The Great Gilly Hopkins

“Oh.”

Score a point for Gilly.

“Well”—Trotter shifted her weight to her left foot, keeping her eyes on the carrots she was scraping—“William Ernest is in the living room watching Sesame Street.”

“My god, you must think I’m mental or something.”

“Mental?” Trotter moved to the kitchen table and started chopping the carrots on a tiny round board.

“Dumb, stupid.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

“Then why the hell you think I’m going to watch some retard show like that?”

“Listen here, Gilly Hopkins. One thing we better get straight right now tonight. I won’t have you making fun of that boy.”

“I wasn’t making fun of that boy.” What was the woman talking about? She hadn’t mentioned the boy.

“Just ’cause someone isn’t quite as smart as you are don’t give you no right to look down on them.”

“Who’m I looking down on?”

“You just said”—the fat woman’s voice was rising, and her knife was crashing down on the carrots with vengeance—“you just said William Ernest was”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“retarded.”

“I did not. I don’t even know the stupid kid. I never saw him in my life before today.”

Trotter’s eyes were still flashing, but her hand and voice were under control. “He’s had a rough time of it in this world, but he’s with Trotter now, and as long as the Lord leaves him in this house, ain’t anybody on earth gonna hurt him. In any way.”

“Good god. All I was trying to say—”

“One more thing. In this house we don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

Gilly threw both her hands up in mock surrender. “All right, all right. Forget it.” She started for the door.

“Supper’s ’bout ready. How about going next door and getting Mr. Randolph? He eats here nights.”

The word No was just about to pop out of Gilly’s mouth, but one look at Trotter’s eyes, and she decided to save her fights for something more important. “Which house?”

“The gray one on the right.” She waved her knife vaguely uphill. “Just knock on the door. If you do it good and loud, he’ll hear you. Better take your jacket. Cold out.”

Gilly ignored the last. She ran out the door, through the picket gate, and onto the porch next door, stomping and jumping to keep warm. Bam, bam, bam. It was too cold for October. Mr. Ran

dolph’s house was smaller and more grubby-looking even than Trotter’s. She repeated her knock.

Suddenly the door swung inward, revealing a tiny shrunken man. Strange whitish eyes stared out of a wrinkled, brown face.

Gilly took one look and ran back to Trotter’s kitchen as fast as she could go.

“What’s the matter? Where’s Mr. Randolph?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone. He’s not there.”

“What d’you mean he’s not there?” Trotter began wiping her hands on her apron and walking toward the door.

“He’s gone. Some weird little colored man with white eyes came to the door.”

“Gilly! That was Mr. Randolph. He can’t see a thing. You’ve got to go back and bring him by the hand, so he won’t fall.”