“Eggs,” she whispers.
In her bedroom, she peers through the curtains to confirm that the glimmers are flurries. Using mittens, boots, a scarf, and an umbrella, Madeleine turns herself into a warm, dry house.
7:10 A.M
In the back bedroom of the Kelly family’s row home, Clare Kelly plaits her second, perfect braid. She administers advice to her little sister who sits on the bed, transfixed. Clare is proud of herself for allowing Elissa to pal around. She can learn from Clare’s mistakes — not that there have been many — and her achievements — which have been plentiful, praise God. Student of the Week, Month, and Year certificates pose on her wall.
Clare finishes the braid with a pink barrette and admires herself. The barrettes will reflect the light of Saint Anthony’s stained glass when Father Gary announces, “Clare Kelly will now lead us in the responsorial song.” She will step-touch to the foot of the altar under the worshipful gazes of her classmates. Step-touch to genuflect at the statue of Mary, making full stops on her forehead, breastplate, left collarbone, right collarbone. Step-touch to the microphone.
Clare Kelly never has shark fins when she combs her hair into a ponytail, and her braids always part diplomatically.
Her mother gazes at her daughters from the doorway. “Time to go to school.”
Clare is proud of herself for being the kind of daughter who doesn’t rebel against her parents. Even when they told her she was having a little sister after they’d promised she’d be an only child. She could have answered “garbage” when they pointed to her mother’s swollen belly and asked what she thought was in there. But did she say garbage, or a stocking of poop or a lizard? No. Clare Kelly said, “My li’l sister,” taking care to furbish “little” with an adorable slur.
Clare helps Elissa into her backpack before donning her own. The Kelly girls file down the carpeted stairs, past the makeshift bar with a sign that reads Kelly’s Pub, to where their father waits, cheek thrust out in anticipation of each girl’s kiss. Every day this kiss, then the short city walk to school. Clare, then Elissa plants one on Dad’s smooth cheek and Mom opens the door. Flurries fall in the halo of streetlights. Clare elbows Elissa out of the way. She wants to be first into this snow-wonderful world.
It is her last conscious thought before being struck by a speeding bicyclist.
Clare is hurled against the brightening sky by the force of the handlebars against her thigh. The rider, sliding on his side, meets her falling figure against the base of an electric pole. As if they planned.
Elissa’s screaming hits enviable notes. What range that little girl has!
7:15 A.M
Café Santiago comprises the bottom level of a two-story, aggressively flower-boxed building on Ninth Street. The store fits a table with eight chairs and three display cases selling sweets and prepared foods that vary daily depending on Mrs. Santiago’s moods. Christmas cacti bloom in empty gravy cans on the windowsills. Above the counter hangs a life-sized portrait of Mrs. Santiago’s late husband, Daniel. Mrs. Santiago lives on the second floor with her dog, Pedro, who is currently, on Christmas Eve Eve, missing.
She stands behind the counter feeding sausage mixture into a casing machine, coaxing out smooth links from the other side. The shop smells like fennel, the cold, and coffee.
Sarina Greene, fifth-grade art teacher at Saint Anthony of the Immaculate Heart, peers into a display case, weighing the merits of three different kinds of caramel. She sways to the instrumental jazz playing on the café’s speakers and points to a pile of stately cubes. “Would you say this caramel is sweet or more chalky?”
“Sweet,” says Mrs. Santiago.
“That would be good for Brianna but not for the other Brianna,” Sarina says.
“How many do you need?”
“Only one, I suppose, but it’s a popular name. We call one Brie to keep them straight.”
“How many,” Mrs. Santiago says, “kinds of caramel?”
Sarina grimaces. “My brain’s not working today. I looked for my keys for ten minutes. They were in my hand.”
“Must be love.”
“Ha!” Sarina cries. Mrs. Santiago’s elbow startles a stack of coffee filters. She stoops to collect them. “I don’t know how many kinds I need,” Sarina says. “I have twenty-four students. Leigh is allergic to everything and Duke is diabetic. He’d turn red if he ate a caramel apple. Become unresponsive and die.”
Mrs. Santiago blinks. “We don’t want that.”
“Which caramel would you use?”
“Medium dark.”
“Fine.” Sarina nods. It is her first year back in her hometown since high school, summoned by her mother’s death and the aching blank page that follows divorce. She counteracts the feeling of being a failure by plunging into every task like a happy doe into brush. Today: these caramels. Last night: spelling each of her student’s names in glitter on the brims of twenty-four Santa hats.
“One pound?” Mrs. Santiago says. “A pound and a half?”
Sarina’s phone begins its embarrassing call at the bottom of her purse: “Wonderwall.” She roots through her bag, finds what she thinks is her phone, and shows it to herself — calculator. She paws through tissues, a sewing kit, her wallet, pipe cleaners, a parking voucher from a crochet class she tried, where she made a tote bag, this tote bag, out of old T-shirts — it is kicky but contains too many caverns. The song continues its assault, then — at last — her phone.
Her grade partner is calling, a woman who finds no situation over which she can’t become frantic. Sarina dumps the call into voice mail. The bells of the door clatter. Georgina McGlynn enters from the dark, shaking snowflakes from her coat. Sarina and Georgina, who everyone calls Georgie, went to high school together.
“Picking up a pie for tonight,” Georgie says with an apologetic air. As if she needs a reason to be in this shop at this hour. This cues Mrs. Santiago, who disappears into the back.
“Pie is …” Sarina says.
The women look in different directions. No radio plays. The street hovers between night and dawn. This is the second time they’ve run into each other in the neighborhood, both times marked by stammering and adamant friendliness.
“Key lime,” says Georgie.
“Wonderful.”
“You should come!” Georgie’s volume frightens both of them. “It’s the old gang.”
Sarina has never been part of a gang. “Tonight?” she says, then remembers Georgie has already said tonight. A forgotten flurry announces itself on the top of her head. It burns wet. “I can’t tonight.”
“You must.” Georgie’s tone is panicked. “They would love to see you. Michael, Ben …”
Mrs. Santiago returns with the pie.
“You don’t want this bag of potatoes hanging around,” Sarina says.
The room’s silence doubles down. Sarina has no idea why, in the presence of this ex — punk queen from high school, she is compelled to insult herself. Bundling the pie, Mrs. Santiago tsks.
“You’re not a bag of potatoes,” Georgie says. “Is that ‘Wonderwall’?”
Sarina searches the bag again. This time it’s Marcos, her ex-husband. “Must be Call Sarina Day,” she jokes, dumping the call into voice mail. Georgie wasn’t present for the other phone call, she realizes. So the joke makes no sense and Sarina now seems like a girl who rejoices upon receiving any communication from the outside world.
“Key lime.” Mrs. Santiago passes it over the counter and Georgie pays. She pulls a card from her wallet and hands it to Sarina.
“Call if you change your mind.” She bells onto the street, pie in hand.