"I'm home!" Spencer announced. "What's for dinner?"
"Food," said Coraline.
"Great," Spencer sighed sarcastically. Spencer did not appreciate her mother's cooking skills, Finley thought. She liked the food her mother made. Well, most of the time.
She went back into the dining room and sat down at the table. Spencer sat down, too. "Any good books today?" he asked. He knew that Finley often read several books a day during winter break.
"I read about Protective Coloration," Finley answered.
"That's good. That's a very important skill to learn."
Finley looked suspiciously at the man who, soon perhaps, would become her father. "Spencer, can you tell me what Protective Coloration is?" she challenged.
He looked a bit guilty, "Guess I was sleeping during that day of school. Or passing notes to your mother."
Coraline came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of steaming vegetables. "Yum," Spencer said. "But where's the meat?"
Coraline shot him a look. Finley could always identify 'the look'. Her mother showed it to Spencer often.
"Protective Coloration! Spencer was telling me about it," Finley blurted, trying to create a more positive atmosphere.
"Oh?" said her mother, amused.
"Well, you know," Spencer shrugged and grinned. "If I can come home from work and teach the kid some science, I'm happy."
Finley frowned. She didn't like being called a "kid". Her mother noticed the frown.
"She has a name, Spencer."
He raised an eyebrow. "I know she does. It's a term of affection."
Her mother's voice became a little strained, "'Kid'? A term of affection?" She turned to Finley, "Do you like when he calls you that?"
Finley had to shake her head.
"How was I supposed to know?" Spencer chuckled, "My dad used to call me that all the time."
"And you liked it?" her mother asked.
"I don't know about that, but—didn't your parents give you a little nickname?" He smiled, "Or were they too busy gardening to talk to you?"
Coraline said a swear.
Finley started crying (but just a bit, and the tears left as suddenly as they had arrived).
"I'm not hungry," Coraline said, and stood up. She walked off.
Spencer followed her, calling, "Now hold on a minute–"
Finley waited a reasonable amount of time, then gave up and ate her dinner alone. The vegetables had too much salt on them, but they still tasted good to Finley, who was very hungry. And being alone meant she didn't have to ask nicely for someone to pass her the potatoes, or worry about what they would say when she spilled some of her water on the tablecloth. She even tipped her chair back and dangled her feet, which she never could have gotten away with if Coraline and Spencer were at the table.
Angry-sounding voices came from upstairs, so she decided to go outside.
After she cleared her plate and put it into the dishwasher, Finley put on her coat and gloves. The coat had been given to her by her best friend at her ninth birthday party, so it was special. The gloves had been her mother's when she was young. They were more special.
Finley pulled open the front door and stepped out into the cold night air. It was always cold in New York City in November. The winds blew with a vengeance, and you could catch cold if you weren't careful. Finley made sure her coat was fully zipped. She didn't like the idea of catching a cold. And besides, she thought, how does one catch a cold? Isn't it more like the cold catches you?
The snow was deep, up to her knees. "Perhaps I should have put on pants," she muttered to herself.
"Perhaps you're right," said a kind voice. "What are you doing out here this time of night, young lady?"
Finley smiled politely at her next-door neighbor, "I decided to take a walk. Mother and Spencer are having a private talk."
Mrs. Stevens was no stranger to the situation.
"Sure is cold out tonight," she commented. Finley nodded in agreement, and wrapped her arms around herself.
"A hot cup of cocoa sure would be nice on a night like this."
Finley nodded again, but more enthusiastically.
"How 'bout this," the elderly woman told her. "Why don't you come in and visit with me for a bit, instead of taking that walk. I got a fresh pot of cocoa on the stove," she winked.
"That sounds capital," Finley replied, trying out a new word she had read in the dictionary. "I accept your invitation."
Mrs. Stevens led her inside a small apartment. To Finley, coming from outdoors, it was like stepping into a burning oven.
She took her coat off and hung it on the wire coat hanger. She kept her gloves on.
Mrs. Stevens moved around in the kitchen, gathering cream and cups and marshmallows. "What have you been up to lately Miss Finley? You haven't come to visit me in a long while."
"Oh," Finley said, feeling a tad guilty. "I've been busy. With things."
"Mhmm, I thought so. People are too busy nowadays for their own good, if you ask me." She laughed, "But you didn't."
"Has your son written you yet?"
Mrs. Stevens had a long-lost son; Finley had found this out a few months ago. She wrote to her son every week, but as far as Finley could tell, he never wrote back.
"Nope," the old woman replied. "But I'll never stop writing. One of these days..." she trailed off.
Finley didn't have much practice, but she knew that the usual thing to do in this sort of situation was to reassure the person with some encouraging words, in order to perk them back up and lift their spirits.
"Perhaps," Finley said, "he wants to write you, but doesn't have enough money to buy a postage stamp."
Pleased with her idea, Finley sat waiting for the promised hot cocoa.
Mrs. Stevens took her time, pouring cocoa into the cups carefully. The dark brown liquid matched her skin, Finley noticed.
Finally, it was ready. Mrs. Stevens placed the two cups on the table, and sat herself down next to Finley.
"How's your Mum doing these days?"
"Fine," Finley answered, eagerly sipping from her mug.
"That's fine. And Spencer?"
"Fine. He works a lot."
Mrs. Stevens nodded knowingly, "Every man does. Why, that's the reason my son up and left. Figured he had to make his own living, so he got a job for some company driving a bus and took off. Not that work is a bad thing, mind you. Don't be telling your Mum I said a thing like that, y'hear?"
Finley pretended to zip up her lips (she had once seen a film character do this, and had been waiting for a chance to try it herself for many months). Mrs. Stevens cackled, "Good, good. Well, your mother will be worried about you 'fore long. You best get home."
Finley finished her cocoa and walked to the door. She put her coat back on. "Thank you for having me," she called.
"You're welcome anytime," came Mrs. Stevens reply.
Finley opened the door and was reunited with the winter winds. On the way back to her house, she saw the snowman she had built earlier that week. He had begun melting only to freeze again; his carrot nose hung at an unnatural angle, and a button eye had slid down his cheek.
Creepy, Finley thought to herself happily, still feeling warm and fuzzy from the refreshment. She hopped up the front steps of her house and unlocked the door with her key (after two or three attempts).
The angry voices had stopped.
Once she put away her coat and gloves and shoes, Finley climbed up the stairs.
She brushed her teeth, undressed, and got into bed. She was about to drift off into a dreamy sleep when her mother peeked in. Finley sat up.
"Did you go outside?" her mother asked softly.
"Yes. Mrs. Stevens invited me over and we drank cocoa. Then I came back here."
"Good," said her mother, coming to stand beside the bed. "You wore your coat?"
"Yes," said Finley. "And my gloves."
Her mother nodded, then looked away. When she met Finley's gaze again, her eyes were watery.
"You know that Spencer and I weren't fighting."
"Right," Finley said. "It was just a discussion."
"Exactly," said her mother, turning to leave. "Goodnight. I love you."
"I love you too," Finley said.
And then she went to sleep.
Coraline lingered in the doorway, listening to Finley's breathing slow.
Once she was sure that her daughter was sleeping peacefully, Coraline returned to her own room.
But sleep eluded her.
