John was out in front of the Korner, shoveling a path in the sidewalk. He looked up and smiled and her heart lurched. They talked about the snow, and he told Annali about his new hot-chocolate machine. Then Pru, Annali, and Patsy moved on and he returned to his shoveling, apparently determined the neighborhood should have one place that was open, despite the conditions.
They hunkered down to wait for the city’s snowplows to make it to Adams-Morgan. Everyone said that it would take days for the city to dig itself out. The District’s few plows were old and known to break down frequently. Capitol Hill and the financial district would be first, of course, before the residential neighborhoods, which would be plowed in order of income. Adams-Morgan would be farther down on the list, well after Chevy Chase, Cleveland Park, and Dupont Circle. Pru was glad for the food she’d purchased at the beginning of the storm. If she hadn’t stocked up on bananas, oatmeal, and pickles, Annali never would have survived.
Pru was figuring out, little by little, how to handle her. She was getting better at anticipating where Annali was headed. On one occasion, when she saw that the child was on the verge of throwing a huge tantrum, Pru suddenly fell to the floor. She rolled around on the floor, gagging. Finally, with a final shudder, she groaned and lay still, dead. Annali stopped the tantrum and cracked up. “Aunt Pruuuu!” she cried, jumping on top of her. Pru felt quite proud of herself. It seemed like an enormous victory—she had figured out something essential about living with a child. For some reason, she thought of Dr. Bond, the vet. She felt he might approve of how she was doing, these days.
Three times each day, Pru made everyone get dressed and go outside with the puppy. She felt like the commander of the Intrepid, making the troops play football while waiting for the great ice to melt. Every day they saw John, working to keep the diner open. His staff and suppliers couldn’t get through, but he did his best, and some of the customers even pitched in and helped. It was always packed. People read books and drank coffee, and played Parcheesi and Chinese checkers. No one seemed to be in any rush to go back to work. John walked around beaming, thrilled at the café’s being, for a change, full up almost every minute of the day.
“This is just what I’d envisioned,” he told Pru, happily, as he swept by with a tray loaded with cups. “Like the old corner store, or something.”
“He’s just the kind of guy you’d fall for,” Patsy said one day. They had just left the diner and were walking home. “So utterly decent, so regular. So boring.” There was a note of such bitter contempt in her voice that Pru stopped in her tracks, stung.
Patsy kept walking, then stopped. She circled back to where Pru stood. “I’m such a bitch,” she said. Pru could see, under the sunglasses, that she’d started crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Her voice was high, and tight in her chest.
“It’s okay,” Pru said.
“He’s a nice guy, Pru. I just said it because I wanted to hurt somebody. That’s all.” She swallowed. She still looked as small as a bird, to Pru, in her mottled fake-fur jacket, her nesty hair. Her nose was red and running. “I really like John,” she said. “I want things to work out for you, I really do.”
Pru nodded. “Okay.”
“You do like him, though, don’t you?”
“Let’s not talk about it now.”
Patsy nodded. “Okay,” she said, and they moved on.
BY THE NEXT MORNING, FIVE DAYS AFTER THE STORM had hit, Annali’s patience was wearing thin. She missed her school, her routine, her new friends. She’d watched enough Disney princess videos “to choke a horse,” as Patsy put it. Pru still hadn’t shook off the bad mood that had settled on her since Patsy’s crack about John. Patsy was making an effort to be happier, but she was working with limited resources. By dinnertime, Pru had lifted the ban on eating in front of the TV, and they were dining on canned soup and watching Mulan—the least sexist or saccharine entry in what Pru referred to as the Disney Princess oeuvre.
In this oeuvre, all the princesses have fabulous hair and little animal friends to help them. They sing and dance and are brave and kind. They teach others how to care. They are rewarded for their suffering with men—brave, kind, stand-up guys, all of them. Captain John Smith stares at Pocahontas as she appears before him, like a big-eyed doe, through the mist. Her face is caressed by the velvet curtains of her hair. All the princesses have a sort of pouty collagen-lipped look, and heinous personalities. Snow White is stupid and so sweet you want to strangle her. Pocahontas has a great body, and she is silent and mysterious, the perfect woman. Ariel is supposed to be sixteen but she has huge breasts, and Belle is supposed to be a more acceptable heroine to modern moms because she reads books, though in the end she watches the action as helplessly as that twit White. Only Mulan knows how to fight, and her boyfriend is the hottest, in Pru’s opinion. He goes shirtless through most of the film. He’s brave and daring, and his body looks to be carved of stone.
An hour into the movie, Pru couldn’t take it anymore. She put on her long, warm camel-hair coat and went out into the night.
The streets were busy. No doubt she wasn’t the only one bored and restless and entirely sick of the other co-captives at home. Columbia Road still hadn’t been plowed. There were even people out cross-country skiing. She walked along quickly
