Orphan #8 Read Free

“And look at my teapot! What did I tell you, to stay in your chair!”
    Harry stroked his daughter’s hair, but now that she was in one of her fits nothing seemed to calm her. He handed her to Visha. “I got no time for this, already I’m gonna be late,” he shouted over Rachel’s screams.
    “As if it’s not your own fault!”
    Harry scowled as he yanked his jacket from its nail and shoved his fedora on his head. Visha, sorry for the harsh words, lifted her cheek to be kissed, but he turned away and headed into the hall.
    “When you coming home?” Visha called after him.
    “You know I got to finish all the cutting.” He paused in the doorway. “You just take care of this here. I’ll be home when I’m home.”
    R ACHEL WAS GROWING heavy in her mother’s arms, her screams unnerving. Visha carried her daughter into the bedroom and sat her in the middle of the bed. “You calm yourself now.” She looked around for something that might distract Rachel, thinking of how Sam managed to settle her. Visha reached for the money jar on the dresser.
    “Rachel, can you count these out for Mama? Then you can come do the shopping with me. I’m not angry about the teapot, I promise. Please?”
    Miraculously, Rachel seemed willing to calm down. Stifling her sobs, she took the jar and dumped it on the blanket. Rusted pennies, dull nickels, sleek dimes, even a few quarters. She began to make little piles, matching like to like.
    Visha backed cautiously into the kitchen. She sat down and took a few minutes to settle her nerves. Mrs. Giovanni peeked her head in from the hallway, a flowered kerchief tied over her hair.
    “Can I help you, Visha?” she offered.
    “Thank you, no, she’s quiet again.” Visha looked mournfully at the broken teapot. “See what she’s done.”
    “You need a teapot to borrow?”
    Visha shook her head, gesturing to a high shelf over the sink. “I’ll use the good one from my seder dishes.”
    “I’ll come back to visit you later, yes?”
    “See you later, Maria.” Visha swept up the broken pieces of crockery and put them in the scrap bucket.
    “Look, Mama!” Rachel called from the bedroom. “Can we get a rye bread today?”
    Visha went in and glanced over the sorted coins, totaling theirvalue. “Not today. Tomorrow when Papa brings home his pay we’ll get a fresh rye and some fish. But today there’s still the insurance man coming for his dimes, and a nickel for gas to make the soup, and another saved for tomorrow morning.” Visha dropped coins in the jar as she recited the list of obligations, then looked at what was left on the bed. “There’s enough for a yesterday’s loaf, some carrots, a meat bone. I’ve got still an onion. And some nice pickles, isn’t that right, Rachel?” On the first floor of their tenement was a shop where the pickle man tended barrels of brine and took in deliveries of cucumbers from a Long Island farmer; all the hallways of the building smelled of dill and garlic and vinegar.
    Visha pocketed the coins and lifted Rachel down from the bed. “Come, let’s get you dressed so we can do our shopping.”
    Passing through the kitchen, Rachel stopped and pointed at the wrapped bundle on the drain board. “Papa’s lunch!”
    “Ach, see what you made him forget with your crying! Now what’s he gonna eat?” Instantly, Visha regretted the sharp words. Rachel’s lip pouted and began to tremble. Soon the wailing would start up again. “I’m not angry, Rachel. Don’t cry, please. Listen, how about we take it to him at the factory?”
    Rachel clapped her mouth shut. She had never been to the factory. “Can I see where the buttons come from?” Most nights, Harry brought home an assortment of buttons twisted into a scrap of fabric, and it was Rachel’s job during the day to sit on the floor of the front room and sort them into piles by color and size.
    “Yes, and the sewing machines and everything. Now, can you dress yourself do you think?” Rachel