He was so nice to her, Mr. Woodson was! Nicer than anyone had ever been. He never failed to break into an enormous grin when he saw her. He was always glad to see Teacher, polite enough to the Pedersens, but only when he held Anette’s hand did he laugh as if she brought him—joy, was it?
He visited a lot, traveling back and forth from the big city of Omaha, which he sometimes tried to describe to Anette, but she couldn’t grasp it. Tall buildings! Something called a cable car that carried people about! Stores of untold riches and goods—one entire store just for shoes! Another just for hats! Many churches of many different kinds, people called Jews, Bohemians, Italians, all with different customs and languages and foods and ways of living, yet they were all still part of one city! And when he began to tell her about a place called New York that was about one hundred times the size of Omaha, with even more cable cars and a place called Wall Street where all the money in the United States was made—she guessed he meant that was where all the dollars were printed up and the coins produced by some kind of magic—well! It all overwhelmed her imagination and she pleaded with him to stop because her brain was too small to keep it all in, which made him laugh heartily, although she didn’t know why.
Every time he visited he brought satchels of letters, baskets of fruit. The first time in her life that Anette saw a pineapple, she laughed so hard tears came to her eyes. Who could eat such a prickly fruit, like a porcupine? But then Mr. Woodson showed Mother Pedersen how to chop the top off, slice away the prickly skin, and remove the core of sweet, juicy fruit; and when they all tasted it, Anette thought she’d never eaten anything so heavenly in her life. It tasted like all the dreams she’d never had.
But sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t watching, Mr. Woodson would study her with a troubled frown. He would look at her, then at Mother Pedersen, and shake his head. As if he didn’t quite trust the situation in front of his own eyes. As if he somehow could see into the past, see how it was before the blizzard. Then he would grow silent, and thoughtful.
There came a day when Anette was allowed to sit in a chair for an entire afternoon, with real clothes on, not a nightgown. She’d expected to put on her old clothes, but instead there was a bright blue gingham dress with rows of buttons up the back that Mother Pedersen fastened for her. She had new underthings, too—pretty, snow-white underthings with little frills. And new black slippers with red ribbons across the instep—Anette could not stop looking at them; she sat in the chair and extended her legs, pointing her feet, admiring them. Her hair had been washed and brushed. It was like a holiday, if she’d ever known what a holiday was before, which she didn’t. But that was how Mr. Woodson described it, the day she got out of bed for the first time.
She heard Mother Pedersen flying about the house in her usual way, and once it was time to start dinner Anette came out of the bedroom on unsteady legs, gingerly crossing the floor in her pretty new shoes; she held her one hand against the wall for balance. She had no idea how long she’d been in bed; she’d never thought to ask, but her legs felt like jelly that hadn’t jelled. Still, now that she was dressed and up, she knew she ought to be helping get dinner.
“Anette! What are you doing?” Mother Pedersen asked, aghast, as Anette tried to grasp a pail; she could at least bring in some snow to melt on the stove.
“Helping.”
“You sit right down! You’re too weak. Let me.” And Mother Pedersen snatched the pail from her hand with something like her old anger, and marched outside to get the snow, bringing it inside to melt by the stove.
“I—I don’t know…” Anette had no idea what to say, how to ask the question she was desperate to ask: Would she be able to stay here, now that she couldn’t work so much? If not, where would she go—who would take her in? She just wished someone would explain it to her. Mr. Woodson might be able to tell her, but he wasn’t here today, and Teacher wasn’t yet back from school.
“You don’t know what?” Mother Pedersen—obviously harried and tired—snapped. But then she caught herself, brought the back of her hand up to her red face as if to cool it, and presented a forced, but not malicious, smile to Anette. It struck her that Mother Pedersen, too, was uncertain about how to proceed with this new—softness?—between them.