Ascension/Chapter One

I wake to the sound of Czes coughing and sit up in bed. I frown at him in the bed across from mine, his small body shudders from the force of the coughs. He’s been coughing a lot lately, he might be sick; I hope it’s just that usual “change of season cold” that he gets around the start of autumn and beginning of winter. A few moments pass and the coughing stops, his head whips around and he looks at me, tears in his eyes. I pull the quilt off of me and climb out of bed. Walking over to him I use the back of my hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks and give him a small smile. I note, like I always do, that he is too pale. It’d be nice if the sun comes out a few more times before fall ends and he gets some color, granted I could use some too. I step back so he can climb out of bed and then walk over to the small dresser in the far left hand corner of the room.

Our room is big enough for us to share, though it is lightly furnished. There’s one dresser, a wall closet we don’t use, a rectangular full-length mirror, our beds, a rug, and the curtains hanging on the two windows. The dresser has three drawers in it, my clothes are in the top one and Czes’s are in the middle, and the last draw holds two glass jars containing the money we make from making and selling dolls and other things. Right now both jars combined contain a total of two hundred forty-six Patton notes and eighty-three cents. From the top drawer I pull out an old, faded green dress and a pair of holey stockings to go beneath it. Then I grab a pull-on-shirt and overalls from Czes’s drawer and pass them to him. We change our close, wash our hands and faces’ using cold water in the bathroom and brush our teeth with the last of the toothpaste.

“Remind me to buy more when we go into town,” I tell Czes, he nods.

I send him downstairs to the kitchen while I go down the hall and knock on Mr. Meyers’ door. Mr. Meyers is an elderly man that has been renting a bedroom here for the past three years. He pays two hundred fifty Patton notes a month as rent, including food and fuel costs which sums it up to three hundred twenty-five. This money is supposed to be given to Dad but he works a lot so I take it and leave it in Dad’s safe. I know the combination. Mr. Meyers is very tall, taller than Dad and really strong. Sometimes I wonder if he was a slave but he couldn’t have been one because he’s got a lot of money. Probably more than I’ll ever see in my entire life. After knocking three times Mr. Meyers’s booming voice answers.

“Come in,” he says.

I walk in and survey the room. It really only has a bed, a dresser bigger than the one in Czes and mine’s room, a mirror on the wall, and a chair. Mr. Meyers is staring out the window over his bed.

“Good morning, Mr. Meyers,” I say.

He turns, his thick white hair falling into his eyes. “Good morning Quinn, has Lawrence left yet?”

“No, Sir, I am about to go wake him up.”

“Very well, I’ll be down in a minute then.”

I nod and shut the door. I run up the hall to the last door and into Dad’s room, he came home late last night from work and said his hours were changed so he can go in at eight-thirty now instead of at seven. That means he can have breakfast with us now but not dinner. I pull the covers off him and he curls up. “Dad, it’s time to wake up, you don’t want to be late for work do you?” According to his clock it is 6:12, meaning I have twenty minutes to make breakfast for the four of us and Dad has thirteen minutes to eat it with a half hour to spare to spend some time with us. I might like this change in schedule after all. He still hasn’t woken up yet so I shake him.

“Dad, get up!”

He blinks, “Can’t you let me sleep until breakfast is done,” he asks, groggily.

“Of course not. I can’t reach the high shelves by myself and it’s kind of hard to spend time with you when you’re sleeping.”

“You’re so much like your mother.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Dad. You have ten minutes to be dressed and ready for breakfast.”

“Just like your mother,” I hear him mumble as I walk to the open door.

Leaving his room, I stop in front of the crooked picture of Mum and straighten it. Her long dark brown hair spilling onto her pink shirt, she’s smiling. I really miss that smile. Mum died two years ago, when I was nine and Czes was four. That was the last picture we took of her before she got sick. It makes me happy to hear that I’m just like her; she was so nice and pretty. But I guess every girl thinks that about their mother, probably. I go downstairs, pull my apron over my head and tie the back strings. Czes sits at the table beside Mr. Meyers, picking through our fruit bowl. Mr. Meyers asks Czes to go and buy the newspaper for him while I check our ice box to see what we have. Half a bottle of milk, two tomatoes, a block of cheese and six eggs in the blue bowl I keep them in.

“While you’re at it,” I tell Czes, “could you pick up a loaf of bread from the baker’s?”

“Okay,” he says, pulling on his jacket and cap.

I lift the lid off the red cookie jar and pull out a five Patton note from our food money.

“Don’t worry about it, Quinn,” says Mr. Meyers. “He can use the change from my newspaper. Do you think you can carry a few of those cinnamon buns?”

“You don’t have to do that Mr. Meyers,” I say hurriedly.

He waves my protest off. “It’s fine, now run along, Czesław, hurry.”

So my little brother obeys and I get started on breakfast. I would make omelets but I don’t want to use up the last of the milk. So instead, I fry the eggs sunny-side-up and boil some tea. I take out four plates and four teacups. Most of our dishes are wooden, but the tea set is pewter, it was a gift Mom received from her boss before Czes was born. By the time I am done cooking Dad is downstairs and Czes has returned. I cut four slices of bread, one for each of us and sit down. Mr. Meyers says grace.

“Dear, God above, thank you for this wonderful food Quinn has prepared. May good fortune shine upon the Majewski family, amen.”

“Amen,” we chime and then eat.

After breakfast Dad helps me wash the dishes and Mr. Meyers practices reading Czes’s with the newspaper. When Mom died I had to quit school and stay home with Czes because Dad had to take another job, I started making dolls to help out and Czes helps too. We’re doing pretty well now but I still haven’t gone back to school. However, Mr. Meyers seems well learned and has been very willing to teach us. He even gave me one of his books for my last birthday. When the dishes are done we all sit down in the living room and Mr. Meyers has me read the paper aloud. I was always good at reading and he says I’ve improved. I read until it is time for Dad to leave for work. He works at one of the factories in town, making parts for the machinery that provides the Peers with electricity and transportation throughout the city. Although people like me can only see cars in Chateau District for the Peers and Bourgeois; but not here, not in Plebeian.In Plebeian, the only machinery you see is the parts in your house (if you have a home) the machines in the factories (if you’re lucky enough to work in one) and Old Iron Horse, the train. It’s the only one that comes to this district, one stop at the very edge of each town. Here, in Rubbleton, it comes every morning at 7:40, noon, and every evening at nine; we are its last stop. It’s a fast train at least, Dad was never late for his old job and I don’t be leave he’ll ever be late now.

Once Dad is out the door Czes and I get to work on the dolls, I taught him to sew like Mom taught me. We have a drawer full of supplies but I’ve always wanted a professional sewing kit, enough cloth to make a dress or curtains with. If only I could. Sighing, I sew black buttons on a teddy bear’s face as eyes. We make teddy bears with brown fur and sometimes clothes, dolls with different color eyes and yarn as hair, and bunny rabbits with cotton ball tails. The bunnies come in three colors, brown, white, and black. Each bunny is five Patton notes; each doll is five as well, while each bear is six Patton notes. One of each takes at least, two and a half hours to make. You’d think with Mr. Meyers helping work would go faster, but it doesn’t. For one thing Mr. Meyers can’t sew and another, he’s only passing things to us. Despite the slow progress, we manage to finish making all forty-eight teddy bears, twenty-nine rag dolls, and seventeen plush rabbits. Granted, we did start two weeks ago. We pack all the dolls into the boxes and I sigh in relief.

“Sure glad we made the deadline,” I say to them both and then to Mr. Meyers I ask, “Now for delivery, do you think Arnie would help me carry all of these again?”

“I think he will,” says Mr. Meyers. “After all, he always does.”

As I am about to reply there is a knock at the door, I go and answer it. Standing on our doorstep is our neighbor, Arnold Truss. Beneath his cap and ginger hair he grins up at me, hazel eyes gleaming. You wouldn’t believe Arnold and I are the same age, heck, you wouldn’t believe I’m eleven. We are malnourished, but I’m still taller than Arnie. Maybe it’s because Dad is so tall.

“Need any ‘elp today, Quinn,” he asks.

I smile, “How is it, dear Arnold, that you know my schedule so well?”

He shrugs, grinning. “You tell me, you’re the smart one.”

“I’m a dropout.”

“Yeah, but you went to school, I didn’t.”

“Good point, come on in and grab a box.”

Arnie has a rusty, dented up old wagon with chipping red paint. Sometimes he pulls it around town and collects stuff, tossing whatever interests him in the wagon. We load the boxes into them. I shrug on my jacket and am about to leave when Mr. Meyers stops me.

“I think you ought to go grocery shopping on the way back, Quinn.” He hands me a roll of Patton notes, winking. “I’m in the mood for some chicken for dinner; will you get it for me?”

“Sure thing Mr. Meyers, you do have a right to a choice.”

“Thank you, hurry now. You don’t want to be late.”

“Right,” I say stuffing the money in my jacket pocket before running outside.

Arnie and I hurry up the street, wagon in tow, we head for West Gate. It is an hour’s walk from my home to the West Gate, fifty minutes by bike. Neither Arnie nor I own a bike. As we walk down our street people we know wave at us and we wave back but when the street has passed I turn my attention straight ahead. We pass most of the time in silence because I’m going over the route and the payments due. Honestly, sometimes I find it hard to look around my hometown, let alone the street I live on. I mean my neighborhood ain’t so bad but—it’s sad here; everywhere you go you’ll see someone homeless and asleep on the street. It’s almost winter. I hate to think of the number of people who’re going to die, whether from cold or hunger. It is not bad here, just depressing, just another harsh reality. More than half the people I see have already given up, the rest are content with their lives. Those who are content have a place to stay; those who have given up are slumped against a building at the corner, waiting for death. Despite all this, I still think of this place as home, I’d really like to help it. Yet this thought only makes me sadder, because the way I am now I am powerless.

Shutting my eyes, I shake my head clear of doubtful thoughts and try to think about work. Focus on something you can help, Quinn, something you understand. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and keep my eyes on the ground in front of me. “Work,” I think. Every customer pays a deposit and almost all of them know me by a friend. I have customers scattered around neighborhoods in West End, the closest Bourgeois town to Rubbleton. I sometimes go grocery shopping there. As we near the gate I stop going over the route when Arnie starts talking. He hates to leave Rubbleton, so much so that I don’t know why he comes with me on deliveries. It helps him though, to talk when we go through the brick archway separating Rubbleton from West End.

“Can I come over to yer ‘ouse for dinner today,” he asks.

Arnie has three older brothers, three older sisters, four younger brothers, and two younger sisters. His place is cramped, but they have a nice enough house, as nice as one can get in Plebian. He always comes over for dinner nowadays; they never seem to notice he’s gone.

“Arnie, I’ve told you this before, you don’t have to ask,” I say. “You come over every night.”

“I know, but it’d be impolite not to ask.”

“Whatever; how’s your mum?”

“Mum, she’s fine, she’s going back to work tomorrow since her leg is all better now. Mary-Ellen is going with her, Mr. Fairfield, Mum’s boss’s neighbor, gave her a job at his shop stocking shelves and doing in-van-tory,” he stumbles over the word.

“That’s good, how old is she now anyways?”

“Fifteen, she’s getting old.”

“We’re getting old; let’s hope we make it to fifteen. By the way, what do you want to do when you get older?”

He thinks about it. “Like next year?”

“No, when we become adults.”

He shrugs, “Work at a factory, if I am lucky.”

“No, no, I mean what do you want to do, not what you get to do?”

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Ah, forget it.”

“Al’ight,” he says, unperturbed. “Can we play that game again?”

“Sure,” I look around the streets for eye catching signs and find one. “There,” I point at a red awning for a fruit store. “Read the sign.”

“Um,” he peers at it. “Are-,” he sounds out. “Bucks, Arbuck’s Fruits an’ Pro-duce.”

He looks at me and I nod. “Correct.”

“Cool.”

The game we are playing is one I invented to help teach Czes how to read, Arnie just picked it up. It’s a good pass time and it helps us ignore the stares from the middle class citizens, not all of them are disgusted and fearful. Most people believe that all of us Plebeians are disease ridden thieves, I know, I asked. No one from Rubbleton has ever stolen anything, what’s the point of stealing if you’ve already given up hope. It’s not like they’ll get a home in jail, as rumors have it the guards are abusive and they starve you. Besides, there is nothing worth stealing in Rubbleton and unless you work there, not many of us travel from Plebian to Bourgeois. The way I see it though, there are the people who think they are better than us and steer clear of us for fear they will catch something and the people who pity us. I do business with the latter, those who honestly don’t care who you are or where you are from. I don’t let it bother me, but it’s good to have a distraction from the reality of my world.

“Alright, how about there,” I point to a shop window with the name painted in gold lettering on it. It’s a fabric shop; oh it’d be heaven to go in there.

“Hmm, Sophia’s Cloths, Zippers, an’ Buttons,” he reads. “For all yer Tailor’in needs.”

“Nice one, let’s find something harder.”

He laughs and we continue the game. We keep playing until we reach the first stop. 342 Hammerhead Rd. I run up the three steps and ring the doorbell, holding Little Sally’s redheaded rag doll dressed in green and her brother, David’s, blue eyed, brown bunny. Czes and I also fix toys, whether we were the ones to make them or not. We’re cheaper than the professional toy makers. Maybe one day I’ll live in a house in Bourgeois, a nice one with black window panes and teal shutters. I’ll paint the bricks cream and have more than one color curtains. Maybe I’ll make them myself. After a moment the door opens and I smile up at Mrs. Abbot. She’s a plump woman; today she is wearing a blue dress and answers the door holding both her purse and a faded, tulip yellow blouse with pearl buttons.

“Good morning Mrs. Abbot,” I say.

“Morning Quinn,” she says, glancing behind me. “And Arnold, it looks like you have a full load today. How much do I owe you?”

“Ten Patton notes,” I say handing her the dolls. She hands me the money and takes the two dolls.

She glances at the blouse, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Mrs. Abbot, what is it?”

“Toss this for me; I can’t stand to look at it now. Such a cruel reminder that blouse is.”

“Okay,” I take the blouse and nod. “Pleasure doing business with you, if the dolls need any more repairs or if Sally wants any accessories, you know how to contact me.”

She chuckles, “Yes, have a nice day Quinn.”

“Thank you,” I say dashing down the steps.

Tossing the blouse in Arnie’s wagon we head down the road to the next customer, Ms. Reed, she runs an orphanage and requested ten rabbits, thirteen dolls, and fifteen teddy bears. The total cost, two-hundred five Patton notes, cash only. I have no way of taking credit. Ms. Reed’s orphanage is the only orphanage I know of, however it only takes orphans from Bourgeois district and is funded by the town. I went to school with some of her kids. After Reed is Mr. Doan, he owns a toy shop actually and put in an order for thirty bears and eight dolls. It’s the first time I’ve ever done business with this man, he is bald and has a moustache and doesn’t make his own toys. His shop is pretty expensive. Two hundred twenty-two Patton notes pass from his hands to mine and I thank him for his patronage. Afterwards Arnie and I sell the last three bears to a widowed man named Patrick Stone with three four-year-old sons, the last seven rabbits to a woman named Jerusha Maury as presents for her nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays, and the last seven dolls to a mother of four girls. In total I have made… 435+88 equals…?

“Five hundred twenty-three,” says Arnie before I can figure it out.

I double check and nod. “You know, for someone who has never gone to school, you sure are good at math.”

He grins, “Why thank you. Now what do we have to do?”

“Grocery shopping, come on.”

I’ll buy the chicken last, so it won’t spoil while I’m doing the rest of the shopping. I need to get toothpaste, fabric, onions, radish, carrots, milk, eggs, and maybe some other things. When we get to a grocer’s, Arnie waits outside with his wagon since he can’t take it inside and I go in. By the entrance I grab a circular and a red shopping basket. There is a big difference between shopping districts here and in Plebian, it’s more like a bazaar in Plebian and you have to go all the way to the other side of town, the “good side” where farmers set up stalls and you have to bring your own basket. There are a lot of canned goods on sale. Mom told me that if it’s not a necessity then I shouldn’t buy it unless it’s on sale. Bargains are made to help you save money. I pick up a dozen eggs; they’re in a carton with a price sticker that reads ₽1. 29. At the bazaar one egg is five cents. I guess no one here haggles for a lower price, too bad; it’s really fun to watch. I put the eggs in my basket and move on.Twenty minutes later, I have three cans of baked beans, two cans of soup, a bag of carrots, and the eggs. I’ll buy the other stuff at the stalls on the way or at the bazaar. They bag everything in paper bags, I end up carrying two bags outside to Arnie and we put them in the boxes in his wagon.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got everything,” Arnie says, peeking in my bags.

“I know, let’s keep going.”

One can buy toothpaste and soap at the drugstore along with toilet paper and hair products. I don’t think it was always like that, and maybe it’s different in other towns. I wouldn’t know, there are so many places I haven’t been. We stop off at the drugstore, a fruit market (but don’t buy anything) and then lastly the butcher’s. I cringe at the sight of all those poor dead animals hanging in the windows. I can cook them just fine; I just don’t like to look at them all bloody. I almost passed out once when Mom took me to the bazaar and a guy chopped off this chicken’s head, and this woman bought it. The thought makes me shiver. Most of my neighbors don’t even eat meat a lot; it’s not part of our daily menu. In a way, I am lucky, does not mean I have to like it. So, taking a deep breath, I walk in the store. A big bear-like man with browner skin like Arnie’s and a thick moustache is at the counter.

“Can I help you,” he asks, with an accent I can’t place.

“Yes, I need a chicken,” I say.

“Would you like it fresh or with preservatives?”

“Um, fresh,” I say, unsure.

“What size?”

“A medium sized one?”

He frowns, “Where’s your mother kid?”

“Dead,” I say flatly. “I’m grocery shopping for a tenant.”

He gulps, and scratches his head. “Sorry for your loss,” he says and turns to go in the back room.

I shut my eyes as I hear the loud, terrified clucking coming from the back room and try and cover my ears. I’m too late though, and I hear the clucking stop with a loud snap. Something sharp and heavy swings down, CHOP! I realize that poor bird is dead. I gulp, thinking I won’t be able to eat tonight.

The butcher comes back out thirty minutes later and says, “Since the bird weighed three pounds the price is ₽8.07. Would you like anything else?”

“No,” I say pulling the wad of notes Mr. Meyers gave me from my pocket. “That will be all, thank you.” I hand him a ten and he wraps the now dead, blood and feather free bird, in wax paper and bags it. I take the bag and stare down at it. “Was this a hen?”

“Yes, my favorite, her name was Catherine,” he says with a grin.

I gulp and hurry out the store, the man calls after me to have a nice day.

“I don’t ever want to eat meat again,” I say to Arnie as I gently place the late hen in the second empty box.

“Well you ‘ave too, you needs yer protein, remember,” he says.

I tell him after we drop this set of groceries off at my house we’ll go to the bazaar. It’s been a few weeks since either of us has been there. It’s the liveliest place in the Plebian District. There, there is life, there is excitement and noise, and no one has given up. I can’t wait, I’m so excited I try and hurry home, but slow down when I consider that Arnie’s wagon might be heavy. We walk side by side, wagon in tow and talk. We just talk; it’s nice to just talk. We talk about how are siblings are doing, though he has more to say on that topic than I do, we talk about our parents and find we don’t know them that well (they do work most of the day), and lastly we talk about ourselves until at last we have passed through West Gate and are comfortable enough in our own skin and clothes to stay silent.

Here, and for us, silence can say a lot, it can say she is at peace, that she is home. We make it to my place unscathed, now that it is late morning the other children have the energy to play. Some are playing hopscotch, jumping rope, or playing tag, others are up on their rooftops, if they are flat enough, playing croquet or catch or just jumping across from home to home. I realize I haven’t done that since Mum died, I haven’t played like a child. I frown and then hurry inside to put the groceries away. Perishables in the ice box along with the chicken and the vegetables that aren’t canned and then put the canned goods in the pantry on the two middle shelves. I leave Arnie in the kitchen for a bit to run to all the bathrooms on the second floor to stock them with toilet paper, soap, and toothpaste. Czes startles awake when I enter our room; he gives me a weak smile.

“I’m going to the bazaar,” I say walking into the bathroom. “Want to come?”

“Okay, should we invite Mr. Meyers?” He rubs his eyes and climbs out of the bed.

I think about it. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

We find Mr. Meyers in his room writing in a leather-bound book, he doesn’t notice us at first; we call his name twice before he starts and turns on us.

“Oh,” he chuckles. “I’m sorry; I was off in my own world.” He slides the book in between the others on the windowsill away from his bed. “What were you asking me again?”

“Would you like to come to the bazaar with us,” I repeat.

“Ah, yes, that would be lovely.”

Mr. Meyers and Czes dawn their jackets and sneakers and Arnie runs next door to ask his eldest sister if they need anything from the bazaar before we go. He comes back with a list, Clara Truss went to school; most of his older siblings did. It’s a long walk to the bazaar, although, halfway there a farmer on his way there gives us a ride. We turn over Arnie’s wagon and put it on one of the bales of hay in the carriage. The farmer snaps the reigns and his horses trod on.

“Machines are great and all but nothing beats the steady rhythm of a horse’s hooves thumping against the dirt,” says Mr. Meyers.

“I like cars,” says Arnie.

“They’re a lot fancier in Chateau.”

“You’ve been there Mr. Meyers,” asks Czes.

Mr. Meyers nods, “I used to work there. I retired and moved here.”

“Why here,” asks Arnie, more curious than surprised. This is a great place to him.

“Because it’s peaceful,” Mr. Meyers says thoughtfully. “Because it’s real.”

The bazaar is as lively as ever. Arnie splits off from us when we get there, promising to meet us where we entered at Viridian Boulevard. We walk past carpet sellers and lantern sellers though Mr. Meyers stops to buy a lamp, he says we should have one in our room. They follow me around in the food section of the bazaar I look for radishes while Czes and Mr. Meyers buy fruit. When they have made my basket too heavy I give it to Mr. Meyers and tell them to look specifically for radishes.

“Try not to get tricked into paying too much this time,” I warn. “And get some spices, Czes knows the ones.”

“Okay, Quinn,” they chime, sounding like two forlorn kids who have just been scolded.

“Don’t get lost,” I say, before walking off in the direction of the cloth sellers.

You don’t see silks and cashmeres much in this bazaar; you’d get more for it in a place like Sophia’s. Yet there is a stall with a woman claiming to sell those kinds of cloth, I ignore her, wary of being tricked. I buy another basket and listen for the fabric sellers screaming out their cheapest prices. I go back and forth between stalls buying yarns, ribbons, cotton, fleece, and buttons. When I feel satisfied with what I have the woman claiming to have the best fabrics in the world for the cheapest prices calls out to me. I try and ignore her, pretend like I do not hear her, but she persists. So, sighing, I walk slowly over to her stall.

The woman has light gray hair that spills onto her shoulders and out of her shawl, her nutmeg skin is wrinkly. She smiles, showing a full set of yellow teeth.

“Have you ever had silk, or furs, real furs in your house before, young lady,” she asks me, her voice like autumn leaves.

I shake my head, “No, but I’ve never had fake furs or silk either.”

“I bet you’ve had polyester,” she says, jabbing her index finger at me.

I bite my lip, she guessed it.

She cackles. “Well buy from my stall and you’ll feel like a professional seamstress, they wear these things in Bourgeois and Chateau.”

I think, still wary but dubious as well. “Really?” I can’t tell cloths by sight like Mom could, how she did, I’ll never know.

“Yes, really. Here,” she bends down and must dig around. When she comes back up she holds out a white, fuzzy blanket. “This would make a great winter blanket.”

“I try not to use light colors in my home, or wear them,” I confess.

She glances down at it, “Good point, ginger than?”

I shake my head, “I’m not looking for fur.”

She huffs and puts the fur back wherever she got it from and comes back out with a new cloth. “Okay, how about this, wool. I don’t have the fabric in any other color but you can buy the yarns. I have midnight blue, navy, olive green, sage green, rogue, carmine, eggplant, and Tyrian purple,” she says pointing to all her rolls of yarn in front of her. “It’s cheap, I swear.”

“Um,” I say, still unsure. “Alright, I’ll take three yards of that,” I point to the wool she has in her hands. “And the carmine.”

“Good choice,” she cuts the wool and folds it for me. I put that and the roll of yarn in my basket. “That will be seven Patton notes and eighty-three brack,” she holds her hand out.

“Do you have change?”

“How much do you need?”

“Just seventeen brack,” I say handing her seven Patton notes and digging through my pockets for the change. I manage to find change and give it to her, feeling like Aladdin buying a genie’s lamp. She hands me my change and at last I am free.

Before I can be stopped again I hurry away from that area and head towards the direction I sent Czes and Mr. Meyers. I find Czes buying fruit from a thin man with tanned skin and shrewd eyes. I tap Czes, startling him and check his basket to see if he got everything. “Perfect,” I say and hand it back to him. “Now where is Mr. Meyers?” He shrugs and pays the fruit seller for his six pears and three peaches. I take my brother’s hand and we walk around looking for our elderly tenant. We look around and around to no avail, we even check by a paper merchant’s stall, and a book seller’s. He isn’t by either. The only person we do find though is Arnie pulling his wagon along.

“Well maybe he’s waiting for us at the meeting place,” Arnie suggests.

“Maybe,” I glance at his wagon. Even in my worry I am still going over our food supply. Arnie has a sack of flour in his wagon, a burlap bag overflowing with potatoes and another with corn. “Do you think you can carry one more thing,” I ask.

He looks down in his wagon and shrugs, “I guess, what is it?”

“A bag of rice,” I say looking around for the stall I passed.

“Okay, let’s go get that and then head home,” Arnie says walking in the direction Czes and I had just come from. “It’s this way,” he says as we follow him.

I buy a 20lb bag of brown rice, brown rice is cheaper and to me it tastes better. Arnie grabs the bag as I reach for it and lifts it; he then dumps it in his wagon assuring me that it was heavy for him too. I thank him and he waves my thanks away asking instead if I can make rice for dinner too. With the items in his wagon I thought for sure he’d change his mind and have dinner at his own home tonight, but I guess I was wrong. Instead of voicing this I tell him okay and we head off towards Viridian Boulevard. Arnie is right as it turns out; Mr. Meyers is patiently waiting for us at the meeting place. He gives us a wide smile and tells us he’s got some new reading material for us and writing paper and then that he’s so happy to be able to teach children again. If it didn’t make me feel so nosy, I would ask him if he has children and grandchildren. But if he did, would he really be staying with us. No, no, I won’t be nosy.