Mom gave you five bucks this morning, I saw it, the boogersnot says. Wheres the rest of it, Marrrrr-grit?
Dont call me that, I hate that, the girl says. She has long honey-blond hair which the clerk thinks is absolutely gorgeous. The new clerks own hair is short and kinky, dyed orange on the right and green on the left. She has a pretty good idea she wouldnt have gotten this job without washing the dye out of it if the manager hadnt been absolutely strapped for someone to work eleven-to-seven-her good luck, his bad. He had extracted a promise from her that shed wear a kerchief or a baseball cap over the dye-job, but promises were made to be broken. Now, she sees, Pretty Sister is looking at her hair with some fascination.
Margrit-Margrit-Margrit! the little brother crows with the cheerfully energetic viciousness which only little brothers can muster.
My names really Ellen, the girl says, speaking with the air of one imparting a great confidence. Margarets my middle name. He calls me that because he knows I hate it.
Nice to meet you, Ellen, the clerk says, and begins totting up the girls purchases.
Nice to meet you, Marrrrr-grit ! the boogersnot brother mimics, screwing his face into an expression so strenuously awful that it is funny. His nose is wrinkled, his eyes crossed. Nice to meet you, Margrit the Maggot!
Ignoring him, Ellen says: I love your hair.
Thanks, the new clerk says, smiling. Its not as nice as yours, but itll do. Thats a dollar forty-six.
The girl takes a little plastic change-purse from the pocket of her jeans. Its the kind you squeeze open. Inside are two crumpled dollar bills and a few pennies.
Ask Margrit the Maggot where the other three bucks went! the boogersnot trumpets. Hes a regular little public address system. She used it to buy a maga zine with Eeeeeeethan Hawwwwke on the cover!
Ellen goes on ignoring him, although her cheeks are starting to get a little red. As she hands over the two dollars she says, I havent seen you before, have I? Probably not-I just started in here last Wednesday. They wanted somebody whod work eleven-to-seven and stay over a few hours if the night guy turns up late.
Well, its very nice to meet you. Im Ellie Carver. And this is my little brother, Ralph.
Ralph Carver sticks out his tongue and makes a sound like a wasp caught in a mayonnaise jar. What a polite little animal it is, the young woman with the tu-tone hair thinks.
Im Cynthia Smith, she says, extending her hand over the counter to the girl. Always a Cynthia and never a Cindy. Can you remember that?
The girl nods, smiling. And Im always an Ellie, never a Margaret.
Margrit the Maggot! Ralph cries in crazed six-year-old triumph. He raises his hands in the air and bumps his hips from side to side in the pure poison joy of living. Margrit the Maggot loves Eeeeethan Hawwwwwke!
Ellen gives Cynthia a look much older than her years, an expression of world-weary resignation that says You see what I have to put up with. Cynthia, who had a little brother herself and knows exactly what pretty Ellie has
to put up with, wants to crack up but manages to keep a straight face. And thats good. This girls a prisoner of her time and her age, the same as anyone else, which means that all of this is perfectly serious to her. Ellie hands her brother a can of Pepsi. Well split the candybar outside, she says.
Youre gonna pull me in Buster, Ralph says as they start toward the door, walking into the brilliant oblong of sun that falls through the window like fire. Gonna pull me in Buster all the way back home.
Like hell I am, Ellie says, but as she opens the door, Brother Boogersnot turns and gives Cynthia a smug look which says Wait and see who wins this one. You just wait and see. Then they go out.
Summer yes, but not just summer; we are talking July 15th, the very rooftree of summer, in an Ohio town where most kids go to Vacation Bible School and participate in the Summer Reading Program at the Public Library, and where one kid has just got to have a little red wagon which he has named (for reasons only he will ever know) Buster. Eleven houses and one convenience store simmering in that bright bald midwestern July glare, ninety degrees in the shade, ninety-six in the sun, hot enough that the air shimmers above the pavement as if over an open incinerator.
The block runs north-south, odd-numbered houses on the Los Angeles side of the street, even-numbered ones on the New York side. At the top, on the western corner of Poplar and Bear Street, is 251 Poplar. Brad Josephson is out front, using the hose to water the flowerbeds beside the front path. He is forty-six, with gorgeous chocolate skin and a long, sloping gut. Ellie Carver thinks he looks like Bill Cosby a little bit, anyway. Brad and Belinda Josephson are the only black people on the block, and the block is damned proud to have them. They look just the way people in suburban Ohio like their black people to look, and it makes things just right to see them out and about. Theyre nice folks. Everyone likes the Josephsons.