Madge's Sweet Shoppe

Maria hated to look both ways. But she did look, not because she was intimidated by the cars, trucks and trolleys that buzzed down Baker Street in a morning rush. But because Maria was a rule follower. It was the rule to look both ways. A law, really, as well-behaved, 10-year-old Maria might see it. It was that important. So, Maria looked. And then, she waited, until almost forever, as the sweeping traffic cleared a path from the bus stop to the ornate front door of Madge’s Sweet Shoppe. Maria was lured across Baker Street, enticed by wondrous imaginings of sweet, gooey treats. She clung tight to three small coins, now sticky and wet in her palm. The gold heart-shaped locket that had once belonged to her mum, her gran, and her great-gran before that, bounced against her chest as she ran. Wearing the family treasure over her heart always made Maria happy. It was 8:10 a.m.

Maria bolted and at the same time, half-looked over her shoulder for the phantom bus that always arrived at exactly 8:30—the bus that would take her to school, and that Maria knew would not hesitate to leave her behind.

“Don’t miss the bus, Maria.”

Maria had heard these words from her mum enough times to be sure that missing the bus would be breaking a rule.

Tiny, clouds of sugary scent floated through the morning air, puffy and fat. Even before her perfectly clean, shiny patent leather shoes touched down on the other side of Baker Street, Maria could taste their deliciousness--a free sample.

Smooth chocolate aromas swirled together with spicy peppermint. The mix seeped out from beneath the heavy wooden door. Maria firmly placed her right hand on the immense, scrolled golden handle. She yanked hard, her left hand still guarding the slippery, sliding coins. Pulling with all her might, Maria forced a barely adequate opening—the space between the inside of Madge’s Sweet Shoppe and the rest of the world. Maria’s petite frame wriggled in.

The wooden clock on the wall behind the glass case, and behind Madge, housed a boisterous little cuckoo who seemed to know, just like Maria, that time was important. The little bird popped out and made the announcement. It was 8:15.

Madge was short and more than just a little wide and that made Maria feet tall from the other side of the case. Mounds and mounds of oversized, colorful delights sat piled up onto long, gold display pans with scalloped edges. The array obstructed Maria’s view of Madge, save for a mass of gray, pin curled hair and a soft, chubby face. Madge’s cheeks, each decorated with a dollop of red rouge, reminded Maria of cherry truffles, one of the many choices the candy shop had to offer.

Chocolate mountains—those over there, light, and milky, and these over there, dense and dark. Each hid some soft, smooth stuff deep inside, like a little girl’s secret, meant only to be shared with the absolute best of friends.

Madge smiled big and waited patiently for Maria to make her selection. Her eyes followed Maria, magnified by at least a hundred times, Maria guessed, from behind coke bottle spectacles. Maria thought that it would be great fun to try those glasses on sometime, if she ever found the courage to ask.

Maria had made this trip dozens of times. She was deciding, even before she dashed across Baker Street this morning, which candies she would carry back with her in a little white bag as she boarded the 8:30 bus. Maria liked the clinking sound of the coins in her hand, as she shuffled them around a bit. She found their music comforting somehow. It was a little hard for her to part with those coins. And Maria liked the way a place inside her twittered, right before it was her turn. In some ways, that feeling of excitement was just as sweet as the final reward.

Maria twirled her index finger absent mindedly around the fabric sash of her blue and green plaid school uniform. The school uniform, including brand new, navy blue, knee socks and perfectly clean, black patent leather shoes, made Maria think about schooldays, and about fancy desks with wooden tops that pop up and reveal a storage place for good smelling books and sharpened pencils with erasers. School served hot lunches, too—pot roast with boiled potatoes and white cake with fluffy white icing for dessert.

Maria dumped her change on top of the freshly cleaned glass case. Three pence in exchange for three bite-sized, white-chocolate drops, covered with tiny, yellow, red and pink crunchy candy dots. Madge’s gloved hand dispensed the goodies into a little white bag. Standing on tiptoe, Madge passed the little bag across the glass to Maria. The bird inside the wooden clock announced, it was 8:25.

Maria raced out the big wooden door, which always seemed to take so much longer to open on her way out. She waved a thank you to Madge without glancing back. Looking both ways was even harder now, with the heavy sound of the bus already grinding its way to the Baker Street stop. Maria bobbed nervously up and down at the edge of the curb, trying to contain her anxiety. It had begun to rain. The crowd at the bus stop grew deeper, hunkering beneath open umbrellas.

Crossing the street in time to board the 8:30 bus would be next to impossible now. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Maria knew it didn’t really matter. Maria could make anything happen, just the way she wanted. Her mum called it a vivid imagination and seemed amused by it. Her teachers at school, however, were not.

Maria clung tight to the little white bag. Then, she sprang like a graceful gazelle, gliding effortlessly above the cars, trucks and trolleys that were barreling down Baker Street. Maria touched down as gently as the morning drizzle, amidst the crowd waiting at the bus stop. It was 8:30.

Maria boarded the bus holding onto the rail with one hand, protecting the little white bag with the other. She found her place into her usual seat toward the back of the bus on the left-hand side. From there, Maria could watch people on the sidewalks, walking their dogs. Maria assigned each dog a name. Someday, she would have two dogs of her very own. They would keep each other company. She would name them Alice and Angel and feed them cookies and milk.

But, inevitably, and without warning, moments of remembering what was real would show up for Maria. Today, the memory of the really bad thing came like an intruder, rude and uninvited. Maria made herself small, crouching into the corner of the cramped, dank unfamiliar space where she had been hiding since that really bad thing had happened. Maria swept back her dirty, tangled dark hair, stuffing it all tight behind her ears. Had it been hours? Days? Her stomach hurt with hunger, sadness and fear.

But Maria knew she could always choose. Just like she could choose her candies at Madge’s Sweet Shoppe. She didn’t need to feel hungry, sad, or afraid. Not ever again. So instead, she closed her eyes, traveling back to the only world that she could understand. Maria reached into the little white bag and gobbled up two, bite-sized, white-chocolate drops, covered with tiny, yellow, red and pink crunchy candy dots. And of course, she saved one for later. Because that was the rule.