When my mother finally walked out of the store, my body relaxed, my blood felt like warm milk. I turned the cart and Izzy and I went down the nearest aisle.
“Uh-oh.” Izzy looked up at me, her mouth held in an O from the word oh. “I don’t remember my number for the ratio.”
“I do.”
“You remember my number?”
“Yes. Well. No.” It was one thing to lie to my mother; it was another to lie to Izzy. “We’ll start from this end and we’ll count all over again. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I returned the aprons before we checked out. Izzy had counted fifty customers and I had counted twenty-six employees.
“So our ratio is twenty-six to fifty,” I said.
“And the ratio of me and you to the witch is two to one.”
“Yes. And the ratio of me and you to my mom is two to one.”
“Because we’re on the same team?”
“Yeah.” I tugged one of Izzy’s braids. “We’re on the same team.”
I held a brown paper bag in each arm and Izzy held one with two hands in front of her. Nothing was too heavy, but we had bought a lot: five boxes of Popsicles, six bags of M&M’s, five boxes of Screaming Yellow Zonkers popcorn, five Chunky bars, five Baby Ruth bars, three rolls of candy buttons, six candy necklaces （one for each person in the household）， and handfuls of Laffy Taffy and Bazooka bubble gum. I hoped that I had bought neither too much nor too little. Dr. Cone’s instructions had been so vague that failure seemed highly likely. When my mother sent me to Eddie’s to get something for her, the instructions were specific: one shaker of Old Bay Seasoning in the small rectangular shaker, not in the larger cylinder; one white onion the size of your father’s fist, no brown spots; and three carrots, each the length from your wrist bone to the tip of your middle finger. All Dr. Cone had said was “some sugary sweets.”
Once we had passed my cross street, we cut back over to Woodlawn. The blond woman was out gardening again. As we approached, she sat up on her knees, pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her gloved hand, and said hello.
“We got lots of sweets!” Izzy said, and we both paused.
I put down my bags and Izzy put down hers as well. The woman stood and walked to the edge of her lawn so she was standing right beside us.
“What did you get?” She peered at the bags.
Izzy pointed. “Popsicles and candy and popcorn and bubble gum and . . . what else?”
“Holy moly! Lucky you!” The woman smiled at Izzy. “Are you the summer nanny?” she asked me.
“Yes. For Dr. and Mrs. Cone.”
“I’m Izzy.” Izzy pulled out a box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. “Can we have this?”
“Sure.” I took the box from her and opened it, then handed it back.
Izzy stuck her little hand into the box and pulled out a fistful of shellacked popcorn with peanuts frozen in the gaps like insects in amber. “Want some?” she asked the woman.
“Sure.” The woman removed her gloves and stuck her hand in the box. “What’s your name?” she asked me.
“Mary Jane Dillard.”
“Oh, you’re Betsy and Gerald’s daughter.” She plucked a piece of popcorn from her palm and stuck it in her mouth. “I met your mom at the Elkridge Club. My husband and I are thinking of joining.”
“Do you know my mom and dad?” Izzy asked.
“Mmm . . . what are your parents’ names again? I’m new here, so I’m just getting to know people.”
“Mommy and Daddy!” Bits of popcorn flew from Izzy’s mouth as she spoke.
“Well, I’ll have to walk over and introduce myself.”
“Dr. and Mrs. Cone are very busy this summer,” I said quickly.
“My dad is Richard.” Izzy handed the box back to the woman, who took another handful and then passed the box to me. “And my mom is Bonnie.”
“I’m Mrs. Jones. But there are three Mrs. Joneses in this neighborhood, so you can call me Beanie.”
“Beanie?!” Izzy laughed.
“That’s what my parents called me when I was little. I was so skinny, I looked like a string bean. And then it stuck and now everyone calls me Beanie.”
“Does Mr. Beanie call you Beanie?” Izzy asked.
“Mr. Jones calls me Beanie. Yes.”
“Do your kids call you Beanie?”
“Mr. Jones and I haven’t been blessed with children yet.” Beanie Jones smiled. When my mother’s friend, Mrs. Funkhauser, talked about not having kids, she seemed sad, but this wasn’t a sad smile. Beanie Jones turned her head toward the house and then I could hear it too: through the wide-open front door, the phone was ringing. “Oh, I have to get that! You girls have fun.” She ran toward the phone.