Outrun the Moon(79)

I reach for my penny, squeezing it so hard I can almost hear the Indian head gasp.

What was I thinking? You can’t just throw ingredients into a bowl and hope it makes spaghetti alla gricia. For the first time in my life, I wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew.





36



MR. GULLIVER CROSSES HIS TWITCHY ARMS, and his face grows stony. “What you got under there?”

The Sonorans don’t answer, only glance around at all of us. Perhaps they don’t understand English. I drag my feet over to them. What now? On the cart lies the half-finished assembly of crackers and cheese. I pick up two. “Appetizer?” If they want the crackers, they’ll have to set down whatever they’re holding.

Francesca leaves the fruitcake she is cutting on an inverted crate and approaches, holding her knife by her side. Mr. Gulliver moves closer as well.

One of the Sonorans studies the crackers. Then he flips back his serape.

I wince, bracing myself for I don’t know what.

To my surprise, he is holding a bottle of wine. I let out a shaky laugh, and sighs are released all around me. The Sonoran turns the bottle so that I can read the label, then smiles, showing me his square teeth. I nod vigorously, though I haven’t the foggiest idea what constitutes good vintage. “How very generous.”

The man sets down the wine, then pops both crackers into his mouth, crunching loudly. His countryman unveils a second bottle of wine, and someone calls for a corkscrew.

I feel a tug on my pants, and am surprised to see the Sonorans’ families joining our group. One of the Sonoran children, a stubby-haired fellow, blinks his dark eyes at me. “You got candy?” His mother approaches with more freshly scrubbed children attached to her colorful skirt. She chastises her son and tries to pull him away by his wiry arm.

“That’s okay,” I tell her. “We’re so glad you could make it.”

“Gracias, thank you for we coming.” Her English is broken but sincere.

I bend to her son’s level. “I’m sorry, I don’t have candy today.”

His face falls, and it twists my heart as he reminds me so much of Jack. “What’s your name?”

“José.”

The other guests stand about, stiffly holding their elbows.

Maybe what we need is a way to oil the works. “Do you like games?” I ask José.

He stuffs his hands in his armpits, and his shirt comes untucked. “I guess.”

One of his sisters breaks away from her mother. “I like games.”

Like many families in Chinatown, the younger generation is fluent in English. “Well then, gather round,” I say loudly, beckoning to the Vita boys, the Swedish children, and Mr. Fordham’s little sister, all of whom have been eyeing one another curiously. Mrs. Vita frowns, but her boys hurry over with the rest. “Line up in back of José. We’re going to play Two Frogs on a Stick.”

The half-sizers fall in line, neat as piano keys. “Once upon a time, there were two frogs going opposite ways on a branch, and neither would let the other pass. So they decided whoever could make the other laugh first would earn the way past.

“Here are the rules: No touching. No closing your eyes. First to make the other crack a smile is the winner, and winner plays next in line.”

The adults watch us, some half-smiling, some edging closer, and some, like Mrs. Vita, nibbling on fruitcake. I catch Oliver Chance casting me a long gaze as he swirls a jar of milk three paces away. He hooks a thumb into his oiled belt, which, unlike Tom’s, is free of creases.

I kneel in front of José. “Ready?”

José clamps his mouth tight, his chocolatey eyes zeroed in on mine. I should go easy on him. He’s just a puppy, and he’s not even pulling any funny faces. You’ll never topple a kingdom if you don’t draw your sword, kid. The others fall out of line and gather around us.

I wiggle my eyebrows, a trick that used to cripple Jack with laughter. José tucks his mouth down in the middle as if there’s a button placed right under his cleft. The kids are beginning to horse around, flapping like chickens and making noises.

Before I begin to laugh myself, I flare my nostrils, one of my secret weapons. José’s eyebrows smash with the effort of not smiling. Time to seize the crown. Behold: the dead-fish face. I squish up my lips, cross my eyes, and wiggle my ears.

A rash of giggles spreads among the kids, which becomes a full-blown contagion. Even a few adults chuckle. A band of sweat builds around José’s forehead, and he’s grimacing so hard his mouth looks like a beak.

I can’t help myself. My cheeks weaken, and I fall upon my sword.

José crooks his finger at me, every dimple triumphant. “I win!”

I pretend to look dejected, grudgingly pulling myself to my feet. “I concede.” The best thing about this game is that everyone eventually ends up smiling.

Francesca gives me a wink when I look over at her dishing out stew. Another battle starts up, and the children’s laughter pours like warm water over a stuck jar, freeing conversation.

As the fences weaken, I count thirty-four people. Ten people short. Elodie has finally emerged from her tent and draws all eyes to her. She works the circle, a natural hostess with a knack for remembering names, dispensing bits of conversation as easily as a priest passes out communion wafers. Perched on a log across the circle, Headmistress Crouch surveys the crowd. Her face wears the same appraising expression she used in the dining room at St. Clare’s.