ROSIE  MALDONNE’S  WORLD  

Translated  by  Alexandra  Maldwyn-­‐Davies  

This  is  a  work  of  fiction.  Names,  characters,  organizations,  places,  events,  and  incidents  are  either  products  of  the  author’s  imagination  or  are  used  fictitiously.  

Text  copyright  ©  2013  Alice  Quinn  

Translation  copyright  ©  2015  Alexandra  Maldwyn-­‐Davies,  from  Pimienta.com  

All  rights  reserved.  

No  part  of  this  book  may  be  reproduced,  or  stored  in  a  retrieval  system,  or  transmitted  in  any   form  or  by  any  means,  electronic,  mechanical,  photocopying,   recording,  or  otherwise,  without  express  written  permission  of  the  publisher.  

Previously  published  as  Un  palace  en  enfer  (Au  pays  de  Rosie  Maldonne  t.  1)  by   the  author  via   the   Kindle   Direct   Publishing   Platform   in   France   in   2013.   Translated   from   French   by  Alexandra   Maldwyn-­‐Davies,   from   Pimienta.com.   First   published   in   English   by  AmazonCrossing  in  2015.  

Published  by  AmazonCrossing,  Seattle  www.apub.com  

Amazon,  the  Amazon  logo,  and  AmazonCrossing  are  trademarks  of  Amazon.com,  Inc.,  or  its  affiliates.  

ISBN-­‐13:  9781477827567  ISBN-­‐10:  1477827560  

Cover   design   by   Marc   Cohen  Cover   illustration   by   Aurélie   Khalidi  Library   of   Congress  Control  Number:  2014921446  Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America  

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday:

My Home Sweet Home

1  My   name   is   Rose.   Rosie   Maldonne.   37-­‐26-­‐35.   That’s   not  

my  cell  number.  No,  those  are  my  measurements.  Apparently,  I’m   a   total   knockout   from   head   to   toe.   I   couldn’t   tell   you,  though.  I  don’t  have  a  full-­‐length  mirror.  

Being   called  Rose   is   about   as   lame   as   it   gets,   but   it’s   the  only   thing   my   mother   left   me.   That’s   why   I   can’t   handle   it  when  people   call  me  Rose.  She’s  the  only  one  who  ever  had  the  right  to  do  that.  I  have  people  call  me  Cricri  instead.  That  sucks  even  more,  I  know.  It’s  nothing  like  Rose.  But  I  always  liked  Jiminy  Cricket,  and  at  least  it  doesn’t  start  me  off  crying.  Because,   you   see,   my   mother   died   almost   nine   years   ago,  when  I  was  sixteen.  I’ve  missed  her  ever  since.  

The   two   of   us   were   as   thick   as   thieves.   She   taught   me  everything.   Like   how   to   fill   out   a   welfare   application   (they  called  it  “aid”  back  then).  How  to  berate  the  guys  down  at  the  job   office   (a.k.a.   “the   unemployment   line”)   when   the  paperwork   was   taking   too   long.   How   to   dump   a   guy   who  steals  your  money  and  fools  around  with  other  women.  How  to  wax  using  heated  sugar,   and  how   to   color  your  hair  with  henna.   How   to   look   your   best   in   a   push-­‐up   bra,   preferably  

red.  

That  Sunday,  the  day  this  whole  thing  started,  I’d  decided  to   call   my   friend,   Mimi   (short   for   Émilie),   to   see   if   I   could  borrow  some  money,  seeing  as  the  kiddos  and  I  had  nothing  to   eat.   Mimi   was   rich   because   she   worked   full-­‐time,   which  wasn’t  the  case  for  me.  She  was  the  only  one  I  could  ask  for  a  loan.  

It  broke  my  heart  to  see  my  kids  go  without.  I  loved  them  so   much.   I   had   a   litany   of   nicknames   for   them   that   I   was  always  blurting  out:  chickadees,  rug  rats,  crib  lizards.  I  loved  to  crack  them  up.  

The  phone  rang  for  a  while  and  Mimi  finally  picked  up.  But  as  soon  as  I  spoke,  she  cut  me  off,  accusing  me  of  not  knowing  how  to  manage  my  budget  and,  above  all,  of   still  not  having  paid  back  the  last  money  I  owed  her.  

“Listen   Mimi,”   I   started.   “You’re   right—the   last   time   I  wasn’t  all  that  careful  when  I  did  my  groceries,  and  I  bought  a  load  of  shit   I  didn’t  need,  but   this   time   it’s  different  because  school’s  back  and  everything,  and  they’re  late  with  my  check.  It’ll   only   be   for   a   couple   of   days,   that’s   all.   Come   on,   Mimi,  don’t  make  me  beg   .   .   .  Yes,   sweetie,   I   saw!  You   finished  your  poopie!  Wow!  It’s  beautiful,  my  little  trickster  .  .  .  No,  Mimi,  I’m  not   talking   to   you,   I   was   talking   to   Emma.   She   was   on   her  potty   .   .   .  No,   there’s  nothing  crazy  about   it.   I  have   to  praise  her  sometimes,  right?  Wait,  no,  wait,  honey,  no!  It’s  not  paint,  Emma!  She  just  decided  to  go  paint  the  couch  with   .   .   .  Yes,  I  know  you’re  not  all  that  interested  and  you  can’t  stand  kids  .  .  .  OK,  right,  so  this  cash,  can  you  come  through  or  not?  Emma!  

Stop!  No!  NO!  Emma,  are  you  listening  to  me?   .   .   .  Yeah,  sorry,  hmmm?  You   really   can’t?  OK,   I   have   to   go   now.   I’ll   call   you  back,  OK?”  

I  hung  up  and  screamed,  “She’s  so  goddamn  mean!  Such  a  stuck-­‐up  cow!  That  dumb  bitch!”  

“Mommy,   you   jutht   curthed!”   cried   my   five-­‐year-­‐old,  Sabrina.   Her   lisp  was   ridiculously   cute,   even  when   she  was  being  her  stickler  self  and  chastising  me  for  bad  language.  

I  ignored  her  and  continued  to  rant.  “I  know  good  and  well  she  has  at  least  six  hundred  in  her  account,  and  she  says  she  can’t   lend  me  any  money?  Emma!  Come  over  here  and   stop  spreading   that   on   the   cat.   And   your   face.   Come   on,   let’s   get  you  in  the  shower.”  

Mimi   blows   all   her   money   on   threads.   She’s   single.   It’s  cool.   She   gives  me   her   clothes  when   she’s   done  with   them,  and   she’s   often   done  with   them.   That’s  why   I   look   so   great  and   somehow   manage   to   fool   everyone.   When   I   visit   the  social   worker,   I   can   tell   she   drools   over   these   castoffs.   Red  leather   miniskirts,   orange   satin   corsets,   fluorescent-­‐pink  wedges.  The  jealousy  kills  her.  Which  often  doesn’t  help  with  getting  things  done.  

I   left   Sabrina   with   a   coloring   book   so   I   could   throw   the  twins   in   the   shower   stall.   They’re   not   really   twins   and   they  couldn’t   look   more   different—Lisa   so   pale   and   blonde   and  Emma  with  her  dark  complexion.  I  just  call  them  that  because  they’re   the   same   age—two   years   old   at   that   time.   That’s  when   I   realized  we  had  no  hot  water.   Something  must  have  

busted  somewhere.  

And   to   top   it   all   off,   Pastis   (my   cat)   was   complaining  because   I’d   given  him  only  a   saucer  of   sour  milk  with   three  crusts  of  bread.  

See,  I  don’t  tend  to  have  much  luck.  My  surname  is  pretty  apt:   Maldonne   literally   means   “misdeal.”   It’s   my   father’s  name.  He  married  my  mother  when   they   found  out  she  was  pregnant.  A  month  before   she  gave  birth,  he   ran  out  on  her  and  went  off  to  Canada.  But  I  couldn’t  care  less.  I  never  knew  him.  

Maldonne.   It’s   a   term   used   in   card   games.   If   someone  doesn’t  deal  the  cards  right,  they  call  it  a  misdeal.  And  that’s  exactly  what  happened  to  me.  When  I  started  out  in  life,  I  was  dealt  a  bad  hand.  

Names  mean   something.   If  my  name  had  been  Madonna,  for   example,   things  might   have   been   quite   different.  Maybe  I’d  have   turned  out   to  be  a  pop  star   too.  Who  knows?  Right  then,   on   that   dreary   Sunday,   I   felt   like  my   name   should   be  Rosie  Misfortune.  

Take,   for   example,   the   fact   that   I’d  never   found  anything.  I’d  met  tons  of  people  who  told  me  all  about  the  stuff  they’d  found.   The   perfect   couch,   a   box   full   of   groceries  when   they  were   homeless,   the   right   address   for   the   Social   Security  office,   or   even   their   very   own   knight   in   shining   armor.   But  not  me.   I  never  understood  why.  Fate?  Chance?  Luck?  Did   it  all   come   down   to   one   thing?   And   if   I   looked   for   it,   would   I  ever  find  it?  Doubtful.  

Even   so,   I   liked  when   there  was   a   reason   for   everything,  even   if   I   never   found   the   reason.   Just   like   I   never   found  anything  else.  It  wasn’t  for  lack  of  trying.  I’d  spent  my  whole  life  trying,  and  I  always  ended  up  with  the  same  result.  

NOTHING.  

Another   of   my   particular   skills:   I   never   won   anything  either.   You   could   take   any   bet   you   liked   with  me.   I   always  lost.  

But  life’s  full  of  surprises,  right?  

I   was   headed   for   a   two-­‐in-­‐one.   I   was   going   to   find  something  and  win  something.  

I   had   a   hunch   that  maybe  my   luck  was   finally   changing.  Just  like  on  Wheel  of  Fortune  when  a  contestant  gets  on  a  roll.  Spin   .   .   .   and   narrowly   miss   the   Bankrupt   to   win   the   Prize  Puzzle.  

I  should  have  had  my  doubts.  

 

 

   

 

 

2  Lying   in   bed   the   night   before,   I   could   hear  my  mother’s  

voice  singing  the  Beatles  song  “Money  (That’s  What  I  Want).”  

I  couldn’t  tell  whether  I  was  dreaming  or  not.  I  tossed  and  turned   when   I   was   supposed   to   be   getting   a   good   night’s  sleep.   Of   course,   early   the   next   morning,   I   couldn’t   get   up.  And  I  couldn’t  get  the  lyrics  out  of  my  brain.  The  singer  says  that,   yes,   there   are   many   beautiful   free   things   in   life,   like  sprawling   landscapes   and   love,   but   what   he   really   needs   is  money.  

It  was  exactly  what  I  was  going  through.  

One   thing  was   for   sure,  my  mother   loved   that   song.   She  used  to  sing  Beatles  songs  a   lot—and  just  then,   I   felt   I  could  hear  her  singing  to  me.  

That’s  how  I  knew  my  mother  was  with  me.  

She   sends   me   songs.   It’s   our   way   of   communicating.  Usually,  the  message  is  clear  and  I  know  how  to  decode  it.  But  not  always.  

Since  getting  pregnant  the  first  time,  when  I  was  nineteen,  

I’ve   tried   to  get  by  as  best   I  can.  But   I  was  beginning   to   feel  old.   I  was   almost   twenty-­‐five   and   I   had   three   kids.   All   they  wanted   to   do   was   grow   up.   Two   had   come   out   of   me.   The  third   arrived   by   way   of   life’s   unpredictable   circumstances.  And  I’m  not  talking  about  a  man-­‐child  who  ended  up  staying  for  God  knew  how  long.  

The   kids   were   making   a   terrible   racket.   I   resisted   with  everything   I   had,   putting   my   head   under   the   pillow.   I  dreamed   I  was  already  up,   so   I  didn’t  have   to  go  ahead  and  actually  do  it.  

Finally,   when   they’d   shrieked   too   much   and   jumped   all  over   me,   I   had   to   surrender   and   admit   I   wasn’t   asleep  anymore.  

I   just   couldn’t   face   what   the   day   had   in   store   for   me.   I  knew   there   was   nothing   left   to   eat   in   the   house.   I   know   it  sounds   melodramatic   to   say   that   in   twenty-­‐first-­‐century  France,  but  it  was  the  truth.  

As  for  using  the  word  house,  well  .  .  .  we  didn’t  actually  live  in   a   house.   We   lived   in   a   trailer.   A   1985   Caravelair.   It   was  pitched  next  to  the  abandoned  railway  station,  in  the  middle  of  a  vacant   lot.  But   it  could  actually  be  pretty  nice  there.   It’s  full   of   poppies   in   summertime,   daisies   in   spring,   and  sometimes  blueberries.  The   rest  of   the  year,   though,   it’s   full  of  muck.   I  had  put  planks  along   the  ground  so  we  could  get  home  without  ending  up  covered  in  it.  My  monkeys  love  this  place.  

Despite   my   chronic   bad   luck,   I’m   sometimes   able   to  

summon   my   inner   optimist.   I   opened   the   cupboard,   full   of  hope.  But  there  was  nothing  much.  I  opted  for  a  few  crackers.  

The   song   carried  on   in  my  head.  Maybe   if   I   keep   singing  about  money,  it’ll  come  to  me.  

I   couldn’t   help   but   think   that   the   day   before   school  beginning  had  already  started  out  pretty  badly.  This  year,  the  first   week   of   school   started   on   Tuesday,   September   4.   You  have  to  wonder  why  a  Tuesday.  The  school  isn’t  even  open  on  Wednesdays!  

I   wished  we   had   croissants   for   breakfast,   for   the   kids—though  to  be  honest,  it  was  I  who  wanted  a  hot  croissant  with  a   strong   cup  of   coffee.  Without   coffee,   I   need   to   be  handled  with   kid   gloves.   Without   my   morning   coffee   beans,   I   start  getting  palpitations.  Anxiety  attacks.  

But  I  toasted  the  crackers  instead,  and  we  had  them  with  what  was  left  at  the  bottom  of  the  jam  jar,  and  the  imps  were  happy.  I  managed  to  fool  them  again.  

Ahmed,   the   jackass  at   the   store,  won’t  give  me  any  more  credit.  He  says  I’ve  racked  up  too  much  debt.  We  won’t  even  bother   talking   about   the   other   local   stores;   they   wouldn’t  trust  me  as  far  as  they  could  throw  me.  

The   words   of   the   song   ran   through  my   head,   telling  me  that  all  the  love  in  the  world  would  not  pay  for  my  food.  

Yes,  I  know,  Mom!  Thank  you!  

Apart   from   my   not   having   any   money,   everything   was  

going  pretty  well.  

And  if  it  weren’t  for  the  whole  lack-­‐of-­‐food  problem,  I’d  be  ready  to  face  the  day  with  a  spring  in  my  step.  

I   decided   to   extend   the  weekend   some   and   not   take   the  little   ones   to   daycare   (which   children   here   attend   until  preschool   begins   at   age   three).   Sabrina  was  headed  back   to  preschool  tomorrow,  so  we  would  enjoy  the  last  of  our  time  off.   The   schools   are   on   opposite   ends   of   the   city,   so   the  following  day,  the  cavalcade  would  begin  again!  

When  things  are  going  wrong,  I  try  to  sleep  in  as  much  as  possible,  because   I  know  once   I  get  up,   I’m  going   to  have   to  put  on  a  good  show  the  rest  of   the  day.  Although  my  kiddos  are   hilarious,   having   three   of   them   isn’t   always   easy.  However,   they’re   the  only   area  of  my   life  where   I  am   lucky.  When  I  see  the  awful  kids  whacking  the  hell  out  of  each  other  at   school   and   the   dumbass   mothers   who   come   to   collect  them,  each  one  more  unbearable  than  the  next—well,  next  to  that  bunch,  mine  are  incredible.  I  know  I  sound  biased,  but  I  swear  it’s  the  truth.  Pure  and  simple.  

And   then   there’s   my   cat.   He’s   the   other   area   where   I’m  lucky.  If  I  believed  in  reincarnation,  I’d  say  he  was  definitely  Einstein.   But   I’ll   stop   there.   I   know  how   annoying   it   can   be  when   people   go   on   about   their   pets.   It’s   even   worse   than  people   telling   you   all   about   their   dreams.   Well,   maybe   not  that.   There’s   nothing  worse   than   people   telling   you   about  their  dreams.  

So,  today’s  goal  was  to  come  into  some  cash.  But  knowing  

my  terrible  luck,  I  was  fighting  a  losing  battle.  

 

 

 

3  My  first  hope  for  cash  was  already  dashed  after  that  call  to  

Mimi.   She   could   have   at   least   lent  me   a   twenty.   Yeah,   right.  Why  even  bother  with  a  cheapskate  like  that?  

The  trouble  was,  she  was  the  only  person  I  knew  who  had  any  cash.  She  didn’t  have  to  watch  every  penny  at  the  end  of  the  month  with   the  number  of   clients   she  had.   It  wasn’t   the  same   for  me.   Ever   since  my   grandmother   stopped  working  the  streets,  that  option  had  become  taboo  among  the  women  in   my   family.   We’re   all   for   sexual   freedom,   but   true   sexual  freedom.  

I   have   to   be   fair.   Mimi   had   another   job   with   declared  income.  She  was  a  waitress  at  Sélect,  like  me.  Except  she  was  on  a  full-­‐time  contract,  and  I  worked  when  I  could.  With  the  three  babas,  that  wasn’t  very  often.  

Sélect   is   a   coffeehouse   in   the  Old   Town.   The   boss,   Tony,  had  always  been  cool  with  me.  But  only  because  he  wanted  to  sleep  with  me.  I’m  not  saying  I  didn’t  like  him—he  was  OK  for  an   older   guy   (he   was   thirty-­‐four).   It’s   just   I’d   never   really  considered   it.   My   instinct   told   me   that   if   I   said   yes,   he  

wouldn’t  keep  me  on  as  an  off-­‐the-­‐books  waitress  any  longer.  

And  that  wouldn’t  suit  me  at  all.  I  needed  the  dough.  

Plus,   he   let  me  work   the   hours   I  wanted,  which   came   in  handy  with  a  bunch  of  rug  rats.  

And   on   Saturday   evenings,   Tony   invited   a   band   to   play,  and  the   last   time,   the  musicians  were  really  sweet—they   let  me  wail   like   a   banshee.   I   love   to   sing.   At   home,   it’s   second  nature:   I   sing   from   dawn   to   dusk.   Maybe   that’s   why   my  mother  sends  me  songs  at  night.  I  wake  up  with  lyrics  in  my  mind,   and   they   follow  me  all   day.  They’re   always   songs   she  loved,   which   explains   the   dated   repertoire.   There   are  messages   for   me   to   decode.   Mysteries.   Enigmas.   Puzzles   to  piece  together.  The  following  day,  it’s  rare  I  don’t  understand  what   my   mother   wanted   to   tell   me.   The   solutions   to   my  problems  can  be  found  in  the  songs  she  sends.  I   just  have  to  hit   the   right   note.  The   only   solution   for  me   that   day  was   to  head   to   Sélect   with   the   three   chickadees.   I   steered   them  toward  the  back  of  the  coffeehouse  with  some  coloring  books.  

I  did  a  two-­‐hour  shift,  enough  so  that  Tony  was  happy  to  give   me   fifteen   in   cash.   This   clarified   the   lyric:   I   needed  money,  I  wanted  money,  and  now  I  had  money.  

We’d  all  perked  up,  so  we  headed  out  to  treat  ourselves  to  some   Mickey   D’s.   That’s   where   we   bumped   into   my   best  friend,   Véronique,   Véro   for   short.   She   worked   afternoons  cleaning  for  an  insurance  company.  

Véro’s   cool,   but   she’s   misery   personified.   I   don’t   know  

how   this   girl   manages   to   attract   so  much   unhappiness,   but  it’s   like  clockwork.  Either  her   landlord   is  kicking  her  out,  or  her  boyfriend  is  beating  her  up.  I  say  “boyfriend,”  but  I  mean  whatever  guy  just  happens  to  be  around,  because  she  doesn’t  have  a  steady  man.  I  don’t  have  one  either,  of  course,  but  it’s  not  the  same.  Véro  spends  all  her  time  crying  that  she  doesn’t  have  a  man  in  her  life.  Me?  I  couldn’t  give  a  crap.   I’m  not  on  the  lookout  for  one,  either.  On  the  contrary,  I’d  say  they  were  looking   for   me.   A   little   too   much.   My   problem   has   always  been  how  to  get  rid  of  the  latest  one.  

When  we  got   to  McDonald’s,  my  girls  made  a  beeline   for  Véro’s  older  kid,  Simon,  and   they  all  went  off   to  play  on   the  slides.  

Véro  had  a  face  three  feet  long,  and  I  could  tell  right  away  that   something   was   up,   but   she   didn’t   want   to   tell   me  anything.   For  once   in  her   life   she  wanted   to   listen   to  me  do  the   talking.   Her   mind   was   elsewhere,   but   she   listened  anyway.  She  ended  up  saying,  “If  you’re  short,  I  can  lend  you  some  money.  I  got  an  arrears  payment  through  welfare.  I’ll  go  to   the  bank  tomorrow  and  give  you  some  when  I  see  you  at  Victor  Hugo.”  

Victor  Hugo  Elementary  School  is  where  my  Sabrina  goes.  She’s   in   her   third   year,   and   Simon   is   in   his   second.   They  agreed  to  take  Simon  into  the  second  level  on  the  insistence  of   the   shrink,   even   though   his   language   skills   are   slightly  delayed.   Simon  doesn’t   like   to   talk.  We’re  not   sure  he   really  knows  how.  He  stutters.  Sometimes  he  busts  out  with  a   few  snippets,   and   sometimes  nothing.  When  he’s   really   tired,  he  

won’t   open   up   at   all.   Only   Sabrina   understands   him   all   the  time,  even  when  he  says  nothing.  She  interprets  for  us.  

Sitting  outside  McDonald’s,  Véro  seemed  anxious.   I  asked  her  where   Pierre,   her   younger   son,  was,   and   she   burst   into  tears.  

I  was   scared.  When   you   ask   a  mother   about   her   kid   and  she  starts  wailing,  you   immediately  think  about   leukemia  or  something  awful  like  that.  Plus,  Véro  is  so  fragile  and  pretty,  with   her   hair   cut   short   and   her   big   eyes,   that   you  automatically  feel  the  need  to  protect  her.  Seeing  her  cry  like  that  made  me  upset.  

“What’s   the  matter?  Oh,  Véro!  Stop  with   the  waterworks,  please!  Tell  me!  Has  something  happened  to  Pierre?”  

“No,  he’s  fine.  You  know,  it’s  just  that  I’m  so  happy!”  

Her   answer   left   me   speechless.   “Happy?   What   do   you  mean,  happy?”  

When  stuff  like  this  happens,  it  makes  you  understand  just  how   limited   your   vocabulary   is.   Take   the   word   happy,   for  example.   That   day,   I   realized   it  was   a  word   nobody   around  me  ever  used.  Or  words   like  happiness,   joy,   tranquility,  bliss,  peace,   satisfaction,   well-­‐being,   serenity,   ease,   lightness,   and  ecstasy.  But  as  for  anger,  misfortune,  unlucky,  misery,  trouble,  tired,   fed  up,   exhausted,   crap,  drab,  garbage—we  used   them  all.  They  were  my  daily  life.  

Yet  Véro  was  happy:  she’d  met  a  man  who  was  crazy  about  her.  Some  guy  who’d  been  a  teacher  in  the  Haute-­‐Savoie,  but  

who’d   grown   sick   of   the   snow   and   come   south.   He   didn’t  work  as  a   teacher  any  more.  He’d  met  Véro  and   fallen  head  over  heels.  She’d  told  him  everything:  that  she  had  two  kids;  that  her  idiot  ex,  Michel,  wouldn’t  divorce  her;  that  he’d  torn  the  couch  fabric  into  thin  strips  .  .  .  everything.  Well,  this  new  guy—his   name   was   Alexandre,   like   some   emperor—was  totally   taken   with   her   and   the   children,   and   today   he   was  taking   care   of   Pierre.   They’d   headed   off   on   a   bike   ride  together.  

“Even  all  the  shouting  matches  between  Michel  and  me  .  .  .  well,  I  just  don’t  care  about  them  anymore.  I’m  on  a  total  high.  I’m  on  top  of  the  world.”  

“Why?   Have   you   seen   that   bastard   again?   Did   he   come  back?  What  did  he  want?  You  fought,  right?”  

But   she   didn’t   answer   any   of   my   questions.   She   just  shooed  me  away.  A  lazy  sweep  of  the  hand.  

With  that,  she  stood  to  leave,  smiling.  I  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  and  she  walked  away,  taking  Simon  by  the  hand.  

I   returned   home   deep   in   thought.   It’s   not   every   day   you  bump   into   Happiness   with   a   capital   H.   When   the   kiddos  began   rearranging   anything   and   everything   that   could   be  moved   in   the  Caravelair   to   build   a   fort   in   the  middle   of   the  living   room,   I   didn’t   have   the   heart   to   stop   them.   I   put   all  three  of  them  to  bed  right  inside  it.  

Pastis   had   been   hiding   atop   a   cupboard   through   all   the  commotion,   and   as   soon   as   the   monkeys   were   asleep,   he  

came   down   and   set   about   rubbing   against  my   calf.   In   other  words,  What  about  me?  Do  you  have  a  bite  to  eat?  I  gave  him  the  half  a  hamburger  from  lunch  that  I’d  saved  for  him,  but  he  didn’t  want  it.  I  told  you  he  was  odd.  He  sulked  and  meowed  to  go  out—I   think  he  was   trying   to  catch  a  mouse.   I  opened  the   door   reluctantly.   He’s   the   only  man   in   the   family,   and   I  like  it  better  when  he’s  home  with  us  at  night.  

I’m  grateful  Emma’s  dad  offered  us  this  trailer.  I  know  he  only  gave  it  to  us  because  he  couldn’t  do  anything  else  with  it,  given   its   condition,   but   he   really   did  me   a   favor.   I   had   just  been   evicted.   I   couldn’t   risk   going   into   one   of   those   awful  shelters  for  single  moms.  I’d  rather  starve.  

You  have   to   learn  how   to   be   grateful   for  what   life   offers  you.  Thank  you,  Caravelair,  my  home  sweet  home.  

 

Tuesday:��� A Cop Who’s Too Cute

for His Own Good