It’s the Job of Children by Joseph Hardy

A Trinket for Madge

by Marco Etheridge

Madge sat huddled on a stool in the damp reek of her newsstand. A monotonous rain fell from the night sky, neither hard nor soft. The rain beat a steady tattoo on the tin roof of the tiny shack. It was the rain of seasons, of years, as much a constant on this sodden land as Madge was a fixture in her plywood lair. She waited at her post, patient as a spider. Ollie would be here soon, he the third son to a woman twice-widowed, Madge’s favorite sort of toy.

An ancient electric heater roasted her booted feet while the rest of her lumpy body shivered under layers of wool. Madge’s legs were wrapped in woolen underwear, a pair of discarded tweed trousers, and over that a heavy skirt of plaid. The hem of her skirt was charred where the cantankerous heater had set it afire.

From her thick waist to her squat neck, Madge was swathed in two work shirts, a fisherman’s sweater, and finally, a puffy parka patched with duct tape. A hunter’s cap framed her broad face, earflaps secured by a strap that disappeared into the wattles beneath her jowls. Unruly wisps of grey hair escaped from the confines of the cap.

Madge’s kingdom was an arm’s breath deep by two wide. The front of the newsstand was hinged at the half. When raised, the wall formed a plywood and tar paper awning that protected her wares, glossy magazines plumping with the damp, lurid tabloids moist and inky to the touch. Propped on dubious wooden poles, the awning offered her few patrons a moment’s respite from the rain in which to mull over a meager purchase. A dry lure to trap the earnest and unwary.

And then Ollie appeared out of the dark squall, galumphing up the sidewalk in a drenched overcoat and dripping snap brim. The fool was smiling despite the cold and wet, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The young man plashed up to the newsstand and the protection of the propped awning, ducking under the string of bare bulbs glowing in the dark. He shakes the accumulated rain from his overcoat, mindful of Madge’s wares and glowering eyes.

“A fine good evening to you, Madge.”

“You’ve got something for me, Boyo?”

The old woman’s voice was harsh as a croaking crow.

“You know I do, Madge.”

With a clumsy flourish, Ollie swept a small object from his pocket and placed it on the warped plywood counter. It was a plastic hula girl figurine sporting a faux-grass bobble skirt. Ollie jiggled the base of the hula girl, causing the skirt to wiggle and jump.

A smile broke over valleys and ridges of Madge’s face. The transformation was not pleasing, but Ollie did not seem to notice. Madge reached out a crooked finger and poked the hula girl. The figure wiggled and danced. The old woman gasped out a wheezy chuckle and snatched the doll from the counter.

“Where shall she go, Boyo?”

Ollie squinted past the glare of the bare bulbs. The back wall of the newsstand was gridded with narrow shelves, such as those that hold potions and powders in an apothecary.

But Madge’s shelves held no dusty brown bottles. The shelves were overrun with trinkets and tokens, chipped porcelain dolls, and one-armed milkmaids. Ollie pointed to a likely spot. “How about next to that gilded Eiffel Tower? There’s a space there.”

Madge swiveled on her stool, looking like a toad marking a fat fly. She reached up, slid the hula girl beside the six-inch tall Eiffel Tower. She ran the tip of one finger down the length of the hula dancer, then turned back to the young man.

“That’s a fine bit of treasure, Ollie.”

Ollie made a show of looking over the headlines while Madge eyed the big galoot himself. The boy’s face was an open book, and the book told a simple tale. “It’s nothing, Madge. You know I’d never forget your present.”

Madge snorted to herself but held her peace. Oh yes you will, Boyo, she thought. One day you will forget and then woe betide.

“Look at this stuff, Madge. Girl turns straw to gold. Disgruntled musician abducts children. Madwoman shears stepdaughter, blinds boyfriend. Is there a word of truth to any of this?”

“Aye, there is Boyo, more truth than you’ll ever know.”

Ollie shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as he did with anything he did not understand, which was most things.

“Well, I’ll just be having my racing form then.”

Madge dug under the counter and came up with a tabloid-sized newspaper featuring a running horse. Ollie dug the money from his meager purse and handed it over. The transaction done, Madge leaned back on her stool, head sinking into her parka. Ollie waited, watching her. After a long pause, she spoke.

“Did you find a scrap of luck at the track today?”

“Scrap is the right word. I popped a middling place in the third and a show in the sixth. Poor odds on both. Just enough to pay for the gate, the form, a hard roll, and the hula girl there.”