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cereal and crackers, jars of Pond’s cold cream, and tubes of Ipana toothpaste all jumbled together.
    Young Frankie Amici looked up from his faded red wagon in the back of the store, two grocery bags packed up for delivery.
    A booming voice greeted the girls. “Well, if it isn’t Pickle and Olive, my two favorite young ladies,” Mr. Amici teased from behind the meat case.
    “My sister’s name isn’t Pickle,” Olive reminded him. “It’s Edie.” But he just chuckled. Olive, the short, pudgy, older sister. “Pickle,” the tall, gangly, younger one.
    “What is it going to be today, ladies?” he asked.
    “The Fairview lady paid Mama for her true show, so we get to have city chicken,” Edie piped up. Olive narrowed her eyes at her sister.
    “It’s not ‘true show’; it’s ‘trousseau,’ dummy,” she said.
    “So how much city chicken does your mother want?” Mr. Amici asked.
    “Two pieces for Daddy and one for the rest of us,” Edie said.
    “You mean you ladies have to share one piece of city chicken?” he teased again.
    “No,” said Olive, the literal one. “Edie means that Mama, Edie, and me each get a piece.”
    Mr. Amici grabbed five wooden skewers threaded with cubes of boneless pork and veal, and placed them on a sheet of white butcher paper, then on the scale. He wrapped up the package and tied it with red-and-white-striped twine. “That will be fifty-seven cents,” he said, and Olive pinched open the old red coin purse.
    Olive licked her lips, thinking about how her mother would soak the skewered meats in milk and egg, then roll them in cracker crumbs and fry it all in lard until crispy and tender as a real chicken leg. Then Mama would make gravy to go with the mashed potatoes and green beans.
    Edie drifted over to the middle aisle. While Mr. Amici gave Frankie his instructions, she turned the red, yellow, and green Rice Krispies box to see the back. “Snow White and Rose Red” was the Singing Lady’s new story. Edie hadn’t heard that one yet on the radio, and she had never tasted Rice Krispies—it was always oatmeal at home. She thought maybe she could read this one quickly before it was time to leave. “Once upon a time . . .”
    Mr. Amici watched Olive and wondered whether the girls were getting good food, not just something to fill them up. They were both pale. Although he had plenty of customers who still owed him money and he couldn’t afford to just give food away, he wrapped up a couple of hot dogs. “For my two favorite customers,” he said, and pushed the bundle over the top of the glass case. Olive had to stand on tiptoes to reach it.
    Olive licked her lips. “Oh, Edie!”
    Edie turned the cereal box not quite all the way around and ran to her sister, who showed her the package. “Hot dogs!” Olive told her.
    “Thank you, Mr. Amici,” they piped up in unison.
    They held the door open for Frankie and his wagon. They all walked together until he headed toward the arched concrete bridge over the creek to Lockton. The girls went the other way to Goldberg’s Department Store on the corner. Olive remembered to hold Edie’s hand.
    Notions were in the back of the store. So was the formidable Miss Goldberg.
    She wore her long dark hair, with its wings of silver, in an old-fashioned style—high up on her head—and her eyeglasses on a chain. She patted her plum-colored wool gabardine dress, which was in the new drop-waisted style. Last week, she had made the long trip downtown specifically to purchase the chic new design. The ready-made clothing she and her father sold in the store was fine for their factory-worker customers, but Miss Goldberg required better.
    She raised her pince-nez to peer at the girls in their hand-me-down dresses, old shoes, and droopy socks, marching toward her counter, the chubby one holding tightly to the younger one.
    “Don’t you children touch anything. Your hands are probably dirty,” she said in her chilly voice.
    Edie shrank behind