A gust moved through the oak leaves, scattering a few drops from the morning's rain. Maisie shifted the bicycle so the cardboard sign wouldn't get wet again.
The man watched her protect it.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That's a shame.”
“What is?”
“That you have to sell it.”
“I don't have to.”
He nodded once.
She hated him a little for not believing her loudly enough to argue.
The brown envelope on his knees had softened at the corners. One flap was torn. There was writing across the front, but she couldn't read it from where she stood.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“They're late.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe they forgot.”
The man's hand tightened on the envelope.
“Maybe.”
Something in his voice made Maisie look at him more closely. He wasn't as old as she first thought. Older than her mother, younger than the men who fed pigeons outside the pharmacy. There were pale lines around his eyes and a small scar near his chin. He looked like somebody who had slept in his clothes without meaning to.
She moved the bicycle closer to the tree, mostly because the sun had come out and the pavement was getting hot.
“My name's Maisie,” she said.
He looked up.
“Arthur.”
“That's a king's name.”
“I've heard.”
“Do you have a last name?”
“Whitcomb.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“What?” he asked.
“Sounds like a bank.”
For the first time, he smiled.
“Unfortunately, that's also been said.”
The smile changed his face. It did not make him handsome so much as make him look briefly surprised to be alive.
Maisie leaned her hip against the bicycle.
“You could buy it for a granddaughter.”
Arthur's smile vanished so quickly she wondered what she had done.
“I don't have one.”
“Oh.”
“Not that I know of.”
That was a strange thing to say. Maisie decided adults sometimes added unnecessary words because they were afraid a simple answer would leave too much room around them.
“Well, you could learn.”
“To ride a pink bicycle?”
“It's a very good bicycle.”
“I believe you.”
She looked toward the grocery store on the far side of the square.
The doors slid open for a woman pushing a cart. A baguette stuck from one of the bags like an accusation.
Arthur followed her gaze.
“Do your parents know you're selling it?”
Maisie straightened.
“My dad's dead.”
“I'm sorry.”
“People say that.”
“Yes.”
“It was three years ago.”
“That doesn't make it untrue.”
She stared at the bell on the handlebars.
Her father had bought the bike used. He painted it pink in the little yard behind their old apartment and somehow got paint on the dog that belonged to the downstairs neighbor. When Nora came out, he said the dog had requested highlights.
Maisie had laughed so hard she fell off the porch step.
She could remember the sound of her father's laugh perfectly if she didn't try.
Trying made it slip away.
Arthur said, “Does your mother know?”
“She knows I went out.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“I know.”
He looked at the sign again.
Maisie lifted her chin.
“She's been sick. She can't work much right now. It's temporary.”
“All right.”
“And I don't need you to call anybody.”
“Who did you think I'd call?”
“I don't know. People.”
Arthur sat back against the bench.
He understood the word better than she expected him to. She could see it in his face: people with clipboards, people who asked questions that changed a home into a problem, people who might decide a mother lying about hunger was not trying hard enough.
“I won't do anything behind your back,” he said.
Maisie watched him for a moment.
“You don't even know me.”
“No.”
“Then you don't have to make promises.”
Arthur looked down at the envelope.
“Those are sometimes the important ones.”
The courthouse clock moved toward half past eleven.
Maisie's stomach hurt. She had expected that. What she had not expected was how tired standing could make a person when standing involved pretending not to be desperate.
Arthur reached into his coat slowly enough that she could see what he was doing. He took out his phone.
“I'd like to buy your mother lunch,” he said.
Maisie stepped back.
“No.”
“I can pay the grocery store directly. You don't have to go anywhere with me.”
“No.”
He put the phone on the bench beside him.
“All right.”
She hated that too. She wanted him to argue, so she could tell him she didn't take charity. She wanted him to go away, so she could stop thinking about the bread.