Free All We Had by Annie Weatherwax Page A

Mel.
    He got out of his truck, walked around, and opened the passenger door. When he ducked into the car, I held my breath and watched as he lifted this mythical creature out.
    Svetlana was much younger than Mel. She was small and delicate and looked weightless draped in his arms. With an air of grace and drama, her fuchsia scarf grazed the ground. Mel carried her across the parking lot as if he were her knight and she his Russian ballerina.
    â€œWhatever you do, don’t make eye contact with her, she hates that,” Arlene whispered to us as Mel came through the door.
    Mel gently placed Svetlana in the chair facing the window. He settled her at the table, unfolded her napkin, and spread it on her lap. Then he made his way to the kitchen, put his apron on, rotated his cap backwards, and cooked for her. When he was done, he sat with her and watched her eat. She didn’t look at him and he didn’t speak to her.
    At the end of her meal, he carried her out, then lowered and placed her in the seat of his truck. And before he shut her door, he straightened her scarf and kissed her on the forehead. It was spellbinding to watch them together.
    â€œI had no idea men like him existed, did you?” my mother whispered.
    â€œNo,” I breathed.
    â€œHe’s a good one,” Peter Pam agreed, overhearing us.
    â€œWhy do all the bitchy girls get the nice guys?” Arlene asked, throwing her towel down and walking off. “For once in my life, I’d like to know.”

CHAPTER NINE
    Home
    F at River wasn’t much of a town. It had a hardware store, a gas station, a liquor store, and a bakery that was never open. It was not the sort of place my mother and I would ever live, but six weeks went by and my mother’s tips remained good. Her jaw muscles relaxed and her shoulders dropped. For the first time in a long time she and I were saving money. In early August, when we discovered we had enough to rent our own place, my mother finally agreed to stay.
    The only realtor in town, Frank O’Malley, worked and lived in a small space above the liquor store on Main Street. It was a Saturday when we drove to his office. We went to the back and up a flight of stairs like he told us to. My mother knocked on the door, but his TV was blaring and he couldn’t hear us. She opened the door, stuck her head in, and yelled hello, but nothing happened, so we finally just went in.
    The office was dark. A layer of dirt diffused the light from the skylight. A brownish hue languished in the air. His desk waslarge and oak. Two tattered old leather chairs sat at slight angles facing it.
    My mother yelled hello again and the volume on the TV finally went down. A few minutes later, the wall of heavy curtains behind his desk parted and Frank O’Malley appeared.
    â€œI didn’t hear ya,” he barked with an Irish accent.
    He was a sturdy, graying redheaded man. Wires of hair sprouted off him in all directions, from his eyebrows, his ears, his temples. A fine tangle of red capillaries colonized the tip of his bulbous nose.
    â€œI’ve just the place for ya,” he said when we explained what we were looking for. “It’d suit ya right down to the ground. And I’d be obliged if ya took it off my hands.”
    He started going on about the owners and looking for the keys. The house, he explained, ducking behind his desk, checking all the drawers, was owned by the children of the family who originally owned it. Never a good thing, he stood up red-faced and told us. One of the siblings, he said, opening and closing drawers again, would call him and say they were going to sell it, then another would call and tell him, no they weren’t. And it went on like that until he’d spoken to nearly all eight of them. As a result the house had been vacant for years. But our timing, he told us, was perfect. The family had taken a final vote, and for once a majority decided to keep it. Just last week,