Dreams for Stones

by Ann Warner

  Brad and I sighed with relief.

  As he was leaving, Mr. Pitzer asked Dad one last question. “Do you think deer ate my roses, Jess?”

  Brad and I sat very still.

  “Could be I suppose,” Dad said, slowly.

  After Mr. Pitzer left, Mom and Dad looked at each other. Then they laughed.

  “Oh, Em. It had to be the goats. I’ll have to check. See how they got out.” Dad wiped laughter tears from his eyes. “We can’t have them stripping Pitzer’s roses. They’re his pride and joy.”

  I fell asleep that night remembering the taste of the rose petal and the sound of Mom and Dad laughing about Ethel and Bethel’s adventure.

  The roses weren’t the goats’ only adventure. One day the phone rang while Mom and I were eating lunch. Mom said a lot of “Oh, nos,” and “Are you sures.” Then she called Dad. “Jess, Mr. Tuppen just called. He has the vegetable stand. You know, the one by the cemetery? He said we better come get our goats, or he’d shoot them. He sounded awful angry. What are we going to do? I can’t leave Bobby.”

  I guess Dad said he would take care of it. Mom was still upset, though.

  After a while, Dad walked into the house laughing. “Em, your goats are notorious. I got an earful from everyone at the vegetable stand. Seems they’ve been all over the neighborhood, practicing their own version of neighborly visitation. Folks didn’t want to trouble us with it, but now we know, we have to do something about it.”

  Brad went outside with Dad. In a few minutes, he came back, chuckling. “You ought to see those silly goats now. Your dad hobbled them.”

  “What’s hobbled?” I asked.

  “It’s tying two of their feet together so they can walk, but they can’t run. Ethel and Bethel are hopping mad. Or they would be if they could hop.”

  “Can you get Mom to take me out? I want to talk to them.”

  Brad went over and put a paw on Mom’s lap, and she put down her mending. “You want us to go outside, is that it? Just a minute, I need to get Bobby a sweater.”

  “Can you find Ethel and Bethel?” I asked Brad when we got outside.

  “Sure.” He trotted off, disappearing for several minutes. He returned with a short rope in his mouth.

  “What’s that, Brad?”

  Both Mom and I asked the question, but I was the only one able to hear Brad’s answer.

  “It’s a hobble. Ethel and Bethel must have chewed them off, and now they’ve disappeared again.”

  It turned out, he was exactly right. When Dad got home, the goats were just getting back. Dad laughed as he told Mom how they’d jumped over the gate back into our yard. Brad and I laughed too, until we heard Dad say, “Em, I’m afraid we’re going to have to get rid of the goats.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do, Jess? Bobby loves them.”

  “If we can’t keep them in the yard, we’ll have no choice,” Dad said.

  “Oh, Brad, can’t you do something?” I said. “I’d miss Ethel and Bethel terribly if they went away.”

  “What can I do? You know Ethel and Bethel. Nothing ever stops them from doing exactly what they want.”

  “Why don’t you tell them Dad said they’ll be sent away? Maybe that will make them behave.”

  “That’s an excellent plan,” Brad said.

  I could hardly wait to get outside the next day. “Did Brad talk to you?” I asked the goats.

  “In the assertative,” said Bethel, nodding.

  “You mean affirmative,” snorted Ethel.

  “I don’t understand why you’re always correcting me, Ethel,” said Bethel. “My language is ever more poetic than yours. I think you’re just jealous.”

  “Poetic my hoof, pathetic is more like it.”

  “Brad talked to you, right? What do you think?” I said. When the goats start speaking in that snippy tone, Bethel always ends up sulking.

  “Your mother doesn’t even have any roses,” grumbled Bethel.

  “But I love you, Ethel, and you too, Bethel. You must stay in our yard, or Dad will send you away. And we’ll never see each other ever again. And I’ll be awful sad.”

  “We’re being selfish, Bethel. Bobby can’t run at all, and here we are complaining we have to stay in this yard,” said Ethel. “After all, you must admit, it is a very pleasant yard.”

  “You are precipitously correct, Ethel. The place we were before this wasn’t nearly as comfabable.”

  “Precipitously indeed,” Ethel muttered. “I suppose you mean precisely. And as for comfabable. The word is comfortable.”

  “And, you’re nice, too,” Bethel said, ignoring Ethel and turning to me. “I suppose we can try. If it’s too bad, we can always run away later.”

  “Oh, please don’t do that,” I begged.

  “Since you asked so nicely, we’ll try,” said Bethel.

  Once they promised to stay in the yard, the goats had to find new ways to have fun. On hot days, they ran through the sprinkler or squeezed onto the chair swing Dad hung from a tree. When it was cooler, they chased the chickens and guinea hens.

  Then one day, Mom went back inside for a minute, leaving her paints and a fresh canvas set up. Before I could stop them, Ethel and Bethel got into the paints and smeared them all over their tongues and noses. Then they wiped their noses on the canvas, all the time making faces and saying “Ugh, yuck.”

  Maybe they expected the paints to taste like roses.

  When Mom came back, Ethel and Bethel ran away. Mom stood with her hands on her hips watching them, and then she looked at the canvas. It was a mess but quite a pretty mess. Like a rainbow that twisted itself into a tangle.

  Alan stopped reading abruptly, the memory sharp and clear of a painting Meg had given him when they were in grade school. When he asked her what it was, she had giggled and said it was a rainbow that decided to tie itself into a bow.

  He still had it. That picture. It had fallen out of one of his books, when he and Meg were unpacking in their first apartment. He’d put it carefully away, teasing her that one day it would be worth a fortune. An early Meg Adams.

  He opened eyes he hadn’t realized were closed and looked once again at Kathy’s story, trying to read more quickly, just to get through it, trying not to let it surprise him again.

  Mom is teaching me to talk with my fingers. She holds my hand and asks me questions, and I answer with taps. One tap for yes and two for no. The first question she asked me was, did I want a cup of cocoa. I tapped once.

  The cocoa was warm and creamy, the best I have ever tasted.

  I am getting bigger, and I barely remember the time before I got sick. Brad says I am growing up. He told me most boys my age go somewhere called school in order to learn to read and write, paint, and play music.

  Then Brad said those other boys have forgotten how to talk to animals.

  It’s all right that I can’t read stories, because Mom reads them for me. But I would like to paint and play music. Still, I can’t decide if I would give up talking to Ethel, Bethel, and Brad for school.

  Mom has been reading me stories from a brand new book. They are called fairy stories, and they are about princesses, wicked witches, fairy godmothers, and spells.

  “Do you think I could be under a spell?” I asked Brad. “And that’s why I can’t run or speak anymore?”

  “Do you mean you used to run and speak?” Brad said.

  “Yes. And I even threw stones into the pond.”

  “I suppose you could be under an evil spell.”

  “Then that means I need my fairy godmother to come.” I was very excited. “You must help me watch for her.”

  “I would be happy to do that,” Brad said.

  The goats don’t like fairy stories. They think they’re too scary. Their favorite story is The Three Billy Goats Gruff. Dad built a bridge over the stream that runs into our pond, and Ethel and Bethel use it to act out the story. They pretend they are the Gruff family, and they make Brad play the troll.

  When
ever Mom reads to me outside, Ethel and Bethel come over and ask me to pick their story. They watch me tap out yeses and nos as Mom holds up the books. The Three Billy Goats Gruff isn’t my favorite, but I pick it for Ethel and Bethel because they are my friends.

  The other stories I especially like are the ones about Doctor Dolittle. I’m glad there’s a grown-up who still remembers how to talk to animals. Maybe that means when my spell is broken and I go to school, I’ll still be able to talk to Ethel, Bethel, and Brad.

  Mom has also begun reading me something called poems. I like them very much and so do Ethel and Bethel. In fact, we like them so much we decided to make up our own. Here is mine.

  Someday I know I will run and jump

  And sing like the birds in the trees

  The day my fairy godmother comes

  And breaks my spell for me

  “That was very good for a first try, Bobby,” said Bethel. “Trees and me rhyme quite satisfactorily, but I do believe you need to work on your other lines. They don’t rhyme at all.”

  “I think it’s perfect,” said Ethel.

  “Do you have a poem to say for us, Ethel?” I said.

  Ethel lifted her head and recited:

  Tippy toes, swerves, leaps, and curves

  We run in the grass and roll in the leaves

  Until we’re covered with garlands and wreaths

  Ethel said her poem very nicely, but Bethel broke in and said, “Really, Ethel, curves does not rhyme with leaves and wreaths. It won’t do.”

  Ethel lowered her head, and I thought she was going to butt Bethel. Hard. Instead, she shook her head and said in her sweetest voice, “And what, my dear, have you composed?”

  Bethel stuck her nose in the air and said, “And wouldn’t you like to know that.” Then she turned and pranced away.

  I think Bethel acted that way because she was having trouble with her poem. Poems can be very hard.

  Bethel was gone for a while, but then she came dancing back, singing out:

  Clickety Clack Tickety Tack

  Feedle Fiedle Foodle Frack

  Weedle Wadle Woodle Wack

  Tickety Tack Clickety Clack

  Ethel snorted.

  “You’ll notice how all of my lines rhyme perfectly,” Bethel said, ignoring Ethel.

  I liked Bethel’s poem, and so did Bethel. She pranced around for several minutes chanting her poem over and over, until Ethel stamped her hoof and said, “Enough!”

  Bethel may be bigger, but Ethel is the boss.

  Now that I know what they’re called, I think poems are used to cast spells. I wonder if a poem can also break a spell.

  It is something to think about.

  It’s almost Christmas again, and when Dad comes in from outside, puffs of cold air come in too. Yesterday, he brought a tree indoors and stood it in the corner. It makes the house smell the same way our woods do on a hot summer day.

  Dad and Mom circled the tree with strings of red, blue, green, and yellow lights. Then Mom added strings of silver that flutter whenever anyone walks by. It is very pretty.

  A strange man has come to be with us this Christmas. When he arrived, Mom rushed over to hug him, laughing and crying. I don’t understand it, but sometimes Mom can be all happy and sad mixed together.

  Mom dried her eyes and led the man over to me. He is my uncle Bill. Mom is his sister. Uncle Bill took one of my hands in his and talked to me exactly like I was all grown-up. “I am most particularly happy to meet you, Bobby.”

  I was happy to meet him too.

  He nodded his head at me as if he understood that. Then he held out his hand for Brad to sniff and patted Brad on the head.

  “Your uncle is a good man,” Brad said to me later.

  “How do you know?” I asked, although I agreed with him.

  “He has kind eyes, and he was gentle when he patted me.”

  Uncle Bill is a teacher in a school where boys learn to read and write and they forget how to speak to animals. I wish I could ask him questions about that, because I’ll be going to school someday.

  Well my fairy godmother does have to come break my spell first. And she seems to be taking a very long time.

  Spring is early this year. Mom and Dad said so. There are no leaves on the trees yet, but when we go outside, I don’t need a heavy jacket, and I can smell that warm spring smell.

  Today when we went outside, Mom brought along a bowl full of soapy water and blew bubbles. The bubbles floated, spinning slowly and changing colors. Some were pink and purple and some blue and green. One floated over and touched my nose and popped. It tickled.

  Ethel, Bethel, and Brad chased the bubbles, but whenever they caught one, it always popped. It was funny to watch them, although I was sad when a bubble popped, because they’re pretty. But Mom blew more, so it was all right.

  Mom blew bubbles a long time. I liked it a lot.

  Today, Mom got a phone call. It made her cry but not in a happy way. She left the room for a while, and when she came back, her eyes were red and her nose was all stuffy.

  Brad went over to Mom and rubbed his head against her leg, and she started crying again. Then Dad came home and hugged Mom, and she cried some more.

  “Hush, Em. You’re upsetting the boy,” Dad said. “Bill’s okay. He’s with God.”

  “What does that mean, Brad? Are they talking about Uncle Bill?”

  “I think they must be, Bobby. I was afraid of this. I believe your uncle was ill at Christmas, and now he has died.”

  “When you die, you have to live with God? But what if you don’t want to?” I didn’t want to live with anyone but Mom and Dad.

  “It’s what many people believe,” Brad said. “It’s a good thing.”

  I didn’t understand how going to live with someone you didn’t know could be a good thing.

  Amen to that. Alan winced at the memory of all the people who had come up to him at the funeral to say, “Meg’s gone home to God. She’s at peace now.” As if that had the power to comfort him when all he could feel was Meg’s absence.

  What an odd story Kathy had written. It was making him uncomfortable, pulling at memories he’d rather leave untouched. He started to set the pages aside, but the words Little Prince caught his eye. Intrigued by the oddity of that, he pulled the pages closer.

  Mom is reading me a new story. It’s called The Little Prince, and it’s about a boy who talks to a rose, a fox, and a snake. A flower has never spoken to me, and I’ve never met a fox or a snake, but I have Ethel, Bethel, and Brad. So maybe this little prince and I are alike.

  At the end of the story the snake helps the little prince go home to his rose. “Where do you find a magic snake like that?” I asked Brad.

  “It wasn’t a magic snake, Bobby. It helped the little prince die,” said Brad.

  “Did a snake help Uncle Bill die?”

  “No. When people get old or sick, it just happens.”

  “Are Mom and Dad old enough to do it?”

  “No. They’re still young. You’re not supposed to do it until you get old. When someone young does it, the older people get very upset.”

  Kathy had that right. Meg’s death had upset the order of things. And it wasn’t only the older people—Meg’s parents and his—who had been devastated. Alan rubbed his temples, which had begun to ache. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? Not telling them Meg was pregnant. Better they not know they’d lost a grandchild as well, although they might have suspected. More than enough grief to go around without knowing for sure, though.

  He forced his eyes back to Kathy’s manuscript.

  Ethel and Bethel enjoyed The Little Prince too. I asked them what they thought of it.

  “I do not believe it can be vilified,” was Bethel’s opinion.

  “You mean verified,” Ethel said. “I think it must be true. The person telling the story sounds very reliable.”

  Only one thing worried me. The man who told the story was sad after the little prince left
his body with the help of the snake.

  “It does seem those left behind are often sad,” Brad said. “But they don’t need to be. You see, I don’t believe dying can be forever. After all, the trees and flowers do it every fall but, in the spring, they come back to life.”

  I looked at the flowers and remembered how the yard looked in the winter, all brown and empty and the trees like bare sticks. But in spring, the flowers come back, the earth turns green and the trees get leaves again. It is always a surprise to me when it happens. I am glad to know it’s supposed to be that way.

  “They do that to show us there’s no need to be afraid of anything that happens to us.” And with that, Brad settled down for his nap.

  Be not afraid. Yeah. Right. Enough.

  Alan set the pages down and got out of bed. He walked into his living room and gazed at the floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with books.

  Even though they were shelved near the bottom in a corner, the bright colors of the Dr. Seuss books caught his eye. They were all gifts from Meg, given over a stretch of birthdays and Christmases during grade school. Next to them were the other books she’d given him as they grew up. It was their tradition—Meg always giving him a book.

  He bent down and pulled out one of the Seuss books, One Fish Two Fish. It was loved almost to pieces, the spine broken and the cover smudged. He opened it to the inscription printed with laborious neatness on the inside cover: To my friend, Alan Francini. Happy Birthday. Your friend, Meg Adams.

  He slipped the book back into place. Then his finger traced the bindings of the other books—books about horses and wildflowers, the poetry anthology with the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem about “couple-colored clouds” and “stippled trout.”