Sheba came in eating a Popsicle.
“We’re going to iron.” Izzy pointed to the growing pile of wrinkled clothes. I’d already set up a footstool by the ironing board and was waiting for the iron to heat up. When Izzy ironed, I stood right behind her, ready to grab the iron if she dropped it, left it too long in one spot, or knocked it off the board.
“Can you believe I’ve never ironed?” Sheba said.
“Really?”
“We had this Mexican woman who lived with us when I was a kid. She ironed everything. Even jeans and underwear.”
“What about in college? Or now?”
“In college I dropped off my clothes at the cleaners every week and they were returned to me ironed and folded. And then after college I hired a cleaning lady who does all the laundry. Toni. She’s in the New York apartment now.”
“Mary Jane can teach you to iron,” Izzy said. “She’s good at teaching.”
“Okay. I’ll try it.”
“But you can’t have your Popsicle when you iron.” Izzy and I had had a struggle over a dripping red Popsicle in her mouth the last time we’d ironed.
“Bossy!” Sheba smiled at Izzy and continued to suck her Popsicle.
“I’ll finish it.” Izzy went to Sheba and took the Popsicle from her. Sheba got up and stood at the ironing board.
I laid a white button-down open and facedown on the board. “The key is to not linger. You just push firmly and slide it along the fabric.”
“One mustn’t linger!” Sheba winked at me. She pushed the iron a few times. I watched. Izzy got closer and looked up. The Popsicle dripped down her chin. “Now what?”
“Then you do the sleeves.” I readjusted the shirt so there was a single sleeve on the board.
“Firmly. And no lingering!” Sheba raised her voice to sound more like me. She slid the iron around the sleeve, then on the cuff. “Okay. I’m bored.”
“Already?”
“Yup. Let’s go record shopping.” Sheba put the iron on the shirt facedown. I righted it quickly before the shirt burned.
“I wanna go record shopping!” Izzy jumped up and down, waving the Popsicle.
“I don’t even know where the record store is.” There were no record stores in Roland Park, and none on the regular routes I went with my mother: to the Elkridge Club, Roland Park Country School, Huxler’s for clothes.
“Richard will know. I’ll find the keys.” Sheba sauntered out.
“Can I get a record too?” Izzy asked.
“Yes. I’ll buy you one.” I quickly finished ironing the shirt.
“You will? You have money?”
“Yeah. I’ve been saving all the money your parents pay me. But I’ll use some of it to buy you a record.”
Izzy ran to my legs and hugged me. I rubbed her head. Then I unplugged the iron and neatly folded the shirt.
Jimmy wanted to go too. He didn’t wear a wig and neither did Sheba. They both put on sunglasses. Jimmy was wearing a tank top and a Johns Hopkins baseball cap that must have been Dr. Cone’s. Sheba tied a color-block scarf around her head. It covered her forehead and draped down the back of her hair like two red and orange tails.
Dr. Cone walked us out to the station wagon. Sheba got in the driver’s seat, and Izzy and I got in the back. Sheba rolled down the window and Dr. Cone leaned on the window frame with his hairy forearms. “You remember how to get there?” he asked.
Sheba said, “Left on Cold Spring, right on Charles, stay on Charles awhile, left on North Ave.”
“That’s right. Cold Spring, Charles, North Ave. You can’t get lost.”
“Mary Jane is going to buy me a record!” Izzy said.
“She is?” Dr. Cone looked up from Sheba’s window, then came around to Izzy’s. He reached in and tousled her hair, then pulled out a folded bill and tried to hand it over to me. I waved him away. “What kind of record?” He tried once more to hand me the money. I shook my head, smiling. Dr. Cone shrugged and stuck the bill back in his pocket.
“I dunno. Mary Jane, what kind of record?”
“What about a Broadway soundtrack?”
“MARY JANE’S BUYING ME A BROADWAY SIDETRACK!!” Izzy leaned out the window. I grabbed her waist so she wouldn’t fall out. Dr. Cone kissed her and then backed away as Sheba pulled the car from the curb.
“You have fun at the record store!” Dr. Cone laughed at his daughter, who seemed perilously close to dropping onto the pavement.