Chapter Two
Wet sandpaper scrapes across Olive's cheek. Her eyes slit open and she forces her joints, stiff from the hard basement floor, to straighten in a stretch.
More sandpaper.
She pushes it away, her hand meeting with soft fur. "Morning, Moneybags."
An excited whine and the puppy nudges at her with its nose.
"Okay, okay—hold your horses."
Olive rolls to her knees, pulling off the patchwork of discarded, glittery shawls that make up her blanket. She stands and stumbles to the sooty window that opens at ground level. Bending to catch Moneybags, he squirms in her arms as she struggles to lift him above her shoulders and out the window. "Pretty soon you'll have to use the door, like the rest of us!" Olive shouts after him as he scrambles into the weedy back parking lot. He'll scrape at the window when he wants back in.
Olive stumbles back to her shawl blanket when a devastating thought sinks in, paralyzing her.
Why didn't Charlie let the dog out?
Charlie brought the dog home for the gang, but Moneybags rarely leaves Charlie's side when he is in the factory. Slowly, Olive turns to Charlie's sleeping area—what is supposed to be a pile of old coats and one pillow. As the leader of the group, he warrants the only pillow the gang has ever managed to steal.
All of it is gone, except for the pillow. The light blue cushion lies next to Olive's bed.
"Charlie?" She glances around the room and the slightly stirring blobs that make up the rest of the orphans. Her eyes keep coming to rest on the pillow.
"Charlie!" she calls again, desperate now. Her voice catches in her throat.
"What's with all the yapping?" A muffled, grainy voice comes from the blob closest to her.
Olive stumbles toward the pillow and sinks down on to her knees. There is a small depression in it, and several tufts of beige hair. Moneybags must have slept on it after Charlie left. Olive doesn't blame him. She brings the pillow to her chest inhaling its scent; it still smells of Charlie.
Pain in her chest blossoms, sinking down into her stomach. Curling over the pillow, as if it could soften the blow, Olive's eyes go blurry with tears.
She hears the blob next to her rise. Dragging footsteps approach.
"What happened?" Davis asks.
"Charlie left," Olive manages to squeak out.
"He on breakfast duty? I thought that was me—"
"He's gone for good, idiot!" Olive snaps. "And maybe if you got up when the bakery opens, when you were supposed to, you could've caught him—stopped him from going or something."
"Hell, Olly—how do you know he's gone for good?"
Davis' voice grates on her. All she wants is to be left in peace to mourn Charlie, but more blobs are rising.
"Did he leave a note or something?" Davis asks.
"He knows ain't none of us can read, except Olly," someone else pipes up. "Does Charlie even know how to write?"
Olive shakes her head. Teardrops stream down her face, mixing with dirt and the perpetual layer of ash that covers everything in the factory basement, until gray tears plop on the floor.
"He told me last night—I just didn't think he'd do it without sayin' goodbye," Olive says.
She squeezes the pillow tighter, his last message to her. He wants her to take charge. Scooting over to her bed, Olive lays on the pillow and pulls the shawl blanket over her head, ignoring the questions and nervous chatter of the other orphans. Already, several of them are crying. Olive squeezes her eyes shut and clamps her hands over her ears. She concentrates on the different textures of the shawls spread over her. Beads, sequins, and tassels woven in to soft, feather-light material. Imagining them draped around her body in a dress that rivals that of any flapper on the street, Olive hums the tune of Minnie the Moocher. The trumpet and saxophones jump in for a big opening.
"Olly?"
Olive sings the only words she knows to the song. "Hi De Hi De Hi De Hi."
Shaking at her shoulder. "Should one of us go get breakfast then?"
"Oh De Oh De Oh De Oh," she sings louder, the actual words buzzing in her head to drown out the sounds of the other orphans.
"Ah, leave her alone," she can hear Davis mutter. "Her bubs are in mourning."
Laughter follows the orphans out of the basement. One of them lets Moneybags back in before leaving. He trots to Olive and plops down beside her. The saxophone solo dies on her lips. She reaches out to scratch the dog behind his ears.
"Why d'ya let him leave, huh?"
Moneybags runs his tongue over his snout.
"You're a stupid dog, anyway. Never gonna find one like him again. The way Charlie took care of ya…You're gonna miss him." Olive sighs, shakes her head, and pushes herself up. Taking advantage of the vacancy, Moneybags curls up on Charlie's pillow.
Olive pushes him off. "Your manners have deserted you!" Tucking the pillow safely under her arm, Olive fishes for a pair of gloves under her blankets.
She pulls out a soft, silky pair that are mauve pink. Olive smiles to herself. With only one small hole burned through the wrist by a cigarette, it is her best pair. She snatched them out of a puddle on the side of the road after they were discarded by a flapper leaving a nightclub. They matched the color of the flapper's eye shadow.
Olive slips them on and runs one finger vigorously across her lids. With any luck, the agitated skin will stay pinkish for another hour; though not nearly close enough to the shade of the gloves. Pinching her cheeks for good measure, Olive stands and looks down her nose at Moneybags. "I'm off to bring our Charlie back, since you won't do nothing about it. But first," Olive takes a deep breath and turns toward the door, "I need more persuasion than just a dingy ol' mutt."