ran upstairs to get some money from my bank. It was a pink pig about the size of a coconut. You didn’t have to wait until it was full and break it open like some. I could stick a fingernail file in the slot and saw it back and forth to pull out the dimes, nickels and pennies. Sometimes I’d only get pennies and it would take a long time to get what I needed. I’d get enough for a lanyard, a bottle of pop and a candy bar. Saturday was allowance day. I got a dollar now and I had saved up my allowance over the school year because I went to school all day with no place to spend it. I fished out fifty cents and went back downstairs. Grandma was washing up the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.

“Bye.”

“Don’t be late for dinner and be careful crossing Locust Street.”

We lived on Locust Street. It was very busy. It went all the way across town. Next year I would walk a mile down Locust Street to my junior high school, but now my school was just through Becky’s yard and up a half a block. To get to the park I usually cut up the alley behind the houses on Locust Street and crossed the street at the park, but sometimes I crossed sooner and rode by Sandy’s house on my way.

There were lots of kids at the park, and Tom and Linda were there to organize activities. I wanted a lanyard, but I always got stuck on the square slip through thing that got it to tighten and loosen around your neck. Sandy came pretty soon after I got there. We both made lanyards. Hers was red and white and mine blue and white. Blue was my favorite color. We both needed help with the slip thing, but next time I thought I could do it myself.

We went over to the golf shop for a bottle of pop and a candy bar. She got orange and I got cream soda and we both got a frozen Snickers.

“Where’s Becky?”

“She’s on vacation. She’ll be back a week from Saturday. “You want to play tomorrow?”

“I gotta go to Ruth’s house. Her mother called my grandma. I didn’t even get a say.”

“Pretend you’re sick.”

“Then I’d have to stay in all day.”

“No, dummy. You are sick in the morning and then you start to get better a little before noon. Then you say, “I think I’ll try a little lunch,” and then you feel good and you get to go out.”

“That never works for me. Mom or Grandma says, ‘You don’t look that sick to me,’ and then they say, ‘Get dressed and have breakfast and we’ll see how you feel.’ I know they know I’m lying so then I just get up.”

“You’ve got to go through with it.”

“I’m just not that good at acting.”

Sandy shrugged. She must have thought me a hopeless cause.

When we got back to the playground, Tom and Linda were putting stuff away in the little shed. It had to be almost 4:00. Sandy and I picked up our bikes and rode around a little and went to her house for a drink. You couldn’t miss her house. It was orange. Her mom loved orange. All her mom’s clothes were orange. She looked real good in orange. She laid out in the backyard all day and got tan so she’d look good in orange. She even had their car painted orange. I thought maybe she was a little tetched, too, like Miss Annie Mundy, but Mrs. Groves always looked really nice, really fancy.

After Mr. Groves came home from work, I rode home for dinner.

DIANA’S STORY

Chapter 3

The next morning as I sat at the breakfast table, I thought about what Sandy had said about being sick. I thought about going through all those antics. I decided I just couldn’t muster the energy for all that folderol. It was easier to give in and go to Ruth’s.

Grandma put a fried egg and two pieces of toast on the table in front of me. I cut around the yellow, eating all the white first. I stick my fork into the yellow, its sunniness running onto the plate. I had a whole slice of toast left to swipe up the yolk. That was the best part. I left the crater under the yolk on the plate. I finished my orange juice and wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist.

“Mrs. Wilson’s coming at 10:30. You have time to practice your piano. Your lesson’s tomorrow, you know.”

“I’ll call her and tell her I haven’t had time to practice.”

“No, you have time right now. Stop your dillydallying and get busy.”

I went into the dining room. The piano stood in the corner, closed and still. I sat on the bench and opened the cover over the keys. It was like all these teeth grinning at me. I could see myself in the gold-framed mirror over the piano. I stuck out my tongue at Grandma on the other side of the wall and began playing my scales.

Mrs. Wilson honked in the alley at exactly 10:30.

“Be nice, now.” Always a cautionary from Grandma and Mom, a hereditary trait, no doubt.

“I will.”

I ran out to the car and climbed into the back seat with Ruth. She said, “Hi” and I said “Hi” as Mrs. Wilson coasted down the hill to the street.

Ruth was the tallest girl in our class and the smartest. She read a lot, but then she lived out in the country and had nothing better to do. I read when I had to, but it wasn’t my favorite thing. Every time report cards came out, Becky’s mom would always ask me why I got such good grades. I just shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea why some people got good grades and others didn’t. I didn’t know why anyone thought that was important.

Mrs. Wilson was a very tall lady with big shoulders. Her gray hair was pulled back in a knot on top of her head.

She looked in the rearview mirror at me. “How are you, Diana?”

“Fine, thank you.

“I’m so glad you could come to play with Ruth today.”

“Yes, me, too.”

On the drive to her house, Ruth and I talked about what we’d been doing since school was out which was nothing much. We pulled into the driveway of a large square house and parked under a roof that came out from the side of the house. The garage was further back. We walked around the downstairs. All the rooms were huge with big furniture, big windows and lots of bookcases. You could do somersaults in the living room without worrying about hitting your feet or your head on a table or a footstool. Ruth couldn’t do very good somersaults. She slid off course, flopping to the right all the time. She was better at games. We played Go To The Head Of The Class and Crazy 8’s.

Mrs. Wilson called us to lunch. While we ate our spaghetti, Mrs. Wilson washed up the pans and cleaned the counters.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?”

Ruth turned to me. “You want to ride bikes on the landing strip?”

“The landing strip?”

“Yes, where we land the plane.”

“You have an airplane?”

“Yes, Dad has it off on a trip now.”

Mrs. Wilson turned to us. “Maybe next time you come out, I could take you and Ruth up for a little ride.”

I must have had some dumbstruck stare on my face because Mrs. Wilson waited for me to say something and then asked, “ Would you like to do that?”

“Yes.” I could hear Mother saying, “Say, yes, thank you,” but I was thinking of my fear of heights. I shoved that thought back and said, “You can fly an airplane?”

Mrs. Wilson turned to put the milk in the icebox. “Oh, yes, I learned to fly when Mr. Wilson and I were courting. Mr. Wilson was a pilot in the Air Force, and when his father died, he had to run the factory. It was so much easier to fly himself around to customers than wait for the airlines.”

I couldn’t even think of my mother flying an airplane. She had never been in an airplane. She didn’t go near water, she couldn’t play badminton or croquet. My mother kept books, read the paper and did some housework. The most vigorous movements I had ever seen her make was run for the bus when she was late for work and make popcorn, shaking the big iron skillet back and forth across the stove burner until she was read in the face so the popcorn wouldn’t burn. She hated making popcorn. The thought that Ruth’s mother flew an airplane had no place in my picture of a mother.

“You want to ride bikes?” Ruth asked. She didn’t seem to give much thought to her mother’s flying.

“Sure,” I said.

We went out to the big garage and got bikes. I rode her mother’s bike. We raced in laps around the big concrete landing strip, then we did figure eights and finally rode over the field to the shade of a big oak tree. We talked as the sweat popped out on our foreheads and then was dried by the breeze. The thought came to me that Ruth might know Miss Annie Mundy. In talking about Miss Snider’s bald spot, Miss Winter’s bad breath and Billy Graber’s shy smile, I slid in, “Do you know anybody named Mundy?”

“Sure. The Mundy’s are good friends of my parents. You know they both have factories down by the river and make machine stuff.”

“Do you know Miss Annie Mundy?”

“She’s been at our house with her uncle and his wife. She sat on a chair in a bright pink dress and red tennis shoes. She never talked to anyone that I could see. You could ask my mother.”

We rode back to the house. Mrs. Wilson was putting out a plate of cookies.

“Mom, Diana wants to know about Miss Annie Mundy.”

I was embarrassed by my own forwardness as Ruth passed my question onto her mother.

Mrs. Wilson began, “I guess kids would be interested in such a colorful character. She came to live here with her uncle when she was just ten. Her Dad was killed in the World War I and not too many years later her mother became mentally ill and was put in an institution.

“Is that why Miss Annie is tetched in the head?”

“I really don’t know, but that might be part of it. Anyway Miss Annie was different and her uncle and aunt never could really get her to be like others. Miss Annie is Miss Annie and there’s no mistaking her for anyone else.”

“What happens when her uncle dies?”

“I don’t know. but with money from her parents and money from her uncle, she will be taken care of.”

I had finished my cookies, my favorite chocolate chip, and my milk. Mrs. Wilson was getting her purse to take me home.

Home again in the alley behind my house, I thanked Mrs. Wilson, said goodbye to Ruth and slammed the door and ran into the house. The house was quiet. Grandma was dozing in her rocker in the living room.

Wednesdays were piano lessons in the summer. Whatever I did I had to get there on my own. My grandmother didn’t drive, my mother didn’t drive and my father took our one car to work early in the morning. He worked at the meat packing plant fixing equipment and stuff, but his clothes smelled of pigs when he came home. It was way on the other side of town. Anyway I was left on my own to get wherever I wanted to go. Mostly I rode my bike.

After breakfast on Wednesday, I rode my bike to my piano lesson, my piano book in my basket. It was only a few blocks so it didn’t take long to get there.

Mrs. Whiting was a lady a lot like my mother—quiet, reserved, cautious. I didn’t run into many blustery ladies. Most people were really quite a bit alike. Maybe some a little meaner, some a little fatter, older, or taller, but mostly pretty much alike.

Mrs. Whiting had a room at the back of the house just for piano lessons. It had its own door from the outside. The lessons went about the same every week—scales, an old piece, a new piece, maybe a star and a stern notice to practice more. I’d leave with my books and the firm resolve to practice really hard the next week, but usually something with more promise arose and my resolve dissolved in a new moment. I rode home already beginning to think about Mary and her strange circumstance.

After lunch, I headed out on my bike toward Mary’s. I rode through the park and left my bike hidden in the woods and walked the easy way to Mary’s hole. No one was home. I trudge my way through the underbrush to Miss Annie Mundy’s.

The door was open. I could hear voices. As I neared the house it was Mary’s voice I heard reading. I stood in the doorway waiting for someone to see me. Finally Miss Annie looked up from where she sat with Mary on the sofa.

“Who are you?” she asked in a high, sing-song voice.

“I’m Diana.”

“Why did you come?” It was almost a song.

“Well, I came to see Mary to see if she could play.”

“She’s just begun to read a story. Would you like to hear it, too?”

“Yes, I guess so.” I felt myself pulled toward singing my answer.

Mary sat on the edge of the sofa with the open book on her lap. She was waiting calmly for the interruption to be over.

“You can sit on Mary’s other side,” sang Miss Annie, as she swept her hand across Mary’s lap to the empty place on the sofa.

I shyly took a seat, trying not to jostle Mary on her seat or distract her from the story she had begun. Both Miss Annie and I sat quietly waiting and finally Mary began to read. It was a story about a mother and a little girl going shopping one Saturday. They bought shoes and looked through the Xray machine at her toe bones without skin, she bought a green dress with white buttons for school, she bought barrettes and ribbon for her hair. They had lunch in a tearoom, chicken soup and chicken salad sandwiches and chocolate ice cream.

On the way home, the girl saw a man selling balloons that always popped back into the air. Her mother told her the balloon was filled with helium gas. She got a helium balloon and walked down the sidewalk looking up at her new balloon. She tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and her balloon escaped from her hand and sailed into the sky. Her mother said that was too bad, but she knew there was a surprise waiting at home. And sure enough, there was a big birthday cake and some presents from her brother and sister and Dad and they all sang Happy Birthday to her.

Mary closed the book, saying, “The End.”

Miss Annie said,, “That was a very nice story. When is your birthday, Diana?”

“I just had my birthday on the 14th. I was 11.”

“I feel like everyone should have a birthday everyday.”

“That would be a lot of presents and we’d be very old,” I replied.

“But I feel like a different person everyday so none of me’s would be very old.”

I wondered whether that’s why she wore all those clothes. She didn’t know who she was going to be when she woke up.

As I looked around the room, things were much neater than before. The sofa where we sat was red velvet and very hard with wood arms and top. If you leaned back you’d bump your head. The coffee table was wood with dents around the edges and white circles on the top from wet glasses. There were two big armchairs—one currently had a large black and white cat curled around in the center of the cushion. A tiger cat came through the door from the next room, licking its lips. He slunk along in front of the sofa to rub himself against all our legs before jumping up in Miss Annie’s lap and settling in her skirts and closing his eyes.

Everything was very comfortable. A dog barked. Miss Annie raised her head suddenly. “Quick hide. Run into the woods. I hear my uncle coming.”

Mary and I looked at each other and headed for the small door. We couldn’t get through at the same time. I let Mary go first. She ran as fast as she could toward her house and I ran for my bicycle in the wood and rode home, as fast as wind.

MARY,MARY

Chapter Two

Diana held the pages in her lap, still remembering that summer. She thought about the last time she saw Mary . Becky was back from vacation. They were sitting on the front porch watching the cars go by. A yellow bus stopped at the corner stop sign, then pulled forward. Diana saw Mary’s face looking out the window. She waved excitedly to make sure Mary saw her, but Mary turned to stare forward.

Becky looked at Diana. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. When you were gone, I met her when I was riding my bike around. She lived in a hole by the park.”

“In a hole? You’re just kidding me.”

“No, it’s true.” It was all sort of imaginary even if I knew it was true.

“Is she an orphan?”

“No, she has a mother, but she just can’t find her.”

And that was the last time Diana saw Mary, but she always wondered how her life went on.

Winnie crept into the room where Diana had been reading and remembering.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Good morning, Grandma. Are you still reading?”

“Well, I found the story I had written about my summer with my friend and I was just rereading it.”

“Did you ever look for her?”

“Well, I looked for her right after I last saw her. I went to Miss Annie’s to look for her.”

“Who is Miss Annie?”

“She was just a crazy old lady who took Mary under her wing. They were both looking for someone and made do with each other. Anyway, I knocked at her door and she called, ‘Come in.’”

Diana recalled that short but telling exchange.

“Is Mary here?”

“Not now. You know sometimes things appear real, but you’ve just made them up, and sometimes things you’ve made up become real. If where we live doesn’t fit us any more, we have to move on until we find a place that does.”

“Miss Annie closed the door and I was left standing outside the tiny house wondering about Miss Annie and whether she was really crazy.”

“And that was the end?” asked Winnie.

“Almost. After a few days I thought I would go to the orphanage. I knew I shouldn’t because it was so far, but I wanted to know. The orphanage was a large cluster of buildings, many of which were little houses for the children and their counselors. I went to the biggest building and opened the screen door. Inside a lady sat at a large desk.

“‘Can I help you?’

“I’m looking for a girl named Mary.

“‘There are several girls named Mary here.’

“‘Well, she has lots of blond hair that flies all over and very lonely blue eyes.’” It has just hit me that her eyes were lonely.

“‘When did you see her?’

“I saw her on a bus a few days ago.

“‘That’s Mary Crane. She’s no longer here.’

“She made up that name, I knew.

“Where’d she go?

“‘We don’t know. We’ve been looking for her. Mr. Mundy called us about her and said she had no one taking care of her. The police have been looking for her. If you see her please tell us. It’s not safe for a young girl by herself. What is your name?’

“Diana. Diana Herron.

“‘Did you know Mary?’

“We met this summer. I didn’t know her real well, but I had a feeling that I did.”

“‘Yes, there was something haunting about her,’ the lady said, almost to herself.”

“So is that the end?” asked Winnie.

“I didn’t know what to do after that. Later I wrote it all down in a story, but I couldn’t figure out how it ended so I just put it away.”

Winnie was quiet. Then she said, “ But Grandma, maybe you could find Mary and find out what happens.”

EPILOGUE

Diana thought maybe this was possible.

The next morning Diana wrote a letter to the publisher of Mary’s book asking how she could contact her. She wasn’t sure she’d get an answer, but she had no other leads.

In about a week Diana received a letter from New York. They would not tell her Mary’s address, but if she wanted to write her a letter, they would forward it to her.

Dear Mary,

I don’t know if you remember me, but we met one summer day in Davenport, Iowa. You invited me to see your house in a hole in the ground and we read stories with your friend, Miss Annie, in her little house.

I was surprised yesterday to find a book about dragonflies in the bookstore. As I looked at the book and the author’s name, I thought it might be you.

I read it to my granddaughter, Winnie. I told her I had met you a long time ago but never knew what had happened to you. She said this was a sign that I was supposed to find out.

Your publisher said he would pass my letter along. I hope to hear from you. I am ever so curious about the little girl I met so many summers ago.

Regards,

Diana Herron Winters

Diana mailed the letter with little hope of getting a reply, but three weeks later a letter came, addressed in a jagged script.

Dear Diana,

Yes, I remember you and that summer. That was the beginning of my migratory life, looking for a home, like you had.

Instead, I told stories about birds, animals and insects that also changed houses. I felt a kinship.

All the people I met, like you, were transitory and now gone. It’s hard to attach yourself to others when no one has taught you how.

My health is poor. I’m writing from another home that makes me itch, but they say not for long. If you happen to pass by, stop in.

Mary

Diana wondered what was going on. She looked again at the return address—Peoria. Wasn’t that where her Aunt Luna lived? It wasn’t that far. She would go. Something called her to go.

Diana drove on a Saturday to Peoria. The address brought her to a care facility. Diana parked and entered the main doors. At the desk she asked for Mary Crane.

“She’s in Room 114, just down this hall on the right. Would you sign in, please?”

Diana walked down the hall. At room 114 she knocked on the door.

“Come in. The door’s open.” The voice was weak and gravelly.

Diana turned the handle, opened the door and peered into a small apartment sparsely furnished. At the window in a wheelchair sat a slight woman, staring out the window at the trees and clouds, with hair still wild.

Mary turned her head, not really meeting Diana’s gaze.

“Hello, Mary. I’m Diana. I was passing by and stopped in.”

Mary turned back to look out the window.

Diana moved into the room, not knowing what to say nor knowing Mary’s state of mind.

Then Mary spoke quietly. Was she talking to Diana or to herself, Diana couldn’t tell.

“I keep watching the sky. So many birds fly from one home to another every year—and butterflies. They know where they’re going.

“The doctors tell me that my time is short. A tumor found a nesting place in me.”

Diana’s curiosity urged a question about where Mary had gone after Miss Annie’s.

“Aunt Luna’s. Crazy as a loon. Never really thought loons were all that crazy… but then people thought I wasn’t all there either. Might be right.

“And what did you do, Diana? Let me guess. Married to high school sweetheart, two children, live in same town, have chicken dinner every Sunday.”

Diana laughed. “I am the easy one. But you . . . you were not so easy. You just disappeared. I suppose you’ll say ‘whooping cranes.’”

“Disappearances can be deceiving.”

“What I always wished for you is that you would find a home. Did you find a home, Mary?”

Mary sat for a while, looking at the sky. Then she spoke slowly.

“If you can’t find a peaceful place, you can imagine one. I wandered looking for a house that fit me. Sometimes I thought I’d found one, but then I’d start to itch and squirm and I’d move on. I stopped here and there awhile. People were mainly kind, but the valences were wrong. I could always come back to Aunt Luna’s if I got tired. One old lady who worked at a library gave me a notebook and pencils. I came to write my home. The lady liked my stories and sent them to a publisher. I wrote places of dreams and places of reality. I lived in both. The dreams were better.”

“I thought of you often. There were so many things to wonder about you. You were so different from me.”

“There aren’t any alike, similar maybe, but not alike. I tried ways to fit the pieces together.”

An aide entered the room. “Miss Mary, it’s time for lunch.” She handed her a wipe to clean her hands.

“When I looked at stars, when I looked at a spider’s web, the dragonfly, the butterfly, the whooping cranes, it seemed like they should all fit together, but when I got close, it would all slip off into air, like all the shards of the universe speeding away so fast I couldn’t grab on to them.”

Then she stared out in front of her as the aide pushed her wheelchair out of the room. She wasn’t speaking to me, but she seemed to be having that long conversation with herself—a lifelong soliloquy of wondering.