Counting on Grace: Chapters 11–21

With all the boasting Mamère's done about us two girls, she can see the women smiling to themselves when Delia's in trouble.

Henry could nod off in the middle of the noisy weaving room if he had to. Most nights Delia makes him sleep between us so I don't wake her with my thrashing.

At the dinner break, I sit by myself, hunched over my knees.

I see Arthur heading over to my corner, but I give him a stare that makes him veer away.

Last thing I need is that woman standing up for me.
I cringe waiting for Mamère's answer.

I peek through my fingers to see them glaring at each other, trembling like two dogs ready to fight. Mrs. Trottier backs away first and my mother smiles in a way that says, I won. She always wins her spats with people.

I'm so tired that my voice slurs around and I expect nobody is really listening in the commotion.

Pépé's fingers move the beads, but he mumbles so low in his beard that we cannot tell whether he is praying or prattling nonsense again.

But I remember seeing the lion curled up on his side, staring through the bars of his cage as it bumped along the main street of the town behind a wagon. His fur was matted and in some places, the bare skin showed through in patches.

I'm dizzy myself, especially when I lift my head too quickly from rooting around in the ground.

I slump into the seat, everything aching from the short trip to the garden and back.

I call Pépé's name, but my voice is feeble. It don't even stop the birds from their singing.

I lean over and spit through a crack in the floor. The glob is thick and flecked with lint.

You can hear muffled sounds through the floorboards from our kitchen, which is directly above.

The whole house has to do their washing in the two big laundry sinks so Madame Boucher assigns each tenant a washing time.

If another family is using the big sinks, she just hunkers down in the corner, working out of the bucket.

It surprises me that he's even noticed with all the time he spends studying the world outside the grimy windows.

Whenever the train whistle blows, Arthur manages to get himself over to the window.

He props Mr. Graflex up on top of a spindly-looking set of legs splayed out in three directions like a dog trying to stop itself on a hill.

When I look up, a handle's popped up out of the top of Mr. Graflex and Mr. Hine is peering down inside like he's looking for something.

The tube sticking out has a big old eye at the end of it and that's sliding out toward me and then moving away again. I stick out my tongue at it and when he looks up again, he's chuckling to himself. So he must have seen me, even though he was staring down into Mr. Graflex's innards.

I like them all squabbling over me for that moment, but I know I can't wait no longer so I open my eyes.

But they do keep horsing around and falling over one another and shifting places. Their hats are all skewed funny.

You'll see me pull a black shade out of the side of the camera. That's the dark slide. At that moment, the negative is ready to be exposed. Once I squeeze the little black bulb with my right hand, you'll see me push that shade back in again.

Arthur staggers around when he first tries to lift the leather pouch.

“You did come ‘cause of the letter, didn't you?” Arthur asks.
“Did you write it?”
He looks shifty. “I wrote the words down.”

I hope Mr. Hine don't say nothing more to set her off. She can be touchy at the end of a long day like this, especially when our hank clock numbers are way down.

Then he shuts the door against the last bit of light and turns up the kerosene lantern he's hung from the clothing line.

A black-skinned girl with white hair is staring out at me from her deep dark eyeholes. It looks like that developing of his conjured up a ghost.

And now I'm looking closer I can make out Delia's old shirt with the little white flowers that got passed down to me and the little checks in my gingham smock.