Songs of Willow Frost by Jamie Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

back and saw Charlotte looking dejected, leaning on her cane and staring in the direction of the bookmobile. The librarian smiled uncomfortably and politely ignored her.
    At the orphanage everyone took turns sweeping floors, scrubbing toilets, washing dishes, and doing laundry. In all of the excitement, William had forgotten his assignment for the day—kitchen cleanup. As Sunny donned an apron and began washing the dishes, William hauled out the trash, each of them working faster than usual, afraid that the marvelous library on wheels would leave while they labored.
    William dragged the garbage cans behind the main building, where he separated the refuse into large bins. One was for normal garbage. The other was filled with vegetable peels, apple cores, and other food scraps that local pig farmers would pick up and use for slop. He was so excited about the bookmobile that he began to think Sacred Heart wasn’t so bad. Maybe it’s safer if I just write to her , he reasoned. If she knows I’m here she’ll come for me. Dear Willow Frost …
    Then William looked into one of the bins and saw a familiar face on a crinkled piece of paper—his photo of Willow, covered in eggshells and soiled coffee grounds. He fished it out with a stick, then wiped the image clean with his shirttail, doing his best to dry it off, smoothing out the wrinkles. He surmised that Sister Briganti didn’tapprove of the glamorous photo and had crumpled it. She must have tossed it out with the morning garbage . William gently folded the damp picture and slipped it into his pocket. Then he snuck back into the dormitory and regarded the blank spot where his Popsicle frame had been. Alone he sat at the foot of his bunk, where he took out the picture, which still smelled of rotting fruit. He gazed at the strange, mysterious woman and whispered, “Why, Ah-ma?” as the ghost of his mother stared back.

Checking Out
    (1934)
    William spent most of that cold, drizzly Saturday afternoon stuck inside, atop a stepladder as he cleaned the third-floor windows. The tender skin on his fingers had wrinkled and pruned as he dipped sponges, again and again, into wooden buckets filled with vinegar and water. He gazed through the spotless glass as he wiped the surface dry with old newspapers. He admired the lofty view, staring through the fog toward Chinatown, trying to remember the smells of the Tai Tung Restaurant, the taste of sesame on oily chow fun noodles, and the sound of his mother’s voice. I have to leave , William resolved. He’d been driven to distraction by the thought of Willow coming to town and then vanishing before he ever had an opportunity to look into her eyes, searching for answers to his brokenhearted questions. As William regarded the panorama of mist and tall buildings, he noticed his own reflection—the shape of his face, his chin, which mirrored that of the mysterious woman he’d seen on-screen. He watched the light change in the polished glass as he tried to divine his future, a Gypsy peering into a crystal ball, seeking substance from shadow. Then Sister Briganti walked by and barked at him for daydreaming, lollygagging, and for wiping his hands on his breeches, where he’d left inky fingerprints and streaks of yesterday.
    William cleaned up and met Charlotte after dinner in the studylounge. She needed someone to read her history assignment for her, so William had volunteered, as he always did, even though he still struggled with the big words and complicated, Western-sounding names. As he read aloud, he looked about, knowing he was Charlotte’s only option for help because the other kids acted so queer around her. When others read to her, they’d increase the volume of their voices as if she were deaf, or phrase things in simple terms as if she were dim. Sitting next to Charlotte, William remembered all the times a new boy would arrive, how that boy would turn his head when he saw her strawberry-red hair, only to quickly lose interest