In spring, when Suzanne is back at school (“no more strange feelings, not for a long time”), something happens in the town. Mr. Laturelle’s son, Frank, who has been away so long that Suzanne doesn’t remember him, returns. But not alone. No. He arrives with shoulder-length, matted hair, a beard and a girlfriend named Holly.
Holly is a hippie. That’s what Mrs. Craig at the library said. Holly has long, straight hair with a braid at either side of her face. She wears long cotton dresses with flowers and squiggles on them and sometimes a coat that is shorter than the dress or, when it is warmer, a shawl almost the same as Mrs. Reidel’s. Her glasses, too, are like Mrs. Reidel’s, round metal frames that sit on her nose or the top of her head.
Suzanne has seen her precisely three times so far, but Holly has fascinated her each time. The first time, it was still snowy out, and Holly was wearing old boots and the too-short coat. She was coming out of the IGA, and Suzanne was going in with her parents. Her mother moved aside completely to let Holly pass. As she did, the hippie girl looked right at Suzanne and said, “Can’t wait till we can wear sandals, eh?”
Which seemed like such a sensible thing to say that Suzanne replied, “Yeah, and shorts, too,” before feeling her arm yanked.
Suzanne has seen her on two other occasions, and the woman always seems to notice her.
And now Suzanne hears that Holly and Frank are going to have a baby. A baby! She didn’t even know they were married. And now it is Mrs. Craig’s voice that is rising in the library as she goes on about hell and handbaskets. She almost thumps the book on Suzanne’s missing finger.
“Oh . . . sorry, Little Sue. You go home now. It’s not safe for kids to be out on the street any more.”
Suzanne hasn’t seen Holly for a while. Frank is working in his father’s store, his hair in a ponytail and his beard shorter and less scraggly. She could ask Frank. The shop is on her way home, so it is no trouble to stamp her rainboots on the mat outside and open the door into this world of penny candy, fly-paper and sewing machine oil.
Frank is bringing a box out from the back of the store. He plops it down on the counter and brushes a wisp of wayward hair from his eyes. “Good afternoon, Ma’am. What can I do for you?”
She smiles. She isn’t Ma’am. Her mother is Ma’am.
“I have a fine collection of penny candy here, for the most discerning of buyers. Feast your eyes on the mountain of jujubes, and over there, the world’s largest jar of jellybeans. Really. It’s been documented. Or perhaps your taste runs to the more exotic?” He leaps over the counter like an excited rodent.
“Anise-seed balls. Anise from the far reaches of the earth, specially grown and harvested. Balls from the centre of the earth, harnessed at great peril by intrepid ball-collectors.”
She is staring at Frank.
He stops. “Okay, so what is it? I’m trying to keep from going crazy here.”
“How could you go crazy in here. There’s so much!”
He casts his glance around and lets it rest on the floor mops in the corner.
“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “You’re right.”
“How is Holly? That’s why I came.”
Frank comes around from the counter and crouches beside her.
“Do you know something? You’re the first person who’s asked. The very first. My lady is fine, if you can call throwing up in the toilet all morning fine.”
“Throwing up.”
“It’s a having-baby thing. She’s okay, just a little tired. She’s resting more these days.”
“Because I haven’t seen her.”
“Yeah. Like I say. How do you know Holly?”
“We . . . uh . . . we . . . talk a little.”
“Well, I’d be happy to tell her you asked. What’s your name?”
“Oh, she doesn’t know . . . it’s Suzanne. Sue. Fire Engine Sue.” She pops her mouth shut. Why has that come out?
Frank steps back to look at her. “You’re Fire Engine Sue? I’ve been wanting to meet you. I didn’t realize you were so young. You’re the girl who predicted the broken leg outside the store.”
Suzanne closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. Your father . . . it’s just that . . . I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“I’ve heard other things as well. I’m very happy to know you, Suzanne. And I’m sure my lady will be pleased you asked after her. Maybe you can come around and visit her sometime.”
Suzanne nods and shifts a little toward the door. “I . . . gotta go.”
“Right. Hey, wait!”
He leaps over the counter again and digs beneath it, retrieving a large peppermint stick. “A gift. No charge.”
“I’m not . . .”
“Allowed? Hey, maybe it is a little on the ostentatious side, candy-wise. Plus, it’s hard to hide. How ’bout a gum ball? You should see where the ball collectors travel to find those. Rubber trees in the rainforest . . .”
He is about to go off on a story again, so she selects one.
“White. Nobody picks white.”
She smiles at him. “Doesn’t stain your mouth,” she says before dropping it in.
A few days later, Suzanne knocks at the door. She is carrying a crêpe and pipe-cleaner flower she has made in class. It is red, and she has sprayed some of her mother’s Shalimar on it, so it smells. She knocks again. This time she hears thumpy footsteps. The apartment is above the hardware store, and she has never been there before.
Creeaaakkkk. Funny that the hardware door creaks.
“Hello,” she says, holding out the drooping flower.
The woman is Holly, only she looks tired and stretched out like a rag on Mrs. Reidel’s clothesline. Her hair looks like strings.
“Hi there. Frank said you were visiting. Come in, come in. Is this for me?”
Suzanne nods. “I made it in school.”
“It’s . . . lovely . . . I . . .” And Holly sneezes an elaborate sneeze worthy of Suzanne’s father.
“I put perfume in it.”
Holly nods and carries the flower down the hall. “Take your coat off,” she calls. When she returns, she has a tray in her hands.
“Sit down. Take the load off.”
Suzanne does as she is told and sits neatly on the edge of a bench along the wall. It looks like it could have come out of a church. She runs her hand along the edge.
“Yes, neat, eh? We found it in a field.”
Suzanne tucks her hands in her lap as she has seen people do on TV. She notices that she always tucks the missing finger underneath, the place where the real finger would be.
“Juice? It’s really good. Mango and orange and, I think, some other tropical fruit.”
Suzanne only knows orange, but she agrees to a glass. There are lumpy cookies on a plate that Holly passes her. They are huge and a little strange, and she is about to decline when Holly adds, “I made these myself.” So Suzanne selects the closest one, as she has been taught, and holds it cautiously.