Dear Mr. Henshaw

by Beverly Cleary

  I read over the letter you wrote that time answering my questions and thought about your tips on how to write a book. One of the tips was listen. I guess you meant to listen and write down the way people talk, sort of like a play. This is what Mom and I said at supper (frozen chicken pies):

  ME: Mom, how come you don’t get married again?

  MOM: Oh, I don’t know. I guess men aren’t that easy to find when you are out of school.

  ME: But you go out sometimes. You went to dinner with Charlie a couple of times. What happened to him?

  MOM: A couple of times was enough. That’s the end of Charlie.

  ME: How come?

  MOM: (Thinks awhile.) Charlie is divorced and has three children to support. What he really wants is someone to help support Charlie.

  ME: Oh. (Three sudden brothers or sisters was something to think about.) But I see men all around. There are lots of men.

  MOM: But not the marrying kind. (Sort of laughs.) I guess I’m really afraid I might find another man who’s in love with a truck.

  ME: (I think about this and don’t answer. Dad in love with a truck? What does she mean?)

  MOM: Why are you asking all these questions all of a sudden?

  ME: I was thinking if I had a father at home, maybe he could show me how to make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag.

  MOM: (Laughing.) There must be an easier way than my getting married again.

  End of conversation

  January 12

  Dear Mr. Henshaw,

  This is a real letter I am going to mail. Maybe I had better explain that I have written you many letters that are really my diary which I keep because you said so and because Mom still won’t have the TV repaired. She wants my brain to stay in good shape. She says I will need my brain all my life.

  Guess what? Today the school librarian stopped me in the hall and said she had something for me. She told me to come to the library. There she handed me your new book and said I could be the first to read it. I must have looked surprised. She said she knew how much I love your books since I check them out so often. Now I know Mr. Fridley isn’t the only one who notices me.

  I am on page 14 of Beggar Bears. It is a good book. I just wanted you to know that I am the first person around here to get to read it.

  Your No. 1 fan,

  Leigh Botts

  January 15

  Dear Mr. Henshaw,

  I finished Beggar Bears in two nights. It is a really good book. At first I was surprised because it wasn’t funny like your other books, but then I got to thinking (you said authors should think) and decided a book doesn’t have to be funny to be good, although it often helps. This book did not need to be funny.

  In the first chapter I thought it was going to be funny. I guess I expected it because of your other books and because the mother bear was teaching her twin cubs to beg from tourists in Yellowstone Park. Then when the mother died because a stupid tourist fed her a cupcake in a plastic bag and she ate the bag, too, I knew this was going to be a sad book. Winter was coming on, tourists were leaving the park and the little bears didn’t know how to find food for themselves. When they hibernated and then woke up in the middle of winter because they had eaten all the wrong things and hadn’t stored up enough fat, I almost cried. I sure was relieved when the nice ranger and his boy found the young bears and fed them and the next summer taught them to hunt for the right things to eat.

  I wonder what happens to the fathers of bears. Do they just go away?

  Sometimes I lie awake listening to the gas station pinging, and I worry because something might happen to Mom. She is so little compared to most moms, and she works so hard. I don’t think Dad is that much interested in me. He didn’t phone when he said he would.

  I hope your book wins a million awards.

  Sincerely,

  Leigh Botts

  January 19

  Dear Mr. Henshaw,

  Thank you for sending me the postcard with the picture of the lake and mountains and all that snow. Yes, I will continue to write in my diary even if I do have to pretend I am writing to you. You know something? I think I feel better when I write in my diary.

  My teacher says my writing skills are improving. Maybe I really will be a famous author someday. She said our school along with some other schools is going to print (that means mimeograph) a book of work of young authors, and I should write a story for it. The writers of the best work will win a prize—lunch with a Famous Author and with winners from other schools. I hope the Famous Author is you.

  I don’t often get mail, but today I received two postcards, one from you and one from Dad in Kansas. His card showed a picture of a grain elevator. He said he would phone me sometime next week. I wish someday he would have to drive a load of something to Wyoming and would take me along so I could get to meet you.

  That’s all for now. I am going to try to think up a story. Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you to read. I know you are busy and I don’t want to be a nuisance.

  Your good friend,

  Leigh Botts the First

  FROM THE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS

  Saturday, January 20

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  Every time I try to think up a story, it turns out to be like something someone else has written, usually you. I want to do what you said in your tips and write like me, not like somebody else. I’ll keep trying because I want to be a Young Author with my story printed (mimeographed). Maybe I can’t think of a story because I am waiting for Dad to call. I get so lonesome when I am alone at night when Mom is at her nursing class.

  Yesterday somebody stole a piece of wedding cake from my lunchbag. It was the kind Catering by Katy packs in little white boxes for people to take home from weddings. Mr. Fridley noticed me scowling again and said, “So the lunchbag thief strikes again!”

  I said, “Yeah, and my Dad didn’t phone me.”

  He said, “Don’t think you are the only boy around here with a father who forgets.”

  I wonder if this is true. Mr. Fridley keeps an eye on just about everything around school, so he probably knows.

  I wish I had a grandfather like Mr. Fridley. He is so nice, sort of baggy and comfortable.

  Monday, January 29

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  Dad still hasn’t phoned, and he promised he would. Mom keeps telling me I shouldn’t get my hopes up, because Dad sometimes forgets. I don’t think he should forget what he wrote on a postcard. I feel terrible.

  Tuesday, January 30

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  I looked in my book of highway maps and figured out that Dad should be back in Bakersfield by now, but he still hasn’t phoned. Mom says I shouldn’t be too hard on him, because a trucker’s life isn’t easy. Truckers sometimes lose some of their hearing in their left ear from the wind rushing past the driver’s window. She says truckers get out of shape from sitting such long hours without exercise and from eating too much greasy food. Sometimes they get ulcers from the strain of trying to make good time on the highway. Time is money for a trucker. I think she is just trying to make me feel good, but I don’t. I feel rotten.

  I said, “If a trucker’s life is so hard, how come Dad is in love with his truck?”

  Mom said, “It’s not really his truck he is in love with. He loves the feel of power when he is sitting high in his cab controlling a mighty machine. He loves the excitement of never knowing where his next trip will take him. He loves the mountains and the desert sunrises and the sight of orange trees heavy with oranges and the smell of fresh-mown alfalfa. I know, because I rode with him until you came along.”

  I still feel terrible. If Dad loves all those things so much, why can’t he love me? And maybe if I hadn’t been born, Mom might still be riding with Dad. Maybe I’m to blame for everything.

  Wednesday, January 31

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  Dad still hasn’t phoned. A promise is a promise, especially when it is in writing.
When the phone does ring, it is always a call from one of the women Mom works with. I am filled with wrath (I got that out of a book, but not one of yours). I am mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. As she says, it takes two people to get a divorce, so I am mad at two people. I wish Bandit was here to keep me company. Bandit and I didn’t get a divorce. They did.

  Thursday, February 1

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  Today there was bad news in the paper. The sugar refinery is going to shut down. Even though Dad hauls cross-country now, I keep hoping sometime he might haul a really big load of sugar beets to Spreckels. Now maybe I’ll never see him again.

  Friday, February 2

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  I am writing this because I am trapped in my room with a couple of babies sleeping in baskets on my bed. Mom has some of her women friends over. They sit around drinking coffee or herb tea and talking about their problems which are mostly men, money, kids and landlords. Some of them piece quilts while they talk. They hope to sell them for extra money. It is better to stay in here with the babies than go out and say, “Hello, sure, I like school fine, yes, I guess I have grown,” and all that.

  Mom is right about Dad and his truck. I remember how exciting it was to ride with him and listen to calls on his Citizens’ Band radio. Dad pointed out how hawks sit on telephone wires waiting for little animals to get run over so they won’t have to bother to hunt. Dad says civilization is ruining hawks. He was hauling a gondola full of tomatoes that day, and he said that some tomatoes are grown specially so they are so strong they won’t squash when loaded into a gondola. They may not taste like much, but they don’t squash.

  That day we had to stop at a weigh scale. Dad had used up enough diesel oil so his load was just under the legal weight, and the highway patrol didn’t make him pay a fine for carrying too heavy a load. Then we had lunch at the truck stop. Everybody seemed to know Dad. The waitresses all said, “Well, look who just rolled in! Our old pal, Wild Bill,” and things like that. Wild Bill from Bakersfield is the name Dad uses on his CB radio.

  When Dad said, “Meet my kid,” I stood up as tall as I could so they would think I was going to grow up as big as Dad. The waitresses all laughed a lot around Dad. For lunch we had chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with lots of gravy, peas out of a can, and apple pie with ice cream. Our waitress gave me extra ice cream to help me grow big like Dad. Most truckers ate real fast and left, but Dad kidded around awhile and played the video games. Dad always runs up a high score, no matter which machine he plays.

  Mom’s friends are collecting their babies, so I guess I can go to bed now.

  Sunday, February 4

  Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

  I hate my father.

  Mom is usually home on Sunday, but this week there was a big golf tournament which means rich people have parties, so she had to go squirt deviled crab into about a million little cream puff shells. Mom never worries about meeting the rent when there is a big golf tournament.

  I was all alone in the house, it was raining and I didn’t have anything to read. I was supposed to scrub off some of the mildew on the bathroom walls with some smelly stuff, but I didn’t because I was mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. I feel that way sometimes which makes me feel awful because I know how hard she has to work and try to go to school, too.

  I kept looking at the telephone until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I picked up the receiver and dialed Dad’s number over in Bakersfield. I even remembered to dial 1 first because it was long distance. All I wanted was to hear the phone ringing in Dad’s trailer which wouldn’t cost Mom anything because nobody would answer.

  Except Dad answered. I almost hung up. He wasn’t off in some other state. He was in his trailer, and he hadn’t phoned me. “You promised to phone me this week and you didn’t,” I said. I felt I had to talk to him.

  “Take it easy, kid,” he said. “I just didn’t get around to it. I was going to call this evening. The week isn’t over yet.”

  I thought about this.

  “Something on your mind?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “My lunch. Somebody steals the good stuff out of my lunch.”

  “Find him and punch him in the nose,” said Dad. I could tell he didn’t think my lunch was important.

  “I hoped you would call,” I said. “I waited and waited.” Then I was sorry I said it. I have some pride left.

  “There was heavy snow in the mountains,” he said. “I had to chain up on Highway 80 and lost time.”

  From my map book I know Highway 80 crosses the Sierra. I also know about putting chains on trucks. When the snow is heavy, truckers have to put chains on the drive wheels—all eight of them. Putting chains on eight big wheels in the snow is no fun. I felt a little better. “How’s Bandit?” I asked, as long as we were talking.

  There was a funny silence. For a minute I thought the line was dead. Then I knew something must have happened to my dog. “How’s Bandit?” I asked again, louder in case Dad might have lost some of the hearing in his left ear from all that wind rushing by.

  “Well, kid—” he began.

  “My name is Leigh!” I almost yelled. “I’m not just some kid you met on the street.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Leigh,” he said. “When I had to stop along with some other truckers to put on chains, I let Bandit out of the cab. I thought he would get right back in because it was snowing so hard, but after I chained up, he wasn’t in the cab.”

  “Did you leave the door open for him?” I asked.

  Big pause. “I could’ve sworn I did,” he said which meant he didn’t. Then he said, “I whistled and whistled, but Bandit didn’t come. I couldn’t wait any longer because the highway patrol was talking about closing Highway 80. I couldn’t get stranded up there in the mountains when I had a deadline for delivering a load of TV sets to a dealer in Denver. I had to leave. I’m sorry, kid—Leigh—but that’s the way it is.”

  “You left Bandit to freeze to death.” I was crying from anger. How could he?

  “Bandit knows how to take care of himself,” said Dad. “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he jumped into another truck that was leaving.”

  I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Why would the driver let him?” I asked.

  “Because he thought Bandit was lost,” said Dad, “and he had to get on with his load before the highway was closed, the same as I did. He couldn’t leave a dog to freeze.”

  “What about your CB radio?” I asked. “Didn’t you send out a call?”

  “Sure I did, but I didn’t get an answer. Mountains cut down on reception,” Dad told me.

  I was about to say I understood, but here comes the bad part, the really bad part. I heard a boy’s voice say, “Hey, Bill, Mom wants to know when we’re going out to get the pizza?” I felt as if my insides were falling out. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear any more, when Mom had to pay for the phone call. I didn’t want to hear any more at all.

  To be continued.

  Monday, February 5

  Dear Mr. Henshaw,

  I don’t have to pretend to write to Mr. Henshaw anymore. I have learned to say what I think on a piece of paper. And I don’t hate my father either. I can’t hate him. Maybe things would be easier if I could.

  Yesterday after I hung up on Dad I flopped down on my bed and cried and swore and pounded my pillow. I felt so terrible about Bandit riding around with a strange trucker and Dad taking another boy out for pizza when I was all alone in the house with the mildewed bathroom when it was raining outside and I was hungry. The worst part of all was I knew if Dad took someone to a pizza place for dinner, he wouldn’t have phoned me at all, no matter what he said. He would have too much fun playing video games.

  Then I heard Mom’s car stop out in front. I hurried and washed my face and tried to look as if I hadn’t been crying, but I couldn’t fool Mom. She came to the door of my room and said, “Hi, Leigh.” I tried to look away, but she came closer in
the dim light and said, “What’s the matter, Leigh?”

  “Nothing,” I said, but she knew better. She sat down and put her arm around me.

  I tried hard not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. “Dad lost Bandit,” I finally managed to say.

  “Oh, Leigh,” she said, and I blubbered out the whole story, pizza and all.

  We just sat there awhile, and then I said, “Why did you have to go and marry him?”

  “Because I was in love with him,” she said.

  “Why did you stop?” I asked.

  “We just got married too young,” she said. “Growing up in that little valley town with nothing but sagebrush, oil wells and jackrabbits there wasn’t much to do. I remember at night how I used to look out at the lights of Bakersfield in the distance and wish I could live in a place like that, it looked so big and exciting. It seems funny now, but then it seemed like New York or Paris.

  “After high school the boys mostly went to work in the oil fields or joined the army, and the girls got married. Some people went to college, but I couldn’t get my parents interested in helping me. After graduation your Dad came along in a big truck and—well, that was that. He was big and handsome and nothing seemed to bother him, and the way he handled his rig—well, he seemed like a knight in shining armor. Things weren’t too happy at home with your grandfather drinking and all, so your Dad and I ran off to Las Vegas and got married. I enjoyed riding with him until you came along, and—well, by that time I had had enough of highways and truck stops. I stayed home with you, and he was gone most of the time.”

  I felt a little better when Mom said she was tired of life on the road. Maybe I wasn’t to blame after all. I remembered, too, how Mom and I were alone a lot and how I hated living in that mobile home. About the only places we ever went were the laundromat and the library. Mom read a lot and she used to read to me, too. She used to talk a lot about her elementary school principal, who was so excited about reading she had the whole school celebrate books and authors every April.