Better to Wish

by Ann M. Martin

  “Maybe you can buy the doll yourself,” Rose said to Abby sadly, when the party was over and the sisters were home again, sitting on the porch, looking out at the street as the sun lowered in the sky. “Let’s go into town right now. We’ll see how much she costs. You can save your money. We’ll both save our money. You can pay me back later.”

  But the doll was no longer in the window. “Somebody must have bought her,” said Abby, biting her lip again. She was not going to cry in front of Rose.

  After supper, which no one had any appetite for, Abby thanked Pop for the party and climbed the stairs to her room. She laid the watch on her dresser and knelt on the window seat for a while. Zander’s room was dark. Abby sat dreaming and thinking and finally went to bed. She imagined the fairy queen posed on her shelf and at last she allowed the tears to come, but she wiped them away quickly when the door to her room opened.

  “Abby?” It was Mama’s soft voice. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have something for you.”

  Mama closed the door quickly, sat on Abby’s bed, and placed the doll in her arms. “I know this is what you really wanted,” she whispered.

  “Mama!”

  “Shh. We can’t let Pop know. This is our secret.”

  “Can I tell Rose?”

  “Yes. But promise me, not a word to your father. Find a good hiding place. Pop wouldn’t like it if he knew I went behind his back. He had his heart set on the watch.”

  “But he just wanted to impress his friends,” said Abby. “That’s why he bought it.”

  “No,” Mama replied gently. “He truly thought the watch was a special gift for a young girl. But he’s … well, never mind.” She kissed Abby’s forehead. “Happy birthday,” she said, and tiptoed out of the room.

  Abby sat at her desk, her troubling arithmetic homework before her. Every year through fifth grade, she had spread her homework on the kitchen table and worked there, with the noise of Rose and her mother, and later of Fred and Ellen and Sheila, dancing around her. But now Abby was in sixth grade, and starting on the very first day of school, she had carried her stack of books upstairs to her room each afternoon and worked self-consciously at her desk, aware that if she could just fly, she would be able to slip through her window, across to Zander’s window, and inside to his room where he was sitting at his desk, working on his high school assignments.

  She turned away from the page of fractions she was desperately trying to multiply and looked at the darkness beyond her window. Not even suppertime, and already Barnegat Point was consumed by the dark.

  Downstairs the front door banged and Abby heard her mother call, “Hello, Luther!”

  She heard no answer from her father, though, and that was not a good sign. Abby tiptoed across her room and crept into the hall, where she leaned over the railing and listened.

  “I nearly killed myself,” her father was saying. “Fell over Fred’s carriage. What’s it doing in the drive? It should be put away.”

  Sheila’s soft answering voice: “That was my fault, Mr. Nichols. I left it there this afternoon. I’ll go move it.”

  “Pop?” said Rose, and Abby leaned farther over the railing. “Can I please have twenty cents? I need to —”

  “For Pete’s sake, Rose. No. Every time I turn around you’re asking for something.”

  “But this is for —”

  “What did I just say? No.”

  Abby hurried down the stairs and into the parlor. She saw her sister walking backward in the direction of the kitchen. Fred, whom Sheila had left hastily in an armchair, began to wail, and Mama stooped to pick him up.

  “Stop!” ordered Pop. “Leave him there. You coddle him.” He paused for a moment, frowning at Fred, who had tumbled sideways and now lay on his back like an overturned turtle, arms flailing and wails growing louder. “How old is Fred anyway?”

  “One year and two months,” Abby answered.

  Pop spun around. “Was I speaking to you?” he asked.

  Abby froze. “No, sir.”

  “He’s fourteen months old,” said Mama quietly.

  “And he can’t even sit up yet. Look at him. I thought you were taking him to Dr. Rainey again.”

  “I was. I mean, I did. This morning.”

  “And?”

  Mama glanced first at Rose and then at Abby. Finally she said to Pop, “Nothing’s changed.”

  “Well, that’s apparent.”

  “He said some babies just do things on their own time.”

  “And some doctors don’t know what they’re talking about. Maybe if you and Sheila didn’t do everything for him —”

  “If we didn’t do things for him, do you think he could do them himself? Do you think he’s suddenly going to sit up? This isn’t my fault, Luther,” said Mama, her tone still measured.

  “He’s not normal” was Pop’s reply, and Abby could see a purple vein bulge on his temple. She imagined his blood angrily surging through his body.

  Mama picked up Fred and turned him away from Pop, rocking him in her arms until Sheila returned. Sheila began to carry Fred upstairs.

  “Put him in his high chair,” ordered Pop. “He’s going to eat with us tonight.”

  “He’s already had his supper, Mr. Nichols,” said Sheila.

  “And he can’t sit in the high chair,” added Rose from the kitchen doorway.

  Abby skirted around her father and pulled Rose into the dining room. Fiercely she whispered, “Don’t upset him.”

  “He’s already upset.”

  “I mean it, Rose. Look at the mood he’s in. Don’t say a word during dinner, no matter what happens.”

  “What if he asks me a question?”

  “Then answer it politely. That’s it. Don’t give him any reason to get mad at you.”

  “Okay.”

  Abby watched as Cherry, a maid Pop had recently hired to help Ellen, placed the last of the silverware on the table, then disappeared silently into the kitchen.

  “Everyone to the table!” Pop shouted from the parlor.

  Abby and Rose were already standing stiffly at their places, hands at their sides. Mama followed Pop into the dining room and set Fred in his high chair. He slid forward, under the tray, and Mama caught him quickly, just before he banged his head. She sat him up again … and Fred slid down again.

  Mama turned to cast an appealing glance at Pop, who glared at her.

  “Make him sit,” said Pop.

  “He can’t.”

  “Make him.”

  “Abby, hold Fred for a minute, please.” Abby reached for her brother, and Mama pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying one of Ellen’s aprons. She placed it around Fred’s middle and fastened the ties behind the chair. Fred slid again, but not as far.

  “All right,” said Pop. He took his seat, and Mama, Abby, and Rose took theirs.

  Pop stepped on a buzzer hidden under the rug at his feet, and a moment later Ellen entered the dining room with a platter of ham. Cherry followed her with a dish of green beans.

  “Serve him, too,” Pop said to Ellen, inclining his head toward Fred.

  “Luther,” said Mama softly, “you know he can’t eat that.”

  “Serve him,” Pop repeated.

  Ellen glanced at Mama before placing a slice of ham on the small plate on Fred’s tray. When Ellen and Cherry had left the room, Pop rose, furiously cut up the ham, and placed a fork in Fred’s fist. The fork fell to the floor. Pop picked it up, put it back in Fred’s hand, closed his own hand around Fred’s, stabbed a piece of ham with the fork, and jabbed the fork at Fred’s mouth.

  “Luther!” cried Mama, and Fred’s face crumpled as his tears began to fall.

  “Eat, dammit,” said Pop in a frighteningly quiet voice.

  Rose turned wide eyes to Abby, and Abby shook her head, reminding her sister to remain silent.

  Pop pulled the ham off the fork and stuffed it into Fred’s mouth. Fred g
agged and spit it out, eyes watering as he started another slow slide toward the floor.

  Mama was on her feet. “He can’t chew well yet.”

  “A cow can chew,” said Pop.

  “Well, Fred can’t.”

  Pop yanked the ties of the apron tighter and then slammed his way back to his chair. He ate his meal savagely, ignoring Fred’s cries. No one said a word. When their plates were empty, Pop looked up and down the table and said, “Abby, where’s your dessert fork?”

  Abby looked at her place setting. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you eat your dinner with it?”

  “No, sir.”

  Pop slammed his foot on the buzzer. When Ellen appeared, he said, “Tell Cherry she’s fired. There’s a fork missing. We don’t appreciate it when our silverware disappears.”

  “Yes, Mr. Nichols.”

  Rose got timidly to her feet. “May I please be excused?” she asked.

  When Pop only grunted, Abby asked to be excused, too. She took Rose’s hand and they fled upstairs.

  “What do you think happened?” Rose asked as they huddled on Abby’s bed.

  “It’s one of his moods,” Abby replied.

  “That’s all?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Just stay out of his way.”

  “But it’s Friday. There’s no school tomorrow. How are we going to stay out of his way?”

  “Maybe Mike will drive us to Lewisport and we can visit Sarah and Orrin and everyone. We could stay for the whole day. I’ll ask Mama later.”

  They heard footsteps on the stairs then, and Rose ran into her room. Abby jumped off of her bed, perched on her desk chair, picked up a pencil, and pretended to tackle her arithmetic again. The footsteps paused farther down the hall, then continued to Abby’s room.

  “Abby?” said Mama firmly. “Gather your things together. We’re going to the beach cottage.”

  “What? Right now?”

  “Yes. You and Rose and Fred and I. Uncle Marshall is on his way over. He’ll drive us there. And he’ll be here soon, so get ready quickly.”

  Abby shoved away from her desk. She tiptoed out into the hall and listened for sounds from below. Nothing. She peeked into her sister’s room. “Did Mama tell you?” she asked.

  Rose nodded, eyes brimming.

  “Don’t cry now. Just get ready. It’s okay. It will be better this way. We’ll be at the house all weekend.”

  “Pop’s going to be awful sore.”

  “Well, we have to do what Mama says.”

  Abby returned to her room. She put her schoolbooks into a satchel and grabbed a pair of shoes and some clothes. She unfastened her watch and left it on her dresser. At the last moment she placed the fairy-queen doll in the satchel. Then she knelt for a moment on the window seat, hoping for a glimpse of Zander, but his window was dark.

  “Abby?” called Mama from Fred’s room.

  “Coming.” Abby stepped tentatively into the hall.

  Rose was peeking out of her doorway. “Where’s Pop?” she whispered.

  “He’s downstairs,” replied Mama. “It’s okay.”

  “I think I’d like to wait until Uncle Marshall is here before I go downstairs,” said Rose.

  “Me, too,” said Abby.

  “All right,” Mama replied. She started down the staircase with Fred in her arms, then turned around and handed him up to Abby. She kissed his forehead. “I love you, baby boy.”

  Abby, holding Fred, sat on the top step next to Rose until they heard Uncle Marshall’s car outside.

  “Children!” called Mama, and Abby carried Fred downstairs, while Rose followed, holding both her satchel and Abby’s.

  Uncle Marshall let himself in the front door without knocking.

  “Marshall,” said Pop, striding into the hall. “This really isn’t necessary. There was a misunderstanding, that’s all.” He offered Uncle Marshall a smile.

  Uncle Marshall stared stonily at Pop. Then he turned to Mama. “Go on, Nell. Take the children to the car. I’ll be right there.”

  Abby hurried past her father and into the night, Fred on her hip, Rose at her heels.

  “Good-bye! Have fun!” called Pop gaily from the front door as if his family were leaving on a vacation.

  Uncle Marshall shoved the door closed with his foot then, and Abby couldn’t hear anything else from inside. Not until she was sitting next to Rose in the back of Uncle Marshall’s Ford Victoria, Mama cradling Fred in the front seat, did her hot tears begin to fall. She wept silently halfway to Lewisport.

  The four of them stayed at the house on Blue Harbor Lane until Sunday evening, when Uncle Marshall drove them home again. It was the first time they had spent a weekend apart from Pop, but it wouldn’t be the last.

  Pop drove down Blue Harbor Lane, whistling, his left elbow resting in the open window of the Buick. He was driving, Abby thought, just a little too fast.

  “Pop, look out!” cried Rose, as Patches dashed across the road and ran under the Moresides’ porch.

  Pop slammed on the brakes and turned around to glare at Rose, who was sitting next to Abby in the backseat. “Do you want to get us all killed?” he exclaimed. “Don’t say that unless something’s going to run into us.”

  “But it was Sarah’s cat, Pop. You almost hit him.”

  Pop didn’t reply. He swiveled around, sped up, and made a fast turn into the drive by the beach cottage.

  “Here we are!” said Mama gaily. “Everybody out.” She opened her door, lifted Fred out of the car, and perched him on her hip.

  Abby climbed out of the Buick and stood in the yard in front of the house. Before her spread the ocean. To the south, the beach swept away until the spit of land seemed to melt into the sky. To the north, it ended where the shore curved west and was swallowed by fir trees.

  “Give your mother a hand, girls,” said Pop, unloading boxes and suitcases from the car and piling them on the drive. “I’m going back to the house for a while. I’ll see you later.” He zoomed the Buick out of the drive and down the lane.

  Abby watched him for a moment, then turned and took Fred from her mother.

  “Just think,” said Rose. “A whole month here.”

  Abby knew exactly what her sister meant. Their house in Barnegat Point was spacious and luxurious. But the beach cottage was better. It smelled of home. And it meant day after day after day of walking along the shore with Sarah and clamming with Orrin, of games of kick-the-can and cribbage. There would be evenings on the porch with Mama, watching the moon rise over the ocean, and afternoons of picking blueberries, to eat that night with cream. It didn’t matter that they had to do all of their own cooking and chores. Not that Abby didn’t like Ellen and Sheila and Mike, but she enjoyed having the little house just for her family.

  Even better, Pop would be gone for days at a stretch. He planned to spend the first week of vacation at the cottage, but after that he was going to stay in Barnegat Point except on weekends.

  “Come on, Fred,” said Abby, hoisting her brother higher on her hip. “Come on, Freddy Fred. Do you want to see the water?”

  Fred flashed Abby a drooly grin and waved his hands in front of his face.

  “Can I take him to the beach?” Abby asked her mother.

  “In a bit. Help me get everything inside first.”

  Abby carried Fred to the porch and was about to open the door, anticipating the first lungful of beach-house air that smelled of salt and woodsmoke and pine beams, no matter how long the house had been closed up. But before she opened the door, she heard Sarah call her name.

  Abby turned around. “Sarah!”

  Sarah ran across Abby’s yard and hugged her and Fred at the same time. She had to reach down to do so. When sixth grade had started, Sarah had been the shrimp of the class. By the end of the year she was taller than most of the boys. And she was chestier than Abby — her mother had needed to take her to Haworth’s in Barnegat Point so Miss Amelia could fit her for an adult brassiere.

 
The changes didn’t matter, though. Sarah was Sarah, and when she and Abby were together, Abby felt as comfortable with her old friend as she had when they were three or six or ten.

  “I can’t believe you’re here for a month,” said Sarah.

  “Want to see something?” asked Abby.

  She set Fred on the floor and held her hand out to him. Fred reached for it and hauled himself to his feet.

  “He can stand up!” exclaimed Sarah.

  “He just learned how. And he’s not even two yet, so that isn’t really so slow.” Abby chose not to think about Dr. Rainey’s most recent diagnosis for Fred: feebleminded and crippled. How crippled could he be if he was standing up?

  After lunch Mama took a nap when Fred did, resting on the porch with him nestled against her. Rose took off down Blue Harbor Lane in search of friends, and Abby and Sarah walked hand in hand along the beach, dashing in and out of the water, which was still icily cold.

  “Did you hear about Liddie Kestler?” asked Sarah.

  “No. What?”

  “She likes Duncan.”

  “Duncan Field?”

  “Yuh.”

  “But Duncan hates girls.”

  “I don’t think so. He doesn’t hate Liddie anyway.”

  Abby looked sideways at Sarah. “Who do you like?”

  “Me? I don’t like anyone. We’re too young to like boys.”

  “We’re exactly the same age as Liddie. Come on. Tell the truth. You like Orrin.”

  “Well, so do you.”

  “Just as a friend,” said Abby, although she wasn’t sure about this.

  “Me, too. But if we both liked him as a boy,” said Sarah, “then I would let you have him, because I think a best friend is more important than a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, so do I!” exclaimed Abby. “I wouldn’t trade you for ten boys.”

  “When we grow up,” said Sarah, “we should tell our husbands that we have to live next door to each other so that we can see each other every single day and our children can be best friends, too.”