42 1 = 41She got one wrong, said John Beeze.
5 That’s all fine Ann, I said. Now, I’d like the 42 please. Numbers and Materials is over for today.
Danny was carefully pulling the pillowcase back over his father’s amputated arm. The rest of the kids were stirring in their seats, restless42 was too tricky a number to get really involved with. Lisa was out of her seat now, standing at the supply cabinet, holding up a pack of crayons.
See, she said, sorting through. Red, green, blue. None of these are beige, she said.
Ann held the 42 tight to her chest.
42 — 0 = 42! she said. What do you use to draw bread? she asked.
What do you use to draw potatoes?
Ann, I said, trying to keep my tone calm. You’re right, good point. Lisa, sit down. Those things are beige. I need the 42 please. But I don’t want to give it to you, Ann said, words rising.
I use brown for bread, said Lisa. I like wheat bread.
My voice leveled out. Ann, I said, have you ever been in the hardware store? Where did you find it?
Ann clutched the 42 closer.
I found it in the park, she said. Under my pillow.
And I use gray to draw potatoes, Lisa continued, from across the room.
I found it in my dinner, Ann said. In the mashed potatoes. All beige.
That’s a lot of mashed potatoes, said John Beeze, impressed. Come on, I said. It belongs to a man named Mr. Jones.
I know Mr. Jones! piped in Ellen.
Good, I said. Well then you know that he makes these numbers himself and he needs them. He absolutely needs every single one of them. Lisa, come back and sit down.
Ann clung to it. I love 42, she said.
I hated seeing it get dirty and melted from the warmth in her arms, and
the string was old and fraying and I had just seen it bouncing on Mr. Jones the other day, a grand permission slip for the universe. His face lifted, eyes clearer than usual, skin brighter, with light inside it. And I couldn’t stand to think of it gone, of him waking up and feeling exactly precisely 42 and not being able to lo cate his mood and searching and searching but finding Only 41 or 43, neither of which was quite right, not quite right at all, and having to drop down to the thirties, having to settle for something lower because he couldn’t announce it exactly.
Lisa walked back to her chair, making popping sounds with her mouth. John was in a thoughtful stupor, thinking about how big the plates must be at the DiLanno house. I held out my hand. Ann glared at me.
MY 42, she said, twisting with it. It’s perfect, she said. It’s not like that dumb arm that doesn’t look like a 1 at all.
Danny stood up. My arm is great! he said. My arm is number one!
My dad fought in the war! he said.
I’m not kidding around Ann, I said.
The bell rang for recess. Half the class ran out. Danny stood, taut and peacock-like for a second, and then picked up his i and hauled it away. Lisa hung around by the door. Ann remained in her seat, firm.
I found it in my ear, she said.
Lisa pulled in her breath. That is gross, she said. Can you hear me? She raised her voice. Helloooooo, she said.
I sat across from Ann.
I have an idea, I said to her. Why don’t you go to the hardware store with me after school. That’s where he works. We can give it back together then. He’ll be so happy you found his missing number. Maybe he’ll even give you a reward.
Ann’s eyes were shifting around the room. I was trying my ‘“isihl, sIgn hardest not to grab the 42 out from her lap when she wasn’t looking. I didn’t want to risk breaking it.
With you? she said. With me, I said.
Today? she said. Today, I said.
But I have ballet lesson at 4:3o, she said.
We’ll go right when school is out, I said. That’s plenty of time.
Okay, she said. Her face had been hard with determination but it softened a bit now.
I found it on my front lawn, she said. It was there waiting for me, just on time. Right there hanging from the front tree. It was perfect, she said.
42You found it on your front lawn? I asked.
Exactly, Ann said. Right on the tree in the middle of the front lawn.
The seat I was sitting on was wood and I reached my hand down and knocked on it then. Because Ann was 8. It was highly likely, it was almost ridiculously possible, that one of her parents was 42 — I couldn’t even stand to ask right then; I just wanted to get the number back to Mr. Jones and be done with it. My stomach unsettled itself, fearful.
Can I go? asked Lisa from the doorway, above the sounds of screaming students getting their snacks.
Sure, I said to her. It’s recess.
No, I mean to the hardware store, she said. Can I come too?
I looked at Ann. She waited for a second and then gave a shallow nod.
Fine. I said. We’ll all go at 3:00 and you can all meet Mr.
Jones.
Until then I’m wearing it, said Ann, standing up. She put the string around her neck and stood there, defiant. The number fell to her belly button, slightly distended under her red T-shirt.
Be very careful, I said4 lz is a good number.
It’s six times seven, Lisa said from the doorway.
It’s how old my mom and dad are, said Ann, running out to the yard for recess.
I had gotten one postcard from Joanna Stuart, my old neighbor, now in Florida. She smeared sand all over it and glued it on the card and sent it to me because I had begged her for one before she left. Look, I showed my mother-Florida. We put our noses up close to smell the sand which smelled like glue. My mother hung the postcard in her office. On it, Joanna had written: Hi Mona, I live in Florida, Bye.
They’d buried the baby here. I visited it sometimes, when walking around town, a quick detour through the cemetery, patting the grass and dirt, pretending I was Joanna. Hi baby, I said to it, this is your big sister here. I figured it wouldn’t know the difference.
The headstone was the same size as all the others. It was the only one with that last name.
Lisa, Ann, and I entered the hardware store at 3:20 that afternoon, after a difficult walk from the elementary school through the park.
The girls clambered over the benches and tree roots, fast and nimble, playing some pirate game made up clearly by Lisa, who was the bad pirate and was persecuting Ann, the slave pirate. Ann wasn’t happily playing along. Whenever she said, Let’s change games, Lisa said: Ohoy! Bad pirate wants to change games! Three hundred lashes with a whip! And that was the end of that. Ann finally retaliated by telling Lisa that her hair was beige. No it is not, Lisa huffed. My hair is called dirty blond. I use a yellow crayon to draw it, she said.
I didn’t intervene. I had no chalkboard to put names on. I only asked Ann once if her parents seemed okay and she didn’t understand the question; I shook my head, worried, grazing tree trunks with the edges of my knuckles.
When we reached the street, I asked Ann and Lisa to hold hands to get across. They refused for a few minutes and we just stood there, stuck on the sidewalk, and finally I agreed to let them touch elbows, faces turned away, like a mean-spirited country western dance. We crossed and then walked into the hardware store, bells signaling our arrival. I looked to the cashier. Mr.
Jones was not at the counter.
Ann and Lisa were sniffing down the aisles.
Doorknobs! Lisa cried out, holding up one of blue glass.
Ann was peering in the bin of iron nails and gently dipping her hand inside as if it were a tub of water. I looked to the empty spot on the wall where my ax had been.
Mr. Jones? I said.
There was no sound or movement anywhere. I guess he’s not here, I said.
The girls weren’t listening. Ann was putting a flashlight to use and spotting the walls with circles of white light, jiggling them into squiggles and lines and pluses.