Rosetown

by Cynthia Rylant

  Nora Force and her troubles were completely forgotten now.

  Flora and Yury crossed the street to have a look. It was dark beneath the porch steps, and neither could see anything at all there. Yet they both felt that something was looking back at them.

  “I hope we aren’t imagining this just because we’ve been reading a mystery,” said Yury.

  Flora didn’t think so. She stared into the darkness with the same feeling she’d had a few weeks earlier in the farmlands: expectation.

  They both assumed it was a cat there, watching them, but nothing moved.

  Still, Yury thought he might have heard purring.

  “Unless I am delusional,” he said. “My father says that sometimes I am a master of grand delusion.”

  Flora smiled. She was glad to have a friend capable of grand delusions.

  “We’ll see you later,” she said softly to the listener under the steps as finally, reluctantly, they walked away. “See you later.”

  6

  Flora thought constantly about the cat with the white tail (and yellow tip) the next day. She even asked the principal of her school if she could come into the office during lunch and phone Miss Meriwether to find out if anyone had seen the cat. It was a bold act to ask the principal for such a favor. But Flora did.

  “Not yet, Flora,” said Miss Meriwether on the phone. “But we are all watching from our posts. I told the shopkeepers on this side of the street and those on the other side to call me the moment anyone sees a fluffy white tail going past.”

  She paused.

  “With a cat attached,” she added.

  “Thank you,” Flora said. “It means a lot to me.”

  “I know,” said Miss Meriwether. “Don’t worry.”

  But Flora did worry. All day at school she worried, and she missed two arithmetic questions because of it. Fourth-grade arithmetic was another matter that was very different from third grade. It seemed to require a person to think faster. Fast thinking was not Flora’s strength, even without a cat to worry about. She wasn’t as up in the clouds as her father could be, but she did like to take her time and carefully consider a thing, turn it about inside her head. Not a chance for that in fourth-grade arithmetic, where one had to pounce on the answer.

  This being a Tuesday, after school Flora walked to her father’s house, which was in the opposite direction of Southwell’s Barbershop, where she really wanted to be headed.

  Her father was making cinnamon toast when she arrived. He saw the look on her face.

  “We will walk over there together after some toast, okay?” he said.

  “Where?” asked Flora.

  “You know where,” said her father, smiling. “Your mother called me about Miss Fluffy Tail.”

  Flora put her books down and gave him a hug.

  “I know she’s there somewhere,” Flora said.

  “She could be a he,” said her father, putting into the oven a pan of thick slices of bread laden with butter, sugar, and cinnamon.

  “Mr. Fluffy Tail then,” said Flora.

  Flora’s father handed her a tall glass of milk.

  “Yury is as anxious as I am,” Flora said. “He is probably drinking cups and cups of Mo’s 24.”

  “When you finish up your snack, we’ll go,” said her father.

  Soon the two were walking over to Main Street. They approached the bookshop to check in first with Miss Meriwether. But as they neared the door of the shop, Flora suddenly stopped.

  She grabbed her father’s sleeve and pointed to the shop window.

  There inside Wings and a Chair Used Books, sitting on the purple velveteen chair, was a large white cat with a yellow tip on its fluffy tail, looking through the glass at Flora and her father.

  “Miss Fluffy Tail,” Flora whispered.

  She walked softly into the shop, afraid to say anything lest the cat run away.

  An empty can of tuna sat beside the cash register.

  “She isn’t wild,” said Miss Meriwether, coming toward them from the Mystery Alcove. “Just a little sensitive, I think.”

  Miss Meriwether smiled at Flora.

  “You two should get along splendidly,” she said.

  7

  Flora’s mother, Emma Jean, had been planning to be an English teacher when she met and married Flora’s father, Forster. And Forster had been planning to take photographs of America and publish them in a book when he met and married Emma Jean.

  Then, before Emma Jean could finish her studies and before Forster could travel across America, they had a baby daughter whom they named Flora. And raising her became for them the plan that mattered most.

  Flora knew that her mother worked three afternoons a week at Wings and a Chair Used Books because it put her “in touch with paper.” That is how her mother described it. Holding books and seeing the printed black ink on the pages made her mother happy. She felt useful, her mother said. Useful to the books.

  Emma Jean Smallwood loved poetry best, and when she and Flora went to the Windy Day Diner or to the Peaceable Buns Bakery, Emma Jean often had a book of poems tucked inside her bag, which she sometimes pulled out to read to Flora. Flora had been listening to poems since she was a baby.

  So when the white cat with the fluffy tail came to the bookshop to sit on the velveteen chair, and when the next day it followed Flora all the way home, Flora’s mother told her to be thoughtful when choosing a name for her new companion.

  “Think about the sound of the name,” Flora’s mother said. “And whether you would want to hear that sound day after day, if you were a cat.”

  Flora chose “Serenity.”

  She liked the soft S sound that began the name. And she liked the “tea” sound at the end of the name because it reminded her of Mo’s 24 and her friend Yury.

  Flora had hesitated to adopt Serenity (who was clearly a stray, for she had many fleas and was thin) until Flora first asked Yury if he would like to adopt the cat for his own. Yury had said good-bye to his old cat, and Flora worried that he might need a white cat with a fluffy tail much more than she did.

  So she called him to ask whether he might need the cat for his own.

  Flora did not ask Yury if he wanted the cat. That might have sounded cold, as if she herself did not want it. And she really wanted it with all her heart. She asked if he needed the cat.

  And Yury’s reply was this:

  “Thank you for asking. But it’s you she came looking for.”

  Flora wanted to cry when Yury said this. It is a rare thing when a friend wants, really wants, you to be happy.

  “She has some fleas,” was all Flora could manage to say.

  Thereafter, things were very different in the yellow house, with a cat sleeping on the back of the sofa, or on top of the piano, or in the basket in the broom closet. And when Flora went to the white house five streets over, things were very different there, too. For Serenity always came along.

  When Nessy spent the night, the girls made room for the cat between them.

  Flora worried, though, about Yury not having a pet. But shortly after Serenity arrived, Yury told Flora on their walk after school that one of his father’s patients had a puppy left from a litter of collies. And Yury’s father and mother had said that the puppy could be his.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” said Flora. “Have you thought about a name?”

  “Yes,” said Yury. “I’ve whittled the list down to one hundred.”

  Flora smiled.

  “And this will be your very first dog,” she said.

  Yury nodded.

  “My father took Laurence to dog school,” said Flora.

  “Really?” said Yury.

  “If you take your collie to dog school, could I come along?” Flora asked.

  “Definitely,” said Yury.

  So Yury would soon have a puppy to raise. And Flora had found Serenity.

  Flora thought, maybe things really were mostly right with the world. There were extra-vintage books to read
, pizzas from a box to bake, poems and photographs to think about, a white cat sleeping on the back of the sofa. And the brown earth still met the blue sky at the horizon.

  Fourth grade would have its challenges.

  But all would probably be well. Especially because dog school was maybe just around the corner.

  8

  Rosetown seemed to have more than its share of good dogs, and this likely was because many of them were graduates of the Good Manners for Good Dogs dog school located at the back of Rosetown Hardware.

  It was a useful combination—a dog school attached to a hardware store—because nearly every plumber and house painter in town (who were regular customers of the hardware) had a dog sitting in the front seat of his truck. And such a dog would need good manners indeed, to wait patiently as its owner went about his daily work with wrench or paintbrush in hand. Dogs in work trucks were so common that some people who did not have a dog at all still kept a bag of dog treats in the freezer just in case one showed up in response to a clogged drain.

  And it was at the Good Manners for Good Dogs dog school where Flora and Yury were now found every Saturday afternoon for puppy class. They met in front of the hardware store every Saturday at two o’clock, then went around together to the back. They had attended three puppy classes so far, and all had been a great success.

  Flora watched as Yury and his puppy—whose name was Friday—circled the large room with the rest of the puppies and their owners. She felt a warm happiness as she looked on, and she also felt proud of her friend. Yury, being new and from the Ukraine, might not have fit in so well with the residents of Rosetown. But he was fitting in beautifully.

  When Yury adopted his puppy, his after-school schedule had changed because Yury took pet care very seriously. Now there was a puppy at home, restlessly awaiting his arrival from school so that the puppy could have a hearty run in the backyard and all of the tummy scratching that followed. Therefore, Yury’s visits to his father’s office were now shorter, and his time with Flora at the bookstore now barely ten minutes before he had to move on.

  But they had Saturday afternoons. “Saturdays with Friday,” as Flora put it.

  Now it would be the fourth Saturday meeting of puppy class at Good Manners for Good Dogs. Yury was quite proud of Friday’s progress thus far. The puppy had not once soiled the shiny linoleum floor of the training room. And Friday also did not try to sleep through the important parts of the class, as some of the other puppies did. Friday was very alert, always listening, always watching, and well on his way to becoming a dog with exceptionally good manners.

  Flora would clap her hands softly whenever Friday did something right. Yury smiled at her after he gave Friday a mini-biscuit as reward.

  And when the class time was over, everyone got to play! All of the puppies were let off their leads, and Friday and his friends chased and tumbled and played their puppy hearts out as their proud owners watched and laughed.

  Yury stood with Flora as Friday rolled around with a puppy named Flash.

  “I feel like a Little League dad,” said Yury.

  Flora smiled.

  When Friday finally played himself almost to exhaustion, Yury picked him up in his arms. Then Yury and Flora and a sleepy puppy went around to the front of the hardware store to say good-bye.

  Flora petted Friday’s head.

  “When Friday is a really good dog, he can meet Serenity,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Yury.

  They then went their separate ways. But as close friends often do, each turned around once, to check on the other, before turning the corner for home.

  9

  With her cat Serenity, Flora continued to travel back and forth between the two houses she now called home, making life “a bit floaty,” as she once described it. But everyone was managing, and there seemed still to be much good will among everyone. Flora’s father said that this arrangement was a chance for him and Flora’s mother to adjust their perspectives.

  “What is ‘adjusting perspective’?” Flora asked.

  “Looking at something from a new angle,” her father answered.

  “Like the way you move from one side of the street to the other when you’re taking a photograph of a fender bender?” asked Flora.

  “Exactly,” said her father. “And ‘fender bender’ is a very apt comparison, by the way.”

  So the Smallwoods were all adjusting their perspectives, and so far it was going well. Forster had taken up oil painting, Emma Jean was learning to knit, and Flora was passing fourth-grade arithmetic.

  What Flora always most enjoyed, everyone knew, was sitting after school in the purple velveteen chair. She loved Miss Meriwether’s extra-vintage books, especially the writing in so many of them.

  She often shared some of her favorite passages with her mother when they had sandwiches at the Windy Day Diner.

  On this day, Flora opened up a slender old book called Stories for Children that had been inscribed, To Christopher, Christmas 1929.

  “Nineteen twenty-nine,” Flora said to her mother. “Not even you were born then.”

  Flora’s mother smiled. “I was not yet even a possibility,” she said.

  “It’s 1972 now,” said Flora, “so Christopher is maybe . . .”

  Flora took a few moments to calculate. “He is maybe a grandfather today,” she concluded.

  “That would be nice,” said her mother.

  Flora turned a page carefully. The book felt delicate in her hands, like a slender blade of grass.

  “This is a good opening to a story,” said Flora.

  She read:

  “Near the road is a snug little farmhouse called Home. In this cozy little house with its white window-frames, snug front porch, and well-kept walks, there lives a thrifty and happy family.”

  Flora’s mother smiled. “I love ‘thrifty,’ ” she said.

  “So do I,” said Flora. She and her mother were alike that way: they both loved good words.

  The two ate their food in contented silence for a while, watching people in the diner come and go.

  Then Flora’s mother said, “What would you think about piano lessons?”

  “For you?” asked Flora.

  “No, sweetheart, for you,” her mother answered, smiling.

  Flora took a deep breath, as she always did before making a major decision. Her eyes scanned the farthest corner of the room. (She always did this as well.)

  Then she looked back at her mother.

  “Can Nessy take them, too?” Flora asked.

  “Let’s find out,” said Flora’s mother. “I’ll call her mother tonight.”

  Flora nodded. She wanted to be careful not to feel too much happy anticipation, just in case she was disappointed if Nessy’s mother said no.

  Still, Flora felt that just-off-the-ground lightness when something lovely might be about to happen.

  She realized that she had always wanted to play the piano. She just had not known this about herself until now.

  10

  Rosetown’s only music store was called Four-Part Harmony, and it was a very popular place. The store had been operating in Rosetown since 1960, and in its early days it had mostly supplied band instruments to high school students and an occasional guitar to someone who loved Elvis.

  But in recent years it seemed that everyone wanted to be a performer. The 1960s had been a time of great self-expression, with its make-peace-not-war hippies and their creative blossoming. And music had blossomed along with them. This was very good for Four-Part Harmony. Many new customers came into the store, looking for ways to express themselves. With the extra money he made, the store’s owner, Mr. Teller, remodeled the back of the building to create a large new space with rooms for personal music lessons and also a performance room. He called this section of the store Part Five.

  On Tuesday after school Four-Part Harmony was the destination of Flora and her friend Nessy. They arrived at the store accompanied by Flora’s father, who ha
d just finished taking photographs of the high school marching band.

  “I am afloat in musical instruments today,” Forster Smallwood said as he held open the door of the store for the girls.

  Flora and Nessy barely heard him. They both were nervous, feeling shy, and they each grabbed the other’s hand as they stepped into the building.

  It is beautiful, thought Flora when she looked around the showroom.

  Mr. Teller had arranged all of the stringed instruments in one section of the showroom, and all of the brass instruments in another section, and the pianos and percussion in another. An exquisite cello sat glistening in its stand beneath soft lights, and the keys on every piano were shiny and white.

  In a separate alcove there must have been one hundred or more guitars, electric guitars in bright metallic colors and folk guitars in warm wood. A few young men were trying out some of the guitars, and one young man in particular was quite a good guitarist. His fingers were quick and sure as they moved over the strings, and Flora felt a sudden upwelling of feeling inside her in response to the beauty of his music.

  Flora squeezed Nessy’s hand to reassure her that everything was good.

  Flora’s father introduced the girls to Mr. Teller, who was standing behind a glass case filled with packages of strings for every variety of stringed instrument. Mr. Teller welcomed them to the store and told them that each girl would have her own piano teacher in her own room in Part Five.

  He gave Nessy a friendly smile.

  “You are Vanessa?” he asked, reading the application in his hand, which had been completed by her mother.

  “Nessy,” said Flora and Nessy together.

  “Nessy,” Mr. Teller repeated. “Well, Nessy, your teacher’s name is Miss Larsson, and she is waiting for you in Part Five in room 1.”

  So many numbers, thought Flora.

  Nessy nodded and squeezed Flora’s hand again.

  Then Mr. Teller looked at Flora.

  “And you are Flora,” he said. “Your teacher will be with you as soon as he finishes with his customer over there.”