Free The Facts and Fictions of Minna Pratt by Patricia MacLachlan

from the depths of the car.
    â€œAre you all right?” calls Willie.
    â€œCertainly,” says Twig. She frowns. “Though I think I have torn a fender.”
    â€œThis is Twig,” says Lucas, introducing them. “Twig lives at my house.”
    â€œI am the Ellerbys’ housekeeper,” says Twig.
    â€œAnd . . . ?” says Willie.
    Twig cocks her head to one side.
    â€œSurely there’s more,” says Willie. He grins at her suddenly. “I’m William Gray.” He extends his hand. “Willie.”
    Twig smiles.
    â€œYes,” she says, taking his hand. “There is more. I’m housekeeping to earn money to finish school. My family lives in Vermont, and I’m thinking about art school.”
    Lucas looks at Minna.
    â€œI never knew that,” he says softly.
    Minna nods.
    After a moment Willie drops Twig’s hand to pull Dog from the trash basket, where he has found half a cupcake. Twig turns to Lucas.
    â€œWhy don’t you put the instruments in the car. Yourselves in the front. I’ll be there in a moment.”
    She turns back to Willie.
    â€œMy family has a farm; they raise sheep for wool, you know.”
    â€œI didn’t know she came from Vermont,” grumbles Lucas as they put the cello on the floor of the car, the viola on the seat.
    â€œI didn’t know about the sheep, either,” he mutters as they climb into the front seat and watch through the window. “Or art school!”
    â€œMy mother would have known,” Minna says suddenly. She turns to look at Lucas. “She asks questions. My mother does.”
    Lucas sighs.
    â€œMine doesn’t,” he says so sadly that Minna reaches over to take his hand.
    Outside Twig leans against the hood of the car. Willie smiles and brushes hair off his forehead. Dog watches them.
    â€œI wonder where Willie lives now,” says Minna. “He talked about his mother once. I wonder where she lives.”
    Beside her Lucas shakes his head. They stare out the window for a long time. Finally, Willie goes back to his Bach, lifting his violin good-bye to them. Twig climbs in the car.
    â€œNice man,” says Twig. “Lives on Fourteenth Street. Has six sisters. His mama lives on a farm in Iowa.”
    Lucas nudges Minna and she grins as Willie begins to play, and suddenly the peace is over. Twig is a terrible driver, speeding up behind cars and stopping so that Lucas and Minna are rocked back and forth. Twig slams the car into gear, reminding Minna of her mother slapping the eraser cartridge into her typewriter.
    â€œRoad toad!” yells Twig. “Move it or park it!”
    She weaves in and out of traffic and Minna glances quickly at Lucas. His eyes are closed. Minna closes her eyes and clenches her hands in her lap, but it doesn’t help. She pictures Twig housecleaning with the same fury, shoving aside tables and chairs, the vacuum cleaner like a sword cutting swatches through the furniture and mounds of dirt. Death to dust balls! Down with detritus! A new word, detritus, that Orson has taught them. It refers to all the clutter in his violin case: the papers and cookie crumbs, rubber bands, half-eaten apples, and the old T-shirt that he uses to cover his instrument.
    It would take Twig about forty-seven minutes, thinks Minna, to put her mother’s house in order, sucking up dust balls and crumpled pages that surround her mother’s desk like mushrooms growing randomly on a lawn. A vision of gleaming pots and pans and furniture smelling of lemons makes Minna open her eyes again. They’ve nearly reached her street.
    â€œTurn left here,” says Minna quickly, and Twig wheels left through a yellow light. The viola case falls off the backseat and hits the floor with a thump.
    â€œOn the right there,” says Minna. “The front porch with the green trash bags. . . .”
    Twig nods and whips around a car that is double parked and