Free Best Friends by Ann M. Martin

another gallery. But where was Flora’s research leading? What was she going to do with her pile of letters and hours of transcribed tapes?
    Flora didn’t know, but for once she decided not to worry. Her next interview was with Mr. Pennington, and she needed to concentrate on that. On a Monday afternoon, she returned from school, called hello to Aunt Allie, who was clacking away at her computer, grabbed her notebook and tape recorder, and walked across Olivia’s yard to Mr. Pennington’s house.
    She rang the bell and immediately heard frantic barking and the sound of Jacques lumbering into the hallway, skidding on a rug, and banging into the doorjamb.
    The barking continued at a furious level until Mr. Pennington opened the door.
    â€œHello,” he said, smiling. When Jacques saw Flora, he fell silent, then sent his tail flapping back and forth like laundry in the wind.
    â€œHi,” Flora replied. She bent to pat Jacques.
    Mr. Pennington ushered Flora inside and said, “I feel honored to be interviewed. Where shall we sit?”
    â€œAnywhere is okay as long as I’m near an outlet,” Flora answered. “I need to plug in the recorder. Is it okay if I tape the interview?”
    â€œYes, it is. Thank you for asking,” said Mr. Pennington, and Flora had a feeling that Min had already mentioned the recorder to him.
    Flora and Mr. Pennington sat down in the living room, Flora in an armchair and Mr. Pennington on the couch with Jacques beside him. Jacques fell asleep in an instant and was soon snoring loudly.
    Flora had been in Mr. Pennington’s house many times, and the living room was her favorite room of all. It was filled with more books than Flora had ever seen in one place except a library. The room was lined with shelves that extended from the floor all the way up to the ceiling, and every inch was occupied by books. They were tightly packed but orderly, and Mr. Pennington now told Flora that they were organized by a system and that he could locate any of his books in a matter of moments. “Fiction is over there,” he said, pointing, “poetry is there, drama there, and non-fiction is divided into lots of categories. There are biographies, autobiographies and memoirs, history, science. All alphabetized according to the author’s last name. A number of the history books cover the Depression,” he added, “which my family spent in a somewhat unusual manner, compared to other families, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. This is your interview, Flora.”
    Flora made her rehearsed introduction about Lyman Davis, then added, “When I was talking to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, she said that after her father lost his money, he had to let his staff go, and that one of those people was his chauffeur, Rudy Pennington. I said that a Rudy Pennington was my neighbor, and she guessed that you’re Rudy Pennington Junior. Is that right?”
    â€œIt is. In nineteen twenty-nine, my father was employed as the Fitzpatricks’ driver. It wasn’t uncommon for white families, even those who lived in the North, to employ African-American help, only back then those workers were called the colored help.”
    Flora cringed. “Should I put that in my report?” she asked.
    â€œYou don’t like that term, do you?”
    â€œNo.” Flora felt uncomfortable.
    â€œWell, it’s up to you, of course. But it is the truth.”
    Flora changed the subject. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick also said that when your father was let go, he smiled.”
    Mr. Pennington grinned. “I don’t know whether he did or not, but that’s a nice touch for your report. And it certainly could be true, because my father always said that the best day of his life was the day he lost that job.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œBecause it was holding him back. My father was lucky to have a good job, especially with a family to support, and he was grateful for it.