| Faded Colors By Jim Correale The little girl is ten. She makes her way through the doors of the Laundromat pushing a flimsy Playskool baby carriage ahead of her. In the carriage, in the place where you might expect to see a Playskool baby, there is a large green plastic bag. The girl is ten and she is wearing a little white sundress, which has tiny pictures on it; images of animals and toys in various colors�red, green, orange. The colors are faded. As she shoves the glass door open with her left arm�barely wide enough for her and her load to squeeze through�she propels the baby carriage over the threshold with her right. She is ten and the black shoes she wears are too big for her feet and make clip clop sounds as she walks, making her way over to the washers. The red frame of the baby carriage looks rickety as she rolls it along the cement floor. The cloth seat sags low with the weight of the green plastic bag, looking as though it�s about to give birth. I know her. She lives in a three-decker a few doors down from mine. She lives above a liquor store with her mother, her two brothers and her sister. I have seen a boyfriend come and go. The liquor store is on the corner of the square, and I walk by all the time to run errands or head off to the subway. I see her near her building, or up the street, or in the square. She usually says hi to me. I know the little girl, and I get up to greet her. I have been sitting at the back end of the Laundromat, sitting and eating Chinese food from a white Styrofoam container. A woman I am seeing is sitting in the orange plastic seat that is next to mine and she is also eating Chinese food. We ran down the street to the fast food place after stuffing her clothes into a few washers, came back in plenty of time to shift them to a couple dryers and now we are waiting for them to finish. I place my Styrofoam encased dinner on my chair and walk toward the girl. She has her head down, digging into the green plastic bag and pulling out t-shirts, jeans and underwear. I see that her sundress has a couple of stains on it and should be part of the washer-bound wardrobe. She looks up quickly. �Hi,� she says, and smiles, all teeth. She continues to rifle through the garbage bag, filling the washer. �Hey�how ya doin�?� I say. I lean on the machine next to the one she is using. I look around the place and wonder if somebody watching would think that I am some sexual deviant attempting lure a vulnerable, unsupervised child to my home. However, no one is paying any attention. �OK,� the girl says. �Just doin� laundry.� Her hair is different shades of brown, tousled and falling unevenly, past her shoulders. Her skin is deeply tanned and somewhat grimy. Both her knees are scraped, and there is a scratch across the left side of her chin. When the first washer is full of clothes she tosses quarters into the slot and then moves to a neighboring machine. I slide over to follow. The woman I am seeing calls out my name. I turn halfway around and make eye contact with her. I feel the washer fill with water and vibrate softly beneath my hand. �Who is that?� the woman calls from the orange plastic chair. She is still eating her Chinese food. �This is Angela. She�s my neighbor.� The girl looks at me and smiles once more. I turn myself completely toward her again. �What happened�where�d you get that scratch?� I ask her and slowly reach out my hand to her face. I am concerned that if I move too quickly I will spook her, but she doesn�t flinch as my thumb carefully runs along the mark. �Oh�well�my little baby sister�she is three years old and she likes to scratch. I was watching her yesterday and she grabbed my mom�s lighter off the kitchen table and when I took it from her she scratched me.� �Was anybody else there?� �My brother Eddie, but he�s no help.� �And what�s Eddie�twelve?� �Eleven. Eddie�s eleven and Michael�s twelve.� �Oh. Where was your mom?� �She went to cash her check.� �So she wasn�t gone long?� �No, but after she came home she went out again. She went to play Bingo. Last week she won fifty bucks and she said she is going to buy me new sneakers.� The girl moved to a third machine. �Aw, but I know if she does that Michael and Eddie are gonna cry about it.� She looked at me and I laughed. She rolled her eyes and said, �Oh well!� I notice then the gray of her irises; it is the gray of rainy winter afternoons. �So did you have to watch your sister all night?� �Well, Steve�he�s my mother�s boyfriend�he came over, but after he ate he fell asleep on the couch.� The girl finishes placing the clothes into the three washers, each load with some powder detergent sprinkled on top, like confectioner�s sugar on a dessert. She scrunches up the green bag and sets the detergent box on it, in the carriage. There are several people in the Laundromat, but it is not particularly crowded. One woman, an employee of the place, is at the front counter, folding some drop-off customer�s load. �Do you always do your family�s laundry?� I asked. �Hmmm. Sometimes. And sometimes my mom does it and I help her.� �Did you push that carriage across the square yourself?� �Yeah. It wasn�t that heavy.� �Well, you have to be careful with all the cars. Where�s your mom now?� �She�s home.� The woman I am seeing calls out my name again. I turn and she is staring at me. I walk back to the orange chairs. She tells me that my Chinese food is getting cold. She says she is full and she asks me if I want the rest of hers. I look at her Styrofoam container, which still has a mound of rice and some chicken in it. When I say no she gets up, walks to the bucket and dumps her food in. I stare at her and then I turn towards the little girl. �You hungry, Angela?� I call out. �Yeah,� she says. �Come �ere.� She walks back toward the dryers, and I sit her down in the orange chair, place the Chinese food on her lap and tell her to eat. She thanks me. After a while, the woman�s clothes are finished drying, and we pull them out and pack them up. As we prepare to leave, the girl is still eating. �How is it?� I ask. �It�s good.� I hesitate, then tell her that I have to go. She says, �Bye. Thanks.� �Be careful crossin� the square when you go home,� I say as I head toward the door. I look back and I see her nodding. With her clothes in the back seat, I drive toward the woman�s apartment, which is across town. She asks me about the girl, and I tell her what I know. While I talk, she plays with the radio dial. Then she asks what I want to do tonight. I tell her that I don�t feel well and I�m not sure that I want to do anything. I carry the clothes up to the woman�s apartment, stand around for a minute and then tell her that I am really feeling awful and that I have to go. I flee her building and drive anxiously with the radio off back to the Laundromat, wanting only to offer the little girl a ride across the square and to her house. From my car I attempt to look in through the glass doors, but the view is murky. I get out, walk over and put my face to the glass, but the little girl is not there. |