Nora & Kettle by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

heavy with perfume fluttering up my nose. A small, sticky claw clamps over my wrist and shakes me.
    “Nora, we get to leave the house today. Field trip! Field Trip!” Frankie shouts, toppling her chair and galloping around the playroom with her ruler between her legs. I wince, still expecting tempers to flare and voices to rise to the rafters, but Miss Candace’s bosom jiggles with bubbling laughter as her eyes follow Frankie tearing around the small room that is now our classroom.
    “Now that’s enthusiasm,” she says, tapping her heart like the laughter has stolen her breath. She bends over my desk and tries to connect with my eyes. “Do you think you can muster some energy and enthusiasm to go to the zoo with us today, Miss Nora?”
    I nod, trying to lighten my expression, brighten my eyes. Watching Frankie makes me smile, and I haven’t been out of the house in days, at least not out the front door.
    “Yes, Miss Candace,” I reply, trying to shake the deadness from my face when I look into her raisin-like eyes.
    She gives a sharp clap and I jump, my heart sputtering before remembering that here is a safe place, a safe person. “Wonderful! Girls, get your coats and hats.” She rumbles out the room and tromps down the stairs. They creak under her weight as her short, bobbed hair bounces up and down with enthusiasm . Frankie runs all the way down the stairs and then back up, her energy exploding out of her socks. When Miss Candace reaches the bottom, she walks straight through, not around. My eyes sting and I sniff, wiping a tear away with my sleeve. She doesn’t know. It’s not her fault.
    Miss Candace opens the foyer door and leans her sizable rump against it, wrestling with Frankie as she puts one arm in her coat backward. She sighs, but she doesn’t scold. Her patience is infinite.
    A swish of leaves greets us at the slate step. I pause, pinned to the edge like a pigeon, my toes bending over. I gaze down at the crunchy, yellow leaves battling to get into the house and shake my head, warning them. You don’t want to go in there.
    Frankie climbs the brick guardrail of the stairs and tiptoes to the bottom, holding her hands out and jumping like she can fly. I’m still stuck on the step, my ashy-blonde hair curtaining my eyes. A hand wraps around my arm, and I flinch.
    Miss Candace lets go as suddenly as she grabbed me, as if she’s afraid I’ll bite her. “Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to scare you. But shall we get going?” The concern in her eyes is like arms outstretched to a sinking boat. I want to, want to, want to take them, but I can’t. I’ve got to tread the water on my own.
    Coated men storm down the shadowed paths underneath large oaks that are slowly molting. A homeless man drags a pram full of his belongings across the road, his face squished and angry. People sidestep him, and one woman hurries across the road when she sees him approaching. I raise an eyebrow; people are often scared of the wrong things. They don’t realize that sometimes, the menace lives in the lavish brownstone, sips expensive scotch, and defends laws they have no intention of abiding in their own home. Once upon a time, this man who grips the handles of a dilapidated pram so tightly had a different life. One that he lost or had taken from him. People don’t see. They don’t want to.
    “Where’s the car? Where’s Sally?” I ask, taking one step down to follow Frankie, who I know is about to ask the homeless man what’s in his pram.
    Miss Candace slings her purse crossways over her body and snorts, puffs of steam flowing from her nostrils like a racehorse. “We’re walking. We’re going to experience the city,” she says, tilting her chin at the old man with the pram. He tips his cap to her and shuffles along, and my affection for her grows. “Miss Frances, hold your sister’s hand.”
    Frankie grabs my hand and swings from it, almost popping my shoulder out of its socket. When she grips my wrist tightly, I