Bobby.
I met him on that first clear day, after the fires.
I’d intended to strike out directly for downtown, but Pie’s coughing had kept her up all night and she was desperate for a bottle of Dill’s tonic to help her sleep. I took fifty cents from the previous day’s haul and hurried to the square.
I was cutting across the grass when I spotted him. I assumed he was just another street kid, a tough, or possibly the worst in my estimation: an orphan. The piers were full of these scrappy, rough-mannered, cocky boys, walking tall but with zilch under their caps; they roamed the piers at night, swinging their slightly bent arms, their chins jutting forward, like orangutans.
He was surrounded by a group of kids from the encampment, their grimy hands outstretched, beseeching him for sweets.
My first thought when I saw him? Oh no.
I didn’t like anything about this boy, not the wide smile, the casual friendliness, the rock candy, no doubt stolen, he was handing out to the kids. He had a girl’s long lashes and green eyes, framed by a tough boy’s mop, his uncombed hair flopping over his ears. He was handing a piece of rock candy to a little girl and she was looking up at her mother to see if it was all right. I decided I’d never trust him or the candy.
I sailed by him and headed for the far end of the square, where an apothecary had set up a temporary shop. I bought the tonic, slid it into my bag, then headed for the house, taking a different route, toward the grove of trees up top—so as not to run into that boy.
“Did you lose something?” he called.
I turned around slowly, knowing what a sight I must have made: hat low, mouth grim, arms pumping as I marched—with him following close behind.
Mortified, I tried to think of a snappy reply. I even tried to do a quick Invisible; I stared above his head into the trees. And who should I find there, in the crown of branches, singing with his newfound cronies? That’s right, Ricky.
“Him,” I said, pointing. The birds, there were scores of them—blackbirds, sparrows, varied thrushes, starlings—feathered in browns and blacks. Then there was Ricky—fatter by half and a brilliant green.
To impress this boy whom I’d already decided I didn’t like, I pulled from my pocket the orange I’d grabbed on the way out—the last of the fruit in Rose’s kitchen. Unpeeling it quickly, I took a bite, nipped another piece in half, and placed it on my palm.
“He eats oranges?”
“Watch.” I hoped to hell Ricky wouldn’t disappoint me. Sure enough, the flap-flap of wings, as Mr. Flyaway landed on my arm, strutted a few paces down my wrist, and attached his claws around my finger. He pecked at the orange, cocking his head this way and that, at the boy and me.
“Well, now I’ve seen everything,” he said.
“Everything?”
His hands were stuffed into his pockets and he was grinning at me.
“I saw you, the other day, in the relief line,” he said. “Was that your sister? She’s pretty.”
“Too pretty for you.”
He laughed. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Anyway,” I said, being a smart-ass. “I saw you just now, giving candy to those kids.”
“Want some? I’ve got two bits left.” He showed his palm.
“I don’t need candy.”
He smiled. “What do you need, Anyway?”
I was shocked by his boldness. “I have to go,” I said, taking a step back.
He crouched a bit, to see what I looked like under my hat. “Where are you going?”
I wasn’t about to tell him that I was headed downtown. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be without an answer. Tan had reminded me that if I were to find Rose in one of the hospitals, we’d need a cart and a horse to bring her home. So, I said what was true and also something I was sure never in a hundred years of Sundays this boy would possess.
I pushed back my rim and showed him my eyes. “I need a horse. Have you got one of those in your pocket?”
“In fact, I do.”
“Do not.”
He shrugged. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Come where?”
He glanced at me with a seriousness I liked even less than his smile, as if he were worried about me—for me. “You living in the tents?”
“That’s right,” I lied. “You?”
“Down the road a ways,” he said. “Name’s Bobby Del Monte. And, hey, if you won’t tell me your name, I’ll be stuck calling you Anyway, and that would be stupid.”
I nodded. “Where’s your horse?”
We walked to the opposite edge of the park, with him leading and Ricky riding on my shoulder.
Now, as to Bobby Del Monte’s horse. I don’t know how many hands he was—nineteen, maybe more—but imagine a house of a horse. A Percheron, he must have weighed two thousand pounds. Black as soot with a blaze on his nose and a shaggy forelock that covered his eyes. He had massive hooves. In another life, in France, perhaps, he would have been called into battle or he might have hauled logs or worked on a farm, but as it was, he had a swayback and was riddled with scars that spoke of years of hard labor. As we approached, a second boy—he was as shaggy as the horse—was brushing his tail with a lady’s comb. It was ridiculous, except it wasn’t.
“That’s your horse? Where’d you get him, the circus?”
“Not exactly.”
“You stole him.”
“No, miss, I saved Monster.”
“Monster! That’s what you call him?”
When Bobby Del Monte laughed, he gave his whole self to it, closing his pretty eyes. “What would you call him? He’s Monster, all right.”
I took another look at the other boy. Something was off about him. He kept grinding his jaw, saying nothing, sneaking sideways glances at me.
“Does Monster come with a wagon?”
“No wagon,” he said. “I suppose I could get one for the right price.”
I thought a minute. “How much
