“Oh, I can drive you!” Beanie held up her car keys.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “But we need the walk.”
“We sing,” Izzy said. “And we talk about the witch. And we look at things. Sometimes we play with toys that kids leave out front. Oh, and we buy Popsicles.”
“How nice,” Beanie said, making no effort to leave.
“Thank you again for the cake.” My voice sounded airy and strange. I took Izzy’s hand and walked toward the hall, hoping Beanie would follow. Eventually she did.
“Maybe I’ll stop in again later. I’d really like to meet Bonnie,” Beanie said, once we were out the door and on the sidewalk. She took a few steps toward her car, which was white and shiny.
“She’ll be out all day,” I said. “But I’ll tell her you came by.” I smiled real big; my cheeks hurt and my palm started sweating against Izzy’s.
“Bye, Beanie!” Izzy waved with her free hand and tugged me down the sidewalk. My heart was still pounding as Beanie drove by us in the car.
“Let’s cut over,” I said, and we took the parallel street early to avoid Beanie Jones.
“That was scary,” Izzy said.
“Yup. A close call.”
“Can we have that cake for dessert tonight?”
“We sure can. We could add sliced strawberries and whipped cream.”
“Hurrah!” Izzy lifted a tiny fist.
We walked in silence for a minute until we came upon a skateboard sitting alone on a lawn.
“Can I try it?” Izzy asked.
I looked up at the house. No one on the porch. No one in the windows. “Okay, but I have to hold your hands.”
Izzy picked up the skateboard and placed it on the sidewalk. She put one flip-flopped foot on it. I took both of her hands and then she stepped her other foot on. I pushed her up the sidewalk to the edge of the property, then turned around, so she was backward and I was forward, and pushed her the other way.
We went back and forth like this several times, until my body, mind, and heart calmed. Beanie was gone. Everyone was safe. We’d eat the cake after dinner and then I’d return the glass plate on the way home. I’d have to run up to the porch and leave it so Sheba and Jimmy wouldn’t be spotted. But I could do that. And Sheba and Jimmy seemed to like the sneaking around, as if it made their lives in Baltimore just a little more thrilling.
Each time we shopped at Eddie’s, Izzy liked to find the ratio of employees to customers. She missed people, but I didn’t point them out. And she often lost count, so I’d make up a number and give it to her. It was as inexact as pulling random numbers from a sack. The ratio that Izzy liked to talk about the most, however, was that of the witch. With Sheba now on our team, that remained three to one.
That day, we did our usual shopping. Izzy knew what to grab: Screaming Yellow Zonkers, Popsicles, and Slim Jims, which Jimmy and Mrs. Cone were eating with equal fervor, alternating a salty bite of Slim Jim with a sweet bite of something else. Yesterday I had tried it with candy orange wedges. There was something explosively wonderful about tasting salty, grainy meat stuff followed by chewy, gelatinous sugar stuff.
For dinner, I had a list of ingredients copied from one of my mother’s index cards. Tonight was going to be the most complicated meal yet. Chicken breasts roasted in orange sauce. My mother went over it with me in the morning, giving me tips on how to know when the chicken was properly cooked, and how to spoon the sauce over every few minutes to keep the breasts moist. The more she told me, the more nervous I got. Mom must have seen this on my face, because she stopped her instructions and said, “Mary Jane, now is not the time to lose confidence. There is an ill mother in that house and a hardworking doctor who needs to be fed.” She had stared at me until I nodded, and then she gave me even more directions.
“How many breasts do you think Jimmy will eat?” I asked Izzy. We were standing at the butcher counter. The butcher, whose long rectangular head reminded me of a cow’s, waited patiently.
“Seven?” Izzy said.
“You think Jimmy alone would eat seven?”
“Jimmy a football player?” the butcher asked.
“Just a man.”
“Two,” the butcher said. “Prepare two breasts for each man, one for each woman, and maybe a half for half-pint there.” He winked at Izzy.
“Okay, seven breasts.” I figured Izzy and I would split one if the men really did have two each. And I wasn’t sure Sheba really would eat a whole breast anyway. I noticed that she sat down and ate at every meal, just like everyone else, but she left half of everything on her plate. It didn’t matter what it was, or how much she claimed to love it; only half went in her mouth. Usually, when everyone appeared to be finished, Jimmy—though once it was Dr. Cone—would reach over and take her uneaten portion.