The Underground

1

Winnie

Winnie Turner walked home from school by herself. She did this every day, and she didn’t mind, because it gave her what she called contemplation time.

Sometimes, she contemplated the houses in her neighborhood - aging Victorians kept up (or not kept up) by multi-generational black and Latino families, or fancy townhomes occupied by rich white folks with tiny dogs. Sometimes, she contemplated the wide blue sky above her, or a particularly persistent dandelion, pushing its way through a crack in the sidewalk. Other times, like today, Winnie simply walked with a book in her hands, contemplating what her life would be like if she ever got the chance to live one of the stories she so frequently lost herself in.

It wasn’t that Winnie’s life was all that escape-worthy, of course - for an 11-year-old girl living in Richmond, California, it was pretty good. Her grandmother, LaRose, was loving and attentive. Winnie could read well above her grade level, and she understood fractions, which her math teacher, Miss Keller, said were the key to just about everything. Winnie didn’t have a lot of friends at school, owing to her penchant for keeping to herself, but she had enough to play tetherball with on the rare occasion that she was without a book to lose herself in. It was just fine, she often told LaRose, when asked about her social life.

The truth was, Winnie Turner had been alone the majority of her 11 years, and it was enough for her that her days were filled with Northern California’s pleasant weather, plenty of food on the table and clean clothes on her back. She didn’t need the newest shiniest things that other kids clamored for, because every week, Winnie had new friends to make and new adventures to take, thanks to her library card.

The book she was reading now was an adventure, but not one of her favorites so far - The Swiss Family Robinson. Reading was a pretty loose term for what she was doing at the moment, because by two pages in, Winnie had actually stopped reading the book, and was now mostly just skimming it half-heartedly, hoping for an interesting passage. She wanted to at least try to finish it for Mrs. Carter, the sweet librarian who had recommended it. In truth, it should have been exactly the kind of book Winnie was into - full of clever inventions and mysterious intrigue in a far-off land - but she was struggling hard, on account of the old-fashioned language and the fact that it was basically about a bunch of white boys shipwrecked on a tropical island (two things she knew very little about).

The last two books Mrs. Carter had recommended had been fantastic - The 21 Balloons and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - but this one had her questioning the woman’s judgment. No smart, spunky girls, no colored people. Winnie kept hoping for some Island of the Blue Dolphins warrior princess like Karana to turn up, but so far, the book just seemed like a lot of stories about how to eat and tame a hundred different animals, with rambling diary entries from the boys’ suspiciously religious father. Winnie actually yawned as she was walking, just as she heard a voice call out to her from across the street.

Hallo, Winnie! It was her neighbor, old Mrs. Zaslavsky, waving from her front porch. Zaslavsky held up a pale and skinny arm, covered in shiny bangles, that ended in delicate maroon-painted fingertips, and Winnie waved back.

Hey, Mrs. Zaslavsky! Winnie called, giving the lady a cheerful grin. She headed over to say hello and take a break from her snooze-fest of a story.

"And what are you reading today, devotchka?" Zaslavsky’s thick Russian accent sounded like dusty music, twinkling when she talked. Devotchka was a term of endearment she used with Winnie. Grandma said it was like Russian for miha, which Mr. Ramirez at the corner bodega called her. Winnie headed up onto the porch and held out the book as the old woman put her glasses on to take a closer look.

She turned it over, reading the back. Ah, yes, I know this one! A good story, no? Winnie shrugged. I’m not really feeling it, to be honest. Seems like mostly a lot of white boys running around. I liked the treehouse, though. Zaslavsky laughed - a tiny sound deep in her chest, almost like a snort. She laughed the way Winnie imagined Smaug from The Hobbit laughed. A petite but stunning woman even in her old age, Mrs. Zaslavsky had always made Winnie feel like she was in the presence of greatness. She sometimes told herself that the sweet old lady across the street was actually a long lost Russian princess in hiding, like Anastasia. Yeah, right, Winnie thought, like a Russian princess would be hiding in Richmond.

I think I have a better one for you, the old woman said, and leaned on her cane gently to hoist herself out of her patio chair. Come inside.

Winnie followed Zaslavsky into the house. It was a little gem of a place, the smallest on the block - even smaller than Grandma’s apartment - but what Winnie liked the most was the smell inside. She’d been over a bunch of times, most recently for the woman’s 80th birthday party, but was still fascinated every time she walked in. It smelled like cinnamon, and fireworks, and almond cookies, musty with the dust of old people and wrinkly paper. Like the pages of library books, and the mothball-scented sweaters at the Salvation Army. There was a plush burgundy loveseat pushed up against the window, and thin lace drapes on the other side of the living room, through which the afternoon light poured in. On the walls were portraits of family and friends, and yellowing newspaper photographs of Zaslavsky as a prima ballerina in Buenos Aires’ Teatro Colon. A handful of her former students had made it out to her party, sharing elaborate stories of the woman as an Argentine spy during the revolution. Winnie peered at one of the photos, trying to see the octogenarian in the 20-something dancer, poised on a single toe like some exotic silk flower.

Mrs. Zaslavsky, were you really a spy in South America?

Zaslavsky chuckled, her same guttural laugh. Ha! I don’t speak of this. She walked over to Winnie with a book, looking like she barely needed that cane at all. If I told you, I would have to make you disappear. Your grandmother would be very upset. You understand? Zaslavsky winked and Winnie shook her head.

She handed the girl a thin volume with fancy gold writing on the cover, and Winnie ran her hands over it, reading the title aloud. Marya Morevna?

Zaslavsky nodded. This is a good story. Sword fighting, strong women, evil wizards. Handsome princes. Maybe you will like it. But— she shrugged, —also, many white people.

That’s okay, Winnie smiled, and Zaslavsky walked her out.

"It is so good you read, devotchka. Many girls today, they see no value in it. Always, the phones, the computer, but no books. It’s very sad. Never lose it, this love of books. It will take you very far." She squeezed Winnie’s shoulder affectionately.

"Well, Grandma won’t let me have a phone, and our computer is about a hundred years old. Anyway, I like books. Mrs. Carter always says, ‘Books let you travel for free.’ And… they remind me of my mom, I guess."

Zaslavsky smiled at this. Oh?

She was always reading to me. I don’t remember a lot about her, but I remember that.

She was a smart woman, your mother.

Winnie shrugged. It was hard to know anything about a woman who left her daughter with her mother-in-law before disappearing forever. Some days, Winnie imagined Ayesha Turner was cruelly taken by malicious forces, and other days, she just thought her mother was a love-struck knucklehead she was better off without. Today, like many days, Winnie was on the fence. Zaslavsky seemed to read Winnie’s ambivalence, and her lined face softened a little.

When we do not know the whole story of a person, sometimes, it is best to think good, not bad. As for me, I believe that a smart daughter can only come from a smart mother. Winnie half-smiled at the compliment, polite but not entirely sure she was in agreement.

In any case, Zaslavsky continued, as she headed back up to the porch, "Books to read, homework to do, yes? I think you will like Marya Morevna. You will ‘feel’ it? This got a chuckle out of Winnie, and she grinned. I sure hope so! Thanks, Mrs. Zaslavsky."

"My pleasure, devotchka."

And with that, she watched the girl head back down the street, book in hand.

The smell of peanut butter cookies hit Winnie like a sucker punch when she opened the front door.  Immediately, her heart sank. Grandma only made cookies when she needed to cushion a blow. Grandma? she called, and LaRose Turner