What Happened on Fox Street

Instead Starchbutt pushed it toward Mo. Her face was full of urgency.

“This could be the last summer,” she said.

Dread got Mo in its clutches. “What are you talking about?”

“What if I hadn’t opened it? Something made me open it.”

The poor thing really is demented, Mo told herself. Just be nice to her. Don’t get her any more upset.

“She has to have this!” She pushed the purse into Mo’s hands. “Right away.”

“Okay.”

“You promise me.”

“I promise.”

Mrs. Steinbott continued to stand there, her mothball smell rising in the heat. Mo was afraid that she meant to wait till Mercedes finally came back out, but at last, as if she’d convinced herself she could trust Mo after all, she turned around. On the edge of the curb, she wavered. Mo rushed forward and caught her arm. Mrs. Steinbott stared across the street as if she’d lost track of where she was.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I crossed this street?” she asked Mo.

“Long.”

“Longer than the Mississippi.” She smiled again and this time managed to get both corners of her mouth in sync. “Headed my way?” She crooked her arm.

Arm in arm, each carrying a big purse, they looked both ways, then stepped out into Fox Street.

Demolition

CORNELIUS CHRISTIAN CUNNINGHAM had somehow gotten the idea that the only way to truly ascertain the facts of Da’s situation was to see it with his own eyes. Somehow he found Mercedes’s detailed reports vague. Confounding and confusing. Not to mention puzzling and perplexing. Possibly phony and fake.

“The man can’t keep his big ugly nose out of our business!” Mercedes complained.

“Child, he’s married to your mother now. You and I are his business, like it or not.”

Da was on the couch again, a blank crossword on her lap. They made the puzzles too easy these days, she complained. Not enough of a challenge. She shifted, rearranging her legs, which, thank heavens, ended in a pair of closed-toe sandals. Da clenched her jaw.

“You okay?” Mo asked her.

“These poor old feet of mine itch up a tempest every night. And then just as I drift off to sleep, toe pain will shoot through me and startle me awake.” Da put a hand to her brow. “It’s always in a toe that’s not really there. Phantom pain, the doctors call it.” She let her crossword puzzle slip from her fingers. “Give me strength, I’m a walking haunted house.”

“How about some tea?”

“Tea’s for sick folk.” She ran her tongue over her lips and sighed. “Just a small cup. What would I do without you two? My crown is in my heart, not on my head.”

Mercedes and Mo slipped into the kitchen.

“I’m seriously worried,” Mercedes said, filling the kettle. “If Corny sees Da lying on the couch, muttering she’s haunted…” She gave the faucet handle a shove, but it kept on dripping. “Not to mention how much work this house needs.” She banged the kettle onto the stove. “Not to mention, did you notice Da’s not exactly protesting his meddling?”

Mo pressed her fingers to her temples.

“I’m having trouble thinking straight these days,” she said. “I-”

A commotion outside the front door cut off any possibility of thought whatsoever.

“Mo! Mercey!” Dottie shrieked. “Help! Save it!”

Mo ran outside. A crowd was gathered at the end of the street, where a yellow machine with thick rubber treads occupied the front lawn of the A.O.L. House. Its steel arm dangled an enormous, menacing claw over the roof.

“What’s going on?” Mo demanded.

Mr. Duong, the fix-it man, polished his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “My guess is they’re not here to landscape the place, Mo,” he said. At that moment, the claw rumbled to life. “Uh-oh.”

Crash. The closed claw punched into the mossy little roof, caving it with one blow. Shingles flew, wooden boards splintered. Who knew a roof was so flimsy? The claw reared up, landed another blow, and there were the house’s innards, splat, on display for all to see. Strips of bent metal, dangling wires. That was how fast things could change. With a whoop, Gem Baggott hurled a rock at the front door. Mrs. Petrone grabbed him by the neck of his T-shirt.

“Don’t you dare!” she scolded. “Show some respect!”

“It’s just a beat-up old rathole anyway!” he protested, wiggling free.

The claw punched the house again. Mo had to cover her eyes. It was as if they were watching a bully beat a helpless person to a pulp, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

“Someone has plans for this property,” Mr. Duong told Mrs. Petrone. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “We are witnessing capitalism at work.”

Mrs. Petrone scratched her head, which today was styled into curls that stuck to her cheeks like uppercase Gs.

“I get a very bad feeling about it, whatever it is,” she said.

Now Mercedes came rushing up, followed by Mrs. Baggott, her flip-flops going flop but not flip. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez, who owned Tortilla Feliz, showed up, their hands covered with flour, and Ms. Hugg ran as fast as her tight red dress allowed. Before long, someone from every house but Mrs. Steinbott’s and the Kowalski house was watching.

“I wish Daddy was here,” Dottie said. “He’d make them stop, right? He’d stop those doo-doo heads, right?” She slid her thumb into her mouth, popped it back out. “Right, Mo?”

“Buckman.” Venom dripped from Mercedes’s voice. “He means business, all right.”

A dump truck backed down the street, inching between the parked cars. Its rear fender collided with the guardrail, adding yet another dent. The driver jumped down, scowling.

“Mister!” Mrs. Petrone waved him over.

The driver took off his yellow hard hat, as if out of respect for the crowd. He had a ponytail and kindly eyes.

“Sorry about your guardrail. Backing a rig in here is like threading a needle with a…” He scratched his head, searching for a good comparison. “A…a…”

“Never mind!” Mrs. Petrone waved a hand. “What we want to know is what’s going on here? What do you know about all this?”

“A hippo, maybe,” the driver said.

“You’re funny,” Dottie told him. She helped herself to his hat and settled it on her head.

“We’re demoing to the ground,” he explained. “Everything’s slated for teardown, that’s what I hear.”

A silence fell. They all stared at him. He scratched his head some more and nudged a rock with his boot toe.

“I hear office park.”

They continued to stare.

“Maybe a little light industry? But all green, you know. All nice and up-to-the-minute.” He tapped Dottie’s hard-hatted head. “Anybody home?”

“You been clobbered by a two-by-four, young man?” demanded Mrs. Petrone.

“Not that I know of.” He retrieved his hard hat. “You all have a nice day now.”

As he retreated to the truck, Mo chased after him.

“Does the name Buckman sound familiar?”