“okay. I’ll tell you. She’s a snowbaby. A little iddy biddy one.” She busied herself gathering and shaping snow, narrating her process. “And her name’s going to be Kelly. No. Emma . . .” She jabbered on, accompanied by the chain saw. I let my head rest against the bricks, my eyelids float down, my mind drift.
“Eww. Yuck.”
Eww, yuck? I didn’t want to get up again. I didn’t even want to open my eyes. The sun felt so gentle and soothing. A warm caress. “Molly. Remember, don’t touch stuff you find in the street. Leave it alone. Okay?”
Silence. Damn. What relic of city life had she found now? I always worried about debris she might encounter on the sidewalk. Broken Budweiser bottles, used needles. Discarded underwear. Used condoms. “Molly? What are you doing?”
She was fixated on it, whatever it was; her monologue had stopped. I opened an eye and watched her dig, retrieving something from the snow.
“Molly, don’t pick up stuff from the street.” How many times a day did I have to repeat that? Ignoring me, she closed her hand around it and lifted the thing.
“You’re not listening to me. Okay. Time to go in.”
She didn’t move. She held on to whatever it was and stared.
The gravel eyes of a snowbaby followed me as I came down the front steps.
“Molly. Drop it.”
Silently, she let it go, and it landed on the snowy sidewalk with a tiny frozen thud. I looked down. At first, I thought it was a stick. Then I saw the red part. Damn. What had she picked up? A hunk of rotting meat? A half-eaten hot dog?
“Molly. Answer me. Are you allowed to touch stuff from the street?”
She looked up with wide, baffled eyes. “No.”
Taking her by the wrist, I glanced once more at the thing on the ground. It lay at our feet, filthy, bright red at one end, its form gradually taking definition. I blinked at it a few times. Then, holding on to Molly, I fled with knees of jelly, in slow motion, up the steps.
Under the grime, there was no mistaking what it was, even though the nail was broken and the crimson polish chipped.
TWO
“ZOE, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT? THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN kids play on the street.”
Susan set the measuring cup on the counter and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. Susan Cummings was my best friend. As soon as the police left, Molly and I had rushed to her house, and I’d just finished telling her what had happened.
Susan’s house felt safe. Located about ten blocks from us on Pine Street, it was a solid 150-year-old brick building with twelve-foot-high ceilings, framed arched doorways, cut glass windows, and polished hardwood floors. It was full of fireplaces, cushioned furnishings, and cinnamon smells. Susan’s neighborhood, near Rittenhouse Square, was a picture of prosperity and stability. Neighbors with Gucci shoes popped over for a glass of pinot noir or homemade biscotti. In summers, they organized block parties; in winters, they gathered for eggnog and Christmas gifts. The street was pristine, wreathed for the holidays and safe to walk, even at night.
My neighborhood, on the other hand, managed to remain rough-edged and unruly. In the mornings, nannies pushed lace-lined prams down sidewalks where drunks had relieved themselves hours before. Crime was common; cars and homes were broken into, muggings were not unheard of, and recently a couple of young women had simply disappeared. Susan and I lived in homes just a mile apart but somehow on different planets, and I ran to Susan’s whenever I needed to escape mine.
While we talked, Susan was busy baking, gathering ingredients for crust. “Which detective did you talk to?”
I saw him again, standing on our front stoop. Behind him, two uniformed men crawled on the curb, sifting through street soot and gutter slush. “Ms. Hayes?” he’d asked. “Detective Nick Stiles.” He’d flashed his badge.
“Stiles?” Susan repeated. “Young guy?”
At the time, I hadn’t considered his age. Now, trying to estimate, I recalled my first impression of the detective at my door. He’d checked the spelling of my name, Z-O-E, H-as-in-Harry-A-Y-E-S, assessing me quickly, up and down. I’d felt his eyes register each inch of a taller than average, still slender woman with strands of gray streaking her long hair, lingering a bit too long on the full lips and smallish but nice breasts. I bristled at the memory but stayed with it