What Matters

It’s recess. We have to stay in the classroom because it’s drizzling, but the no-talking rule is suspended, and we can leave our desks to walk around. Mrs. Kaminski, our teacher, keeps a collection of books in the back of the room, and we can borrow them to take home.

This is Mrs. Kaminski’s first year teaching fourth grade. I like her, especially her hair. It’s long and blond, and she clips it back at her temples to keep it out of her eyes or maybe so she can see us better. She’s soft-spoken, reminds me of Grace Kelly, the actress who married that prince.

I slide The Family Under the Bridge from the shelf, where I’ve hidden it. I want to take it home, ask my brother Danny to help me with some of the words, especially the names of the places in Paris. He’s sixteen, and he reads a comic book called The Three Musketeers, about three French guys. Mrs. Kaminski calls me to her desk, and I wonder if I’m in trouble, because the book is brand new, so I’m not sure she’s letting anyone borrow it yet. I hold it close to my side and walk up the aisle to her desk. The other kids are clustered in little groups, talking and laughing, so no one notices me.

Mrs. Kaminski is vague at first. She asks me how I am and whether I liked the story we read in class this morning, so I nod. When she sees the book I’m holding, she asks if I’d like to go to Paris someday. I nod again, although I can’t imagine that happening in real life. Me and my sister Irene and my little brother Kevin are more like the homeless kids the hobo finds under the bridge. We only moved back to the Bronx with my dad again a few months ago. Before that we were living with my aunt in Brooklyn for almost a month.

“So you’re enjoying the story?”

I can tell she wants me to say something, so I tell her I like the old hobo. “He shares his food with the children, even though he says he doesn’t want them around.”

She smiles, but I think there’s something else she wants to know. “That’s the dress you wore yesterday, isn’t it?” she says finally.

I look down at myself. “Yes.”

“And who takes care of your clothes for you, Mary Ann? Who gets you ready for school?”

The question makes my legs feel weak, like I’ve done something wrong. Mama was angry yesterday when she got home from work, wanting to know why Irene hadn’t gone to the Laundromat. Irene is twelve, two years older than me. She does almost all the chores now that our two oldest sisters are married. This morning we woke up late, so I put on the only dress I could find, my blue one. It was on the chair in the corner, where I left it. It was wrinkled and dirty, but I didn’t see any bad stains. The hem was down in the back, but I was sure it wouldn’t matter, because mostly the kids don’t talk to me in school or even notice me.

Mrs. Kaminski is waiting for an answer. She’s holding her red pencil in both hands, rolling it between her fingers like she’s nervous. Her eyelids are powdered pale blue to match her blouse. She pays attention to color. A scarf will set off some stripes in her dress.A blue belt will match a ribbon in her hair. When Mama met her at the parent-teacher’s conference, she said Mrs. Kaminski was a good dresser. I’m sure my teacher doesn’t think I’m a good dresser, not today. I can see she’s embarrassed for me, sad for me even, because when I tell her I take care of my clothes myself, her eyes widen, and she looks at me with a surprise I’m sure is only make-believe. “Well, that’s really something. And you’re only ten.” I think she knows I’m lying.

I nod. I don’t want to say anymore, because I can’t tell her the truth. My sister Kathleen used to do all the laundry, but she got married almost three years ago. There was a big fuss about it because she was only sixteen, but she was having a baby and Mama said it was the right thing to do. I miss her, but Kathleen seems happier now. She says if things get really bad—she means if Daddy tries to hurt us—we can always come to her. But nobody can stop Daddy when he’s drunk. She pretends to forget that, maybe because she feels bad for leaving us behind.

“You must be a great help to your mom,” Mrs. Kaminski says.

But I’m not, not like Irene. All I do is add to Mama’s troubles. Another mouth to feed, she’ll say. She doesn’t mean to hurt my feelings. She just doesn’t make much money, and things are hard for her. She has a part-time job on the weekends, as a cashier at the Vogue Theatre on Tremont Avenue, but it doesn’t pay much. Neither of her jobs do.

Mrs. Kaminski opens her top drawer and takes out an envelope. It isn’t school stationery, it’s pink. Something is written in script on the front. I know it’s my mother’s name because Kathleen taught me how to make Ms and Gs in script. “Give this to your mom for me, okay?” she says.

“I will,” I whisper.

“Very good.” She smiles to show me we’re done.

Walking back to my desk, I struggle to stay upright, to keep my shoulders straight. It’s like I’m caving in from a weight I can’t carry. By the time I sit down I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Lightheaded, I try hard not to cry as I tuck the envelope into the front pocket of my book bag. I don’t look at anyone around me, and I pray no one saw the teacher give me the note. Kids have returned to their desks, but Mrs. Kaminski is busy at the supply closet, so I open The Family Under the Bridge, turn to the page with the picture of the old hobo and the three kids, the part where the girl tells him their mother said to hide under the bridge or they’d be put in a home for poor children. I don’t want to look up, see Mrs. Kaminski’s face, not even when she calls the class to attention, because my mind is made up. My mother will never see that note. 

Mrs. Kaminski is a nice lady, but she’d never understand what things are like for us. Mama works long hours, but she can’t keep up with the bills. Daddy works at the Light House for the Blind in Queens, but by the time he gets home on payday, he’s already spent most of his money at the Mapes Tavern. They let him run up a tab, and then he has to pay it off. Sometimes when he wins money playing the numbers, he buys us ice cream and soda. My brother Danny says he used his winnings to take us to Coney Island a couple of times to go on the rides, but I don’t remember that. Anyway, he mostly loses. Danny told me once that Daddy used to give money to Fr. Maloney, a priest who was helping the IRA buy guns, until he wouldn’t accept Daddy’s money anymore. Said it wasn’t right, because we couldn’t afford it. But I’m never sure if Danny is making stuff up or telling me a secret he shouldn’t be telling. I asked Sean if the IRA stuff was true, but he just grinned. Kathleen waved the question away as if it wasn’t worth thinking about.

After school, I hide the blue dress in the corner of the closet. When Mama gets home, she places her hand on my forehead, says I feel feverish. Maybe it’s because I’m still upset about the note. She lets me stay home from school the next day, and after she leaves for work I wash two of my dresses at the kitchen sink with a bar of Ivory soap and hang them on the clothesline that runs across the courtyard outside our kitchen window. When the blue one dries, I take a needle and thread and try to fix the hem, then put the dresses away, so Mama won’t notice. But Irene does. She takes out the stitches in the hem and shows me how to weave them so that only a little bit of thread shows on the outside.

She says nothing to Mama about helping me. We both know there’s no need to get her upset over something that doesn’t really matter.