The Great Gilly Hopkins

“Gilly. I called you and called you.” William Ernest stood clutching the doorway for support, his face still flushed with fever. He was dressed in his long grayish-white underwear. At the sight of a stranger, he stopped dead.

The woman looked at him once hard; then as she had done with Mr. Randolph, she looked quickly away.

“I’m sorry, W.E.,” Gilly said. “I didn’t hear you call me. What’s the matter?” As soon as she asked, she knew. His long johns were wet all down the front. Gilly jumped up. “’Scuse me, I’ll be right back.” She hustled the boy back to his room, as fast as you could hustle a boy who was still weak from fever and lack of food. It was hard to be patient with him on the stairs. “You shouldn’t have come downstairs, William Ernest. You’re sick.”

“I wet,” he said sadly. “I couldn’t help it.”

She sighed. “I know. When you’re sick, you just can’t help it.” She got him the last clean underwear, which was short and wouldn’t be as warm, and changed his sheets. She took a dry blanket off her own bed. He climbed in and turned his back to her at once, his strength exhausted.

“Gilly, honey,” Trotter called drowsily as Gilly passed her door. “You got company down there?”

“Just playing the TV.” Gilly smoothed her hair and tugged again at her shirt as she went down the stairs. She knew she looked a wreck. She must have shocked the poor old lady right out of her socks.

The woman gave a weak smile and nodded when Gilly came in. “You poor little thing,” she said.

Gilly looked behind to see if W.E. had followed her down.

“Bless your heart.” There was no one else around.

“Me?”

“Courtney didn’t exaggerate. I’m just so glad you wrote her, my dear. How could they have put you in such a place?”

“Me?” What was the woman talking about? What place?

“I know I shouldn’t have burst in upon you like this, but I felt I had to see for myself before I talked with your caseworker. Will you forgive me, my dear, for—”

There was a heavy thump, thump, thumping on the stairs. Both of them sat stark still and listened as it drew inexorably nearer.

“Ohhh!” The little lady gasped.

Swaying in the doorway was a huge barefoot apparition in striped men’s pajamas, gray hair cascading over its shoulders, a wild look in its eyes.

“I forgot!” It was moaning as it swayed. “I forgot!” It grabbed frantically at the woodwork. “I forgot.”

Gilly sprang to her feet. “What did you forget, dammit?”

“The turkey”—Trotter was almost sobbing now—“Fifteen dollars and thirty-eight cents, and I let it go to rot.” She gave no sign that she noticed the visitor.

“Nothing’s gone to rot. I would have smelled it, wouldn’t I?”—Gilly couldn’t help sneaking a sideways glance at the little woman, wh

o looked almost as frightened as W.E. did when he spied a new word in his reading book—“Go back to bed, Trotter. I’ll put it right in the oven.”

The huge woman made an effort to obey, but nearly fell down just trying to turn around. “I better set a minute,” she panted. “My head’s light.”

Gilly grabbed the back of the striped pajamas with both hands and half dragged, half supported the faltering frame toward the couch. But she knew—just as one knows when piling on one final block that the tower will fall—she knew they couldn’t make it.

“Oh, mercy!” Trotter gave a little cry as she came crashing down, pinning Gilly to the rug beneath her. The woman lay there, flapping on her back like a giant overturned tortoise. “Well, I done it now.” She gave a short hysterical giggle. “Squished you juicy.”

“What? What is it?” The third night-clothed actor had made his entrance.

“You awright, ain’t you, Gilly, honey?” asked Trotter, and without waiting for an answer, “S’awright, Mr. Randolph.”

“But someone fell. I heard someone fall.”

“Yeah, I fell awright.” Trotter was rocking her huge trunk in a vain effort to get to her feet. “But it’s OK, ain’t it, Gilly, honey?”

“Just roll, Trotter,” said a muffled voice. “Roll over and you’ll be off me.”