Ellen’s childhood: her mother’s dogs – always, three or four of them; Marianne-imposed poverty; rooms kept dim because of Marianne’s uveitis; drifts of bristly hair gathered behind doors; curling-up-at-the-seams vinyl flooring spackled with muddy paw prints; growls, frenzied barking, the sharp clatter of paws, the corners of the coffee table gnawed down. Once, they went without hot water for two weeks, Marianne finding something wrong with everyone she called to repair the water heater. Eventually, she picked up a guy in a bar who said for a good meal and a decent fuck he’d fix it. Another time, they shat and pissed in a bucket for four days before she found the right guy for the job. The men her mother found for repairs were not put off by the filth, it seemed, which told Ellen more than enough about men and sex.
         
          Ellen considered it miraculous, finding a home at 812 Chestnut Street. But James explained it differently. James lived in the mother-in-law apartment tucked behind the historic red-brick big house where he could keep an eye on things.
          “This is no miracle,” James said. “This is the product of sound judgment.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “When I inherited this place, I could have just sold it, but there’s no ongoing income in that.” Instead he became landlord to a household of damaged tenants with fixed incomes. “It’s wild how many people get some kind of check every month,” he said.
          Her own check was the result of a structured settlement from the accident – a delivery truck knocking her sixteen-year-old self out of a crosswalk – that had left her with a fairly useless right side: a leg that tended to drag, a hand that tended to drop things. Her face had a slight lopsided droop. “Lucky for you,” Marianne said after the settlement was finalized. “Couldn’t see you ever being able to take care of yourself.”
          “What I love about my tenants,” James continued, “is that as long as I keep the roof mended and the furnace humming, no one’s going anywhere.”
          “Why aren’t we going anywhere?” she had asked, once.
          “Because you’re safe and you’re with your people.”
          Both of these things were indisputably true. No one at 812 Chestnut Street had ever threatened her, stolen her things, pinched the soft flesh of her upper arm, or scolded her for turning on the lights. There were no Animals, no hairs in the tub drain, no stickiness on the countertops, no cockroaches or fleas. The kitchen had a breadbox and screens in the windows and the water tasted good out of the tap.
          However, some of the householders did leave – those, James explained, who hadn’t accepted their reduced circumstances. Over the past year Adrianne had moved to Jacksonville, North Carolina to join the Marine with whom she had eloped a few weeks after flushing her lithium down the toilet. Karl left to take a landscaping job with his stepfather’s cousin in Springfield. And two months ago Molly…disappeared. She was there that Saturday morning, over-buttering her cinnamon-swirl toast, and gone that afternoon when Ellen returned from browsing neighborhood yard sales. James reported that Molly had told him the night before that she’d made “other living arrangements.” If James was telling the truth then Molly had planned her departure, had chosen to leave without saying goodbye.
          From Molly, Ellen had inherited the job of recruiter. “It’s time you had some responsibility,” James said. She was supposed to find candidates for replacing the defectors. There were two empty rooms now, out of seven, and James wasn’t pleased.
          Since that conversation, Ellen had awakened every morning with a clenched fist feeling in her stomach that procrastination only served to tighten. She might very well let James and the others down, but she would at least have to try. That Monday her upset stomach and tingling right arm were accompanied by an ache in her left shoulder, a reliable predictor of change dating back to the sequence of events that had led to her arrival at Chestnut Street.
          Her own fit of temper couldn’t have been more mistimed. One didn’t cross Marianne when Marianne was hung over. But the kitchen smelled of dog piss, ruining, once again, the taste of Ellen’s coffee. Her mother waltzed in wearing only her underwear, four dogs clamoring behind her. Marianne hummed as she opened the cans of gourmet dog food they couldn’t afford. Her cigarette was jammed in the corner of her mouth. Her orangey fake tan accentuated the dinginess of her frayed, safety-pinned bra. “Come here, babies. Yum-yum time.” The dogs jostled and yelped. “You love mama, don’t you,” she cooed.
          “Those dogs don’t love you,” Ellen said. “You feed them. You let them sleep inside. That’s all there is to it.”
          Marianne dropped the can. Her eyes were dangerously wide. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she yelled. “What do you know about love?”
          “I know that if there’s any love around here it’s – never mind.”
          The dogs gobbled their food, lips and tongues smacking moistly. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. Tick, tick, tick – and then time yawned.
          Marianne’s arm floated to the side, graceful as a dancer, her palm and fingers closing on the wooden handle of a paring knife resting on the dish rack. “There’s something wrong with you.” The words were elongated, the voice low and strange. Marianne’s arm glided toward Ellen, the knife tip aimed at her good side. There was all the time in the world to sidestep her mother’s sweeping hand, but behind her was a puddle of piss and she couldn’t make her surprised, stocking-footed self decide which way to move.
          It was a small knife and Marianne buried the blade in Ellen’s shoulder.
          Then Marianne collapsed, ugly and weeping. “Call Jason,” she instructed.
          Ellen called 9-1-1 instead. Her Uncle Jason pulled some strings to have his sister involuntarily committed for observation, the only way to avoid an arrest for aggravated assault. He picked Ellen up from the emergency room and took her home. He flipped five hundred-dollar bills on the table. “She’ll be in for at least a month. Clean up this place, why don’t you, so it’ll be nice when she gets home.”
          It turned out that this was the moment Ellen had been waiting for. She watched her uncle back out of the driveway, called the Humane Society, packed a single suitcase, left the front door unlocked, and fled.
          Of course, the break hadn’t been as clean as that. She’d called her mother once to check on her; Marianne screamed obscenities, sobbed, and screamed some more. One of her annuity checks got lost in the mail and had to be re-cut. Before meeting Molly in the coffeehouse off South Grand she had spent most of her uncle’s money on a damp motel room on the other side of the city.
          Making coffee, the ache in her shoulder crescendoed. In the seven years since the accident, she’d learned to pay attention to her body’s fluctuations. Some days gravity claimed her right side urgently and she took the stairs on her buttocks, one step at a time. Some days her right side felt as brittle as a stale cookie, as though it might break off from the rest of her body. She hoped her shoulder’s message was auspicious. James’s impatience was wafting from the back house like the smell of hot tar.
         
          Lunch was catch-as-catch-can, but the housemates often gathered around noon, standing elbow-to-elbow at the counter to prepare their various meals. Britt peeled carrots and trimmed them into three-inch sticks, to be accompanied by a hardboiled egg and a slice of American cheese broken into tiny squares.
          “For a 50-year-old coot with a metal plate in his head, I make a darn good meatloaf,” declared Isaiah. He was slicing the leftover meat for a sandwich.
          “You’re a good cook, period,” Ellen said.
          Kyle rolled his eyes. The meatloaf had tasted like onion-flavored cardboard. At dinner the night before she had drowned her slice in a puddle of catsup.
          “It would be great if you could find someone who played guitar.” Britt joined them at the table. “I remember a few years ago we had a guy who played guitar and sometimes we’d have sing-alongs.”
          “I’d rather have someone who played Risk,” Kyle said. “Or Axis and Allies. Would you pass me the box of Cheerios, please?”
          “Those games are so hostile,” Britt said.
          “You’re right,” teased Kyle. “Let’s advertise for a Candyland aficionado. Does this smell alright to you?” He pushed his bowl towards Ellen. “The milk smells off.”
          “I used it in my coffee this morning. It’s fine, Kyle.”
          “I know. But would you please give it another sniff?”
          “Ha-ha,” Britt replied. “For your information, all conventional games are problematic. Look around – we need more cooperation, not more competition.”
          “His name was Frederick and he had a real swell-sounding old Gibson J-45, but he only knew Jesus-loves-me songs,” Isaiah said.
          “I’m sure Ellen’s going to find us some really great people,” Britt said. Only three yellow squares of cheese remained on her plate. She tugged at her eyelashes. Kyle gently touched her elbow. Britt sighed and lowered her hand.
          “Of course,” “Absolutely,” concurred Kyle and Isaiah.
          It was so easy to hear Marianne’s voice just behind theirs. What do they know?
         
          In her bedroom Ellen was a distinct, necessary person. See the library books on her shelf, her very own mini TV/DVD player, her new red-and-white checked bedspread with matching pillow shams? In the kitchen, making pancakes for the household one-handed, she was nurturing and competent. In the dining room she had excellent table manners and she occasionally said something that made everyone laugh.
          The basement argued against all this. In the light of the bare bulb hanging over the washing machine she was expendable, less than ordinary. Here, James stored the stuff former tenants had left behind in haphazard piles of plastic bags, paper bags, and boxes; there were broken chairs, lamps without shades, and stained mattresses.
          Ellen stared at the white box and blue milk crate that held what remained of Molly’s belongings. She hoped, without much hope, that she’d find some inspiration for her tenant-hunting task.
          “I heard you guys talking.” Ellen flinched, though she was mostly used to Lorelei sneaking up on her. Lorelei wasn’t comfortable in group conversations, preferring to hover at the edges, listening in. Lorelei’s social anxiety was compounded by her memory problems. Though she remembered her childhood quite vividly, her memories of the six years since she’d had a brain tumor removed were transient. She carried a small notebook that held key facts about her life.
          “I’ve been here for five years. Second-longest after Isaiah,” Lorelei said.
          “That’s right.”
          “This place is special, isn’t it?”
          “Very special,” Ellen said.
          “What are you doing?”
          “Molly was so good at this.”
          Lorelei consulted her notebook. “Molly lived here for three years. She stayed in the upstairs yellow bedroom. She was allergic to peanuts. She and I watched Alfred Hitchcock movies together.”
          “That’s right.”
          Lorelei smiled, flipped a page. “Everybody liked Molly. Molly slept with James. You had to remind Molly that she was baking or she’d forget cookies or bread in the oven.” Lorelei laughed. “I remember! I remember one time the whole first floor filled with smoke!”
          Well then. But who knew where Lorelei got the information she put in her notebook to begin with? Hardly a reliable witness – someone who’d had a chunk of her hippocampus cut out. Even if everything else she’d said was true.
          “Is something wrong?” Lorelei asked.
          “Molly found Kyle by accident,” Ellen complained. Kyle had come up to Molly on the sidewalk asking for change for a dollar because the change machine in the Laundromat was busted. He’d run out of quarters and his clothes were still wet. Molly didn’t have any change, so she brought him back to the house to use the dryer. It turned out he was spending nights in his brother’s unfinished, unheated basement because the halfway house where he’d been living had burned down and he was #8 on the waiting list for a new placement. “Do you remember anything about how Molly found people to live here?”
          Lorelei consulted the notebook. She scrunched her eyebrows. “We could look through her things?”
         
          Rooms for rent in house near Tower Grove Park. Quiet. Clean. Stable household. Absolutely no pets, smoking, drugs, or alcohol.
          She and Lorelei neatly printed the notice onto a dozen yellow index cards, two packages of which she’d found in the box of Molly’s stuff along with a box of clear plastic pushpins. She pinned up two cards each at the library, the health food store, and the used bookstore. She ordered a cappuccino at the coffeehouse where she had been found by Molly and chose a table in the corner. Corners pleased Ellen. Her bedroom was a corner room. Their house was on a corner lot. Corners were tidy, precise. She missed having a friend who might say, “Meet you at the corner by the library at 10 o’clock.”
          The other patrons appeared decidedly competent and thoroughly housed, with their briefcases, cell phones, PDAs, and laptops. Ellen closed her eyes. She needed to try to see people through Molly’s eyes. She opened her eyes, blinked – better. A tall young man with a mop of wet hair leaned against the wall. He seemed absorbed in his book – A Man Without Qualities – but then she realized his eyes weren’t moving across the pages and he was tapping his foot hectically. How could you tell who was too needy?
          In one way, Ellen could understand if Molly had decided to move on. Molly had an advanced degree and a career and a marriage when she was struck on the head by a falling object on her way to the Metrolink station after work. Construction debris? Meteorite? An object dropped from a condo balcony? Conclusive evidence was lacking.
          Talking about it embarrassed Molly. “Henny Penny seemed okay, then wasn’t. Erratic behavior, arrest for shoplifting, arrest for indecent exposure, rinse and repeat. Ambitious alderman husband dumps light-fingered, wacky wife.”
          Her alimony was more than enough to live on. Her condition improved a bit with treatment from a topnotch neuropsychologist at Barnes. Molly didn’t need the house on Chestnut Street. But Molly told Ellen she loved her new life. “I get left alone, but I’m not alone. And not one single expectation to live up to.” Of course Ellen had believed her – wasn’t this exactly how she felt?
          The chime on the coffeehouse door clanged as a new customer entered. Shit! Ellen clipped her ear on the edge of table as she ducked beneath it. Double-shit! She lowered her head between her knees and took five deep breaths. Her ear throbbed. She peeked between table and chair legs. The woman was second in line at the counter. Her bra strap sagged off her shoulder and her over-processed coppery red hair gave way to an inch of dark brown roots. The woman bent to adjust her sandal, revealing her profile: not Marianne. Ellen felt adrenaline queasy, her body not quite believing she was safe. She pulled herself back onto her chair. The woman gave her a funny look. Fool.
          Of course it wasn’t Marianne. Marianne hated the city. Most likely she was where she’d always been, still in her dank house with her dogs, still getting by. Marianne can’t hurt me anymore, Ellen told herself. She doesn’t have any power over me. Oh really?
          Ellen pinned the remaining five index cards to the bulletin board and exited as gracefully as possible before running the seven long blocks home.
         
          Ellen smelled Animal even before Britt flopped down on the couch beside her.
          “Is that cat hair on your shirt?”
          “Relax,” Britt said, and began brushing off the front of her black T-shirt. Britt saw Ellen’s face and stopped her hand in mid-swipe. “Sorry. I hate when people tell me to calm down. I have cat hair on my shirt because I spent the afternoon at the animal shelter. I started volunteering there last week.”
          This felt like a lot of information. How ridiculous to always be so surprised that people she liked and admired were fond of Animals. Britt’s grin faded into Ellen’s silence.
          “Congratulations,” Ellen said.
          “Turns out volunteering is just the thing for me.”
          “What do you mean?”
          “Well, it feels good to have someplace I’m supposed to be.”
          “But what about – ” Britt hadn’t been able to work for the last five years since the onset of debilitating, treatment-resistant panic attacks.
          “It’s not like a job. They’re glad to see me and they appreciate whatever I do. I know it sounds nutty, but I really don’t feel any anxiety while I’m there.”
          “Wow.”
          “You could do it too.”
          Ellen shuddered.
          “All sorts of places need volunteers. You could work at the library or a food pantry.”
          “Maybe.”
          “Why not?”
          Ask Marianne, Ellen thought. She’d have five reasons.
         
          Phone calls trickled in over the next few days. The most common questions were “How much?” and “Utilities included?” Not one of the callers asked about the other people in the house or what the house felt like. “We’ve had quite a few applicants,” she told these callers in a cool voice.
         
          “So how’s everything at the big house?” James asked.
          “Everything’s fine. We’ve got a couple of people lined up to look at the house tonight.” The lie came more easily than she would have thought.
          “That’s great, Ellen. Good work. Everyone doing okay? How are Isaiah’s headaches?”
          “A little better. He’s got another appointment at the VA hospital next week.”
          “About time.”
          “Right.” There was always one particular piece of information James was after, but she was rarely sure of what it was, only that the conversation wouldn’t end until he’d gotten it. It was a tip-off that he wasn’t more interested in their prospective roommates.
          “Did you know Lorelei’s parents had to hire an attorney to get her on disability? Social Security turned her down twice before that. You’ve got to wonder what kind of job the U.S. Government, in all their wisdom, thought she’d be able to hold down.”
          “I didn’t know that,” Ellen said.
          “She’s lucky she had people looking out for her. Of course, her folks didn’t want to have to take care of her.”
          Of course. But they also wanted her to be able to have a life of her own. They didn’t presume Lorelei’s checks belonged to them.
          “So how’s Britt doing?”
          “She’s fine.”
          “She’s been getting out more,” James said.
          “I guess.”
          “C’mon. What’s up?”
          “She’s been volunteering at a shelter.”
          “Women’s?”
          “Animals.”
          “Really?” he said. “That’s quite a bold move.”
          Ellen tried to imagine Molly with James. With his chin shadowed by stubble and his dusky complexion, he looked smudged. He was a man drawn with a blunt stick of charcoal. Molly was a line drawing rendered with a few stark strokes of a fine-nibbed pen.
          Ellen felt even more reluctant than usual to reveal anything further. “It’s going well.”
          “Glad to hear it. Time will tell, though….”
          If you touched James your fingertips might come away soiled, as if from newspaper print.
         
          Ellen wrote out another set of index cards and pinned them up in the same places, and the following day she walked a few complete loops around the neighborhood to check on them. It made some sort of sense – didn’t it? – that she would find someone at the coffeehouse where she had been found.
          The barista gave her a handsome mustard-colored mug for her coffee. The new set of cards hadn’t been touched. She took to her corner. Near the window sat a young man, rocking slightly in his chair, regular as a metronome. He wore tan corduroy pants and had a narrow, serious face. On the floor next to his table rested an enormous, bulging backpack. She went for a refill; watching his rocking made her sleepy.
          She paused in front of the bulletin board and then there he was. The young man’s arm brushed hers as he reached to remove a card. Yes, she thought, and felt blown through with a gust of good fortune. She had her mouth open to speak, but she couldn’t think of what to say.

          She was extremely relieved when he, Moore, called the next morning. His voice sounded just like he looked: like a smooth, taupe stone. He asked about meal preparation, congeniality, the supply of hot water, and quiet times. He worked part-time at the information services desk at Becker Medical Library.
          “Do you drive?” They’d never had anyone who drove.
          “I ride my bike everywhere.” He was calling from outside. The back-up signal of a truck sounded very close. The beeping stopped and she heard gears grinding, the gasp of brakes releasing. “So, Ellen, the house sounds perfect. When would be a convenient time for me to come by and meet everybody?”
          “After dinner, I guess. We’ll all be here then.”
          “Tonight?”
          “Sure. Yes. Around seven, then. PM.”
          “Would you do me a favor? Please tell your housemates that I have trouble meeting people’s eyes. I’ll do the best I can, but I don’t want y’all to think I’m shifty.”
          “Okay, I’ll tell them.”
          “And I tend to fidget, but I’m essentially quite calm.”

          When Ellen opened the door his eyes drifted over her left shoulder. She couldn’t tell if he recognized her from the coffeehouse. He wore a slightly wrinkled black linen jacket. He carried a plastic grocery bag, but no backpack.
          She showed him the two vacant rooms. The one on the ground floor, fashioned out of the old parlor, was large and bright, but didn’t have a closet.
          “Not the quietest room in the house,” she told him. The room sat between the kitchen and the bathroom.
          “Mmmm.” Moore tugged at his sleeves.
          She nearly stumbled on the stairs and he stepped close so she could lean on his arm. The empty upstairs room had been Molly’s. It had an enormous closet but only one electrical outlet and no overhead light. She wondered if the floral border was too feminine.
          He pulled open the curtains. “Wow. That’s a Eurasian Tree Sparrow.” He pressed his nose to the pane.
          “You like birds?”
          “I’m a bit of a birder. See that black patch on its cheek?”
          It looked like a regular old sparrow.
          “This is it,” he said. He swung his arms out to the side and bent over at the waist. He touched his palms to the floor, then swooped back up. “This is a wonderful house.”
         
          “This is Moore,” she told the assembled group, though she realized she didn’t know if that was a first, last, middle, or assumed name. Was she supposed to ask him for identification? What about references? She had moved in the day she met Molly.
          Britt was supposed to ask the first question but she was tugging at her eyelashes and Ellen couldn’t catch her eye.
          Isaiah shook his head, hard and fast, as if trying to get water out of his ear, but that was his tinnitus acting up. Kyle’s nose was on alert, casting about the room like a dog. His nostrils caught a scent and he smiled. She smiled, too. Moore had a clean smell, like parsley. Moore’s eyes were as twitchy as Kyle’s nose. Freak show, freak show, time to join the circus now.
          “High-functioning autism.” Moore announced his diagnosis. He told them he liked to cook Indian food and that he practiced hatha yoga every morning. He peered at the tips of Lorelei’s shoes sticking out past the doorway. “The Becker Library has over 100,000 print books.”
          “What about electronic books?” Kyle asked.
          “One thousand ninety-eight.”
          “Where have you been living?” Britt beamed, relieved to have gotten out her question.
          Moore’s eyes returned to Lorelei’s feet. He flushed. “At the hostel. I’ve only been in town for a couple of weeks.” He handed the grocery bag to Ellen. “I forgot. I brought nectarines from the farmer’s market. I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”
          “Do you play any games?” Kyle asked.
          Britt groaned and mock-elbowed him in the side.
          “I’ve been learning to play chess.”
          “Great. Would you mind letting us have a couple of minutes to ourselves?” Kyle had been designated to wrap things up. He steered Lorelei into the living room so Moore could wait in the hall.
          “Did you like him?”
          “Did you like him?”
          “I liked him fine.”
          “He’s a good fit, isn’t he?” Britt asked Ellen.
          “He has a job,” Isaiah said.
          “So?” Britt asked.
          Isaiah shrugged. “None of us has a job. I don’t want anyone to go around thinking I’m lazy.”
          “No one’s going to think that,” Kyle said.
          “It just means he’s responsible,” Britt said.
         
          “We like you,” Ellen told Moore. His pale blue eyes skated past hers.
          “I’m going to be happy here.”
          She knew they’d botched the interview. They could hardly have procured less solid information. She believed he would be happy, though, and she believed he was calm. Damaged, but not too damaged. He would play chess with Kyle, and once a week the house would fill with the aroma of curry. “Now you need to meet James.”
          James was leaving as they approached. He pulled the door shut behind him. He had shadows beneath his eyes and looked even more smudged than usual. Ellen guessed he was tired. From what? she wondered. She had no idea what he did with his time, did she? She and the others pretty much did everything around the house. Isaiah was in charge of minor repairs – he’d been a carpentry and masonry specialist in the Army. Kyle took care of the yard – insisted on it. He became giddy breathing in the scent of the freshly mown grass.
          The men shook hands. She watched Moore struggle to meet James’s eyes, but James rebuffed him, peering with apparent interest at the roofline of the house.
          “So this guy passes muster, huh?”
          “That’s right. We’re in complete agreement. Moore is going to be a great addition.”
          James considered this. She crossed her fingers behind her back.
          “He’s got the first month’s rent and deposit?”
          “Yes.”
          “You’re not going to cause any trouble, right?” Now his gaze smacked Moore square in the face.
          “No sir. Not one bit.”
          James scratched his neck. “Alright then, sounds good.”
          One down, but one to go. Even when he turned on his heel and walked away she couldn’t quite believe James hadn’t thrown out a trick question. Maybe he was late for an appointment of some kind. Or maybe James didn’t have any better idea what he was doing than they did. You go ahead and believe that.
         
          At 10:30 a.m. the coffeehouse was packed. Ellen had forgotten that this was the busiest time, the room filled with overly-caffeinated got-to-get-out-of-the-house-stay-at-home-moms and their sugar-crazed offspring. “Henhouse time,” Molly called it.
          She didn’t bother ordering a coffee. Someone had moved her index cards to the center of the bulletin board. Two girls were sitting at the table closest to the bulletin board. They were older than the other children – the oldest was twelve or thirteen – but she took note of them because of how still they sat. They watched as she removed the pushpin, squared the three remaining cards, added two from her pocket, and replaced them in the bottom right-hand corner.
          Ellen recognized their need immediately. Need was what she lived with, after all. They needed hot baths, a good night’s sleep, and a hearty, buttery meal. Two half-filled plastic cups of water sat on their table. Now that Ellen was done with the cards the older girl feigned attention to the front page of the Post-Dispatch. The younger girl’s dishwater blonde braids were coming loose. She scratched her ankle, hard. The older one’s hair was the exact shade as the younger one’s, only in a short boyish cut. Sisters, then. The girls had a floaty sense to them, like a pair of leaves taking their time to fall from a tree. They needed someplace to be. That much was clear from their driftiness even more so than the obvious evidence of the two backpacks and two rolled sleeping beneath their table – but she was no babysitter. The older girl’s lips were pulled tight in concentration or determination. The green plaid flannel shirt she wore was enormous, nowhere near her size. The hems of her jeans had been ripped out, but the jeans were still too short. The little girl’s freckled cheeks were slack and her shoulders sagged. Ellen knew what that felt like. The girl had seen things she shouldn’t have seen. Her sister touched her left foot to the edge of her dirty pink sneaker and the younger girl leaned toward her. The older girl wanted to protect her little sister, who was fortunate in that regard, at least. Ellen’s shoulder throbbed.
          A toddler careened into the back of Ellen’s legs. The prow of the metal ship in his hands gouged her thigh. Across the room, a largely pregnant woman hollered at the toddler and hoisted herself to her feet. Enough already. Ellen bolted.
         
          Lorelei was stirring a big pot of chili on the stove.
          Isaiah peered into the pot. “Vast is das? No beef?”
          “We forgot to ask Moore if he ate meat,” Lorelei explained.
          Moore arrived as he’d said, in a taxi, and thumped two enormous duffle bags up the stairs. “I’ll go back for my bike tomorrow,” he told Ellen. He volunteered to set the table so he could start learning where things were kept. He brought down two brass candlesticks of his own and lit a pair of tall white tapers.
          “Candles?” Kyle said.
          “Festive, isn’t it?” He must have seen something in Kyle’s expression. “They’re 100% soy. No toxic fumes.”
          “That’s not it,” Britt said. “Kyle’s a bit leery of candles.”
          “Oh.” Two pink circles formed on Moore’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked.”
          “Kyle?” Britt asked.
          “It’s okay,” Kyle said.
          “We can snuff them, really,” Moore said.
          All the questions they hadn’t been able to utter the previous night were sprung loose. Food likes and dislikes, favorite things, pet peeves. Kyle was delighted that Moore knew how to play Stratego. Britt was thrilled when Moore admitted he played guitar. “I’m saving up for one,” he said. “I had to leave my last guitar behind.”
          Lorelei began to fidget – she’d stayed at the table much longer than usual. Kyle tapped his foot against Lorelei’s affectionately and Ellen thought of the two girls at the coffeehouse. Lorelei settled back into her chair.
          “I have 287 birds on my life list,” Moore announced.
          “Do you know what this is?” Isaiah unbuttoned his denim shirt and slipped it off. Amazing! A tattooed bird of prey spread its wings across the entire breadth of Isaiah’s bare back. The tattoo had the detail of an etching. Much of it was done in black and shades of brown and grey, but the bird’s eyes were blood-red and its legs were saffron yellow.
          “I believe that’s a very finely rendered Cooper’s Hawk. Incredible work.”
          Ellen felt weary and relieved. Isaiah pulled his shirt back on. There was always so much more that you didn’t know about someone than what you did know.
         
          She looked out the window at the tree, a hickory she thought. The birds were quiet now, hidden. In autumn the leaves turned the brightest yellow. She loved this tree and its exceptional leaves. It was funny how the first thing she saw was what the leaves would be, whereas Moore saw the bird, and Molly fastened on the shaggy bark. Molly said she could see faces in the deep grooves of the bark. She believed that the oldest spirits lived in the trees, the ones that no longer needed human bodies.
          In grade school, in the fall, Ellen used to walk home with her head down, searching for the best leaves. There were so many of them, it had to be okay to take just one leaf each day. Sometimes she tripped, not seeing a ridge in the sidewalk or a fallen branch.
          She heard the squeak of Moore’s desk chair in front of his desk. Molly had sat at that desk every night to write in her journal. Ellen hoped that her friend was staying clear of harm and falling objects.
         
          “So. Moore’s working out?” Ellen was bent over the bottom porch stair to retie her shoelace. She almost pitched forward. She leaned back with her left hand for the railing.
          “Yes.”
          “Good, good,” James said, “You know I’m still quite concerned about how long that other room has been vacant.”
          “Of course,” she said, although he had seemed more preoccupied than concerned the last few times they’d spoken.
          “Good. Why don’t we sit down right now and talk about it.”
          “No!” She swallowed. “I’m on my way out,” she said, flattening her tone as much as she could manage.
          “What time then?”
          As if she knew what time it was now. “Five o’clock,” she said, fairly certain that bought her a couple of hours.
          “Five o’clock sharp. I’ll come to the back. I want to check out a couple of things around the house.”
          As soon as he stepped away she heard the whispers from behind the screen door.
          “What does he want, Ellen? What does he want?” Kyle asked.
          “Nothing. He wants to give me a hard time about not finding anyone else to move in.”
          “Why does he need to come inside then?” Isaiah asked. “Should I recaulk that tub?”
          “Does he have to come in?” Lorelei asked.
          “It’ll be okay, you guys. I’m sure it’ll just be for a couple of minutes. Really. He’s not worth worrying about.”
          Which was the opposite of what she was thinking: that if James had somehow spoiled the house for Molly he could spoil it for the rest of them, too. She was embarrassed that she had trusted him when she first moved in.
         
          Which had she been wishing for more – that the girls would be at the coffeehouse again or that she would never see them again? Would she have returned regardless, convinced that the coffeehouse was some kind of magnet for people who belonged on Chestnut Street? Certainly she had never put the two together. Certainly she had never thought for a moment that the two girls belonged on Chestnut Street – right?
          As soon as she entered, the girls pulled their chairs closer. She felt herself to be the subject of their consideration. Each time Ellen glanced their way the younger one was shaking her head no. The girls were wearing the same clothes, though they seemed more obviously unkempt. Perhaps that was only because she knew they hadn’t changed.
          The older girl approached Ellen’s table, tugging at her pant legs. She looked back at her little sister, who mimed taking a deep breath and releasing it. The girl in front of Ellen tried a deep breath, but got stuck on the exhale. Her blonde hair was beginning to darken at the roots from oil. Patches of flaking skin bracketed her mouth.
          “I don’t know you, do I?” Ellen tried.
          “You’re the lady with the cards.” Her voice was a woman’s, beautiful and low.
          “The index cards?” Ellen pointed toward the bulletin board.
          “I know I could have called. I would have called if you hadn’t come back.”
          Ellen saw already (didn’t she?) where this was headed.
          “I’m Henry.” The girl stuck out her hand. “And that’s Polly.”
          Ellen made herself smile at the little girl, who was chewing on the tip of one of her braids. The girl’s return smile was wary. Henry’s – Henrietta’s? – handshake was cool and firm.
          “What about the cards?” Ellen asked.
          “Do you ever take people short-term?”
          “No. Not on purpose anyway. The longer term the better.”
          Henry glanced back at Polly again. “I’ve got money,” she said. “We’re not looking for a handout.”
          “It’s not about money.” Ellen sighed. “It’s a special kind of house, a safe house. We live there because it’s the only place we could live.”
          “But that’s exactly the kind of place we need,” Henry blurted.
          She had known Henry would say that, hadn’t she?
          “I’m sorry, but – ”
          “Please. Can’t you give us five minutes?”
          Ellen escaped to the counter to order: toasted bagels with cream cheese, a root beer for Polly, and coffee for herself and Henry. She really, really didn’t want to hear their story. If she heard their story she would have to do something about it. Still, everyone she met in her search for another housemate was going to have a sad story. (It was only a matter of time before Moore’s living-on-the-edge, guitarless tale came out.)
          Henry was standing right beside her, ready to help, at the exact second Ellen began to fret about how to transport their order to the table – even her left arm wasn’t cooperating. In fact, Henry had the food and beverages and napkins neatly arranged before Ellen made it back to the table with her one sloshing cup of coffee.
          And then they were eating and drinking and Ellen hadn’t yet heard anything she couldn’t turn her back on. (Where had these girls come from? Had she willed them into her world?)
          “Crap!” She noticed the clock above the door: 4:45. “Look, I’ve got an appointment. I don’t think it’s going to take long, but I have to go.”
          Henry said something Ellen couldn’t make out.
          And then, at the moment she could have made her escape, she heard herself say, “I promise to come back, okay? Maybe I can help you figure something out. Will you be alright until I get back?”
          Polly gave her a look she couldn’t decipher.
          “Henry?”
         
          “I’ve been thinking maybe I should be keeping a closer eye on things,” James said.
          She and James were standing outside the parlor bedroom. The others were just out of sight in the kitchen – too close. She could hear them shifting around.
          “Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to give you – all of you – so much responsibility.”
          What a gift James had – the ability to transform concern into a threat. “What do you mean?” she asked.
          “Well, this room for one thing. It’s a bit shabby, don’t you think? I’ve got some extra paint. Maybe I should install a ceiling fan.”
          They both looked at the cracked, cobwebbed ceiling. This time she was sure she heard the shuffling of feet in the hallway.
          “The people who’ve looked at the room all liked it,” Ellen said. “They’re maybe a bit concerned with there not being a closet.”
          “A closet,” he said, and she hoped adding a closet wasn’t a cheap or easy project. “I don’t know about that.” This seemed to deflate him. He pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket and glared at it. “I’m expecting a call. Did I mention that? We can talk about this later, I guess.”
          “Okay,” she said.
          “Don’t think we won’t.”
          Her housemates were jubilant at his retreat.
          “You’re brilliant,” Isaiah claimed.
          “You should be in the UN,” Britt said.
          Escaping their big bubble of relief without breaking it took another twenty minutes.
         
          As soon as Ellen walked back in the coffeehouse she saw that Henry had been cultivating hope. “I knew you’d come back.” She had a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.
          “I have to tell you, Henry. I really don’t see what I can do.”
          Polly flashed Henry a look that said, See, I told you. Henry emptied four packets of sugar into her cup.
          “You said you’d listen to our story.”
          She supposed this was true enough. What else could her returning to the coffeehouse have meant? And now she’d given Henry more time to rehearse.
          “Okay. I’ll – ”
          “Thank you!”
          “But I want Polly to tell it.”
          Polly sat up a bit straighter.
          “She’s only nine!”
          Ellen thought Polly might kick Henry. Polly gave Ellen a look of reappraisal. The girl nodded to herself and took a deep breath.
          “This is all Henry’s idea. Like an intervention.”
          “Intervention?”
          “It’s like this,” Polly said, starting over. “Our mom is addicted to pain pills. Peabody is an alcoholic. He’s moved out. Aunt Twyla is an alcoholic, too, but of course she says she’s quitting.” Polly’s voice was a girl’s voice, but steady and weary, like an old woman reciting a familiar tale of woe. “Uncle Parr drinks, but not like them. He used to check up on us but he stopped coming around since he got this new girlfriend. Our grandma only lives a couple of blocks away, and she doesn’t drink at all, but she’s clueless. Our step-grandpa Nick has diabetes but he hoards Kit-Kats and caramels. He sits on the couch all day while she waits on him and now they’re cutting the rotten bits off his feet.”
          Polly’s voice took on the tang of sarcasm. “‘Nick can’t help himself,’ Grandma says. Mom’s just ‘slipping up.’ Peabody’s going to ‘come to his senses any day now.’ ‘Your uncle has a lot on his mind.’ ‘Your aunt is a very fine woman.’”
          Henry was looking at Polly with admiration. This was one furious girl, a girl made eloquent by fury.
          Polly took another deep breath. “And Henry believes it.”
          Henry flinched. She opened her mouth to speak.
          “Deep down Henry thinks they all really do mean well.”
          “That’s not – ”
          “She thinks if we just go away for awhile…” Her anger finally ran out of gas. She slumped forward, shoulders hunched.
          “In my note I said we’d come back when they got help,” Henry said.
          Polly snorted.
          “Mom and Peabody have both been in rehab before.”
          “And that worked out well,” Polly muttered without looking up.
          “Peabody is your stepfather?” Ellen asked.
          Henry nodded. “Him and mom used to go to counseling together.”
          In Ellen’s experience, when grownups behaved badly they kept on behaving badly. But Ellen could see how good and strong Henry and Polly were, so maybe their people had goodness and strength in them, too.
          If Ellen was someone else, she would call the police, right? Or she would insist that Henry and Polly went home pronto. But there’s something wrong with her, isn’t there? Isn’t that what Marianne’s always insisted?
          “What else can we do?” Henry asked.
          If she was someone else maybe she would have an answer for that question. When she was a girl she hadn’t done anything. When she was a girl she hadn’t done one thing. She was staring at the torn sugar packets and the sprinkle of sugar on the table, but she could feel them looking at her. “I’m thinking,” she said. “I need to think.”
          “But we can’t – ” Henry burst into tears. Polly took her hand and squeezed tight.
          Shit, she wasn’t thinking clearly. “Don’t cry. Please. I’m not saying no. I’m trying to get this straight.
          Henry wiped her nose on a napkin. Her tears were already gone.
          “When did you leave exactly,” Ellen asked, “and where are you staying?”
          They sorted most of it out. Henry and Polly had been gone for three days. Henry had saved over four hundred dollars of babysitting and dog walking and paper route money. Their grandmother understood enough to know Henry’s earnings wouldn’t be safe at home, so she’d set up a bank account with a debit card for Henry, and had the statement sent directly to her address. So far they’d only spent $6.40. The first night they’d hidden in their grandmother’s garage. Both of the places Henry had arranged for them to stay had fallen through, one before they even got there and the second after one night. The previous night someone had let them sleep in a storage building. They didn’t know their real father or his kin.
          “That’s all we’ve got,” Polly said, “in the way of family.”
          Ellen had had only Marianne and weaselly Uncle Jason. How had she survived in such an underpopulated world? Yet Polly and Henry didn’t seem to have enough people in theirs.
          “And Aunt Margo,” Henry said.
          “She disappeared before I was born,” Polly said. “We’re not supposed to even talk about her. She’s just done and gone, Mom says. Done and gone.”
          Ellen winced, thinking of Molly, and then shook off the thought. Those absent women were grownups. They would have to take care of themselves. “There’s no way you guys can move in like regular roommates,” she said.
          Henry tried to interrupt.
          “But hang on. Maybe we can figure something out.”
          “What?” Polly demanded.
          Ellen smiled. Henry was so mild and Polly was so fierce.
          “We’ll tell them that you’re my cousins. No, you’re my nieces. We’ll say that my sister is going through a tough divorce and she sent you here to be with me for the summer, until things settle down.”
          “We could do that,” Henry said.
          “But you do have to call home. You have to let them know you’re safe. People, police, must be looking for you.” But not on Chestnut Street, right? Theirs was an uneventful residential street. The neighbors were used to people coming and going from 812.
          “I left them a note.”
          “Not good enough.”
          “But – ”
          “Calling is part of the deal.”
          “Okay,” Henry agreed.
          “We’ll keep it simple. I’m your aunt, your sister’s mother. If anyone asks questions, try to stick as close to what’s true as you can. You know, like your stepfather has a drinking problem and there’s no one else in the family who can help right now.”
          James trusted her and Henry had the money for the rent. Or, Henry had the money for rent so James wouldn’t argue. Ellen saw that this could happen, would happen. At least she’d get them in the door. James would believe what she wanted him to believe. No doubt there were a hundred things that could go wrong with this plan, but there wasn’t time for that now. She didn’t have to think about what could go wrong. She didn’t have to think about what would happen when Henry’s money ran out or the summer ended.
          She wished she didn’t have to lie to the others, but it was too complicated otherwise. James would believe her and they would believe her. It was the kind of lie everyone would feel good about believing.