“Why Beezus, what has happened to your hands?” asked her mother as she laid a bunch of carrots on the counter. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“It’s nothing much,” said Beezus.
“Here, let me finish the lettuce,” said Mr. Quimby as he took one of his daughter’s hands to examine her wounds. “Why, this is terrible,” he said. “How did you get all those blisters?”
Beezus did not want to tell. She cast a look at Ramona that asked, What do I do now?
This is dumb, thought Ramona. Their parents had to know sometime. “She blistered her hands digging a hole in the backyard,” she informed her parents and added in her saddest, most sorrowful voice, “a little grave. We dug a little grave.” She really enjoyed the looks of astonishment the announcement produced.
Mr. Quimby, who was first to recover, looked amused. “And whom, may I ask, or what did you bury in a grave big enough to raise blisters on Beezus’s hands?”
Ramona knew he was thinking of the little graves they had dug for dead birds when they were younger. She sighed to make her announcement seem even more mournful. “We buried Picky-picky. He passed away today.”
The parents’ look of surprise and amusement turned to shock. They looked even more shocked than Ramona had expected. She began to feel frightened. Perhaps she had upset her mother after all.
“Why, you poor children—” said Mrs. Quimby with tears in her eyes. “Burying the cat all by yourselves.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” asked their father. “I could have taken care of him.”
“You said we shouldn’t upset Mother,” explained Beezus. “And we didn’t want her to come home and find Picky-picky dead.”
“We made a nice grave, with leaves and a marker,” said Ramona. “And we remembered to say a prayer like they do on TV before somebody leads the dead person’s wife away.”
Mrs. Quimby brushed away a tear with the back of her hand. “I’m a very lucky mother to have such dear girls,” she said.
“And I’m really proud of you,” said Mr. Quimby. “I hope we have such good luck the next time.”
The sisters stared at their mother’s waistline. Her uniform was tight. It was not their imagination. They raised their eyes to her face. She was smiling.
“Then it’s true!” Beezus was filled with excitement and joy.
“You’re going to have a baby.” Although she had suspected the truth, Ramona was as disbelieving as if she were charging her mother with magic.
“When are you going to have it?” asked Beezus.
“In July,” confessed her mother.
“Correction,” said Mr. Quimby. “We are going to have a baby. I’m going to be a proud father.”
“You just said you were proud of us,” Ramona reminded him.
“So I did,” said her father. “But now I can be proud of three instead of two.”
“And I don’t think we need worry about leaving the girls alone until I stop working,” said Mrs. Quimby.
“Whee!” cried Ramona. “No more Mrs. Kemp!” At the same time she was thinking, a third Quimby child? Her mind was full of excited questions, but deep down inside where she hid her most secret thoughts, Ramona realized she would lose her favored place as the baby of the family. She would become the middle child, neither big nor little. She thought maybe she would rather have another cat.
5
“IT”
Now that the news of the baby was out, Beezus and Ramona had no more trouble getting along with one another after school. Saying they were sorry and burying Picky-picky had brought them closer together. Their parents said nothing more about their returning to the Kemps’ after school.
Ramona began to feel that life was humdrum. Even the weather was dreary—wet and cold, but not cold enough to snow. She tried wearing a Chiquita banana sticker plastered to her forehead when she went to school, to start a fad like the sticker fad in Aunt Beatrice’s third grade. Her aunt said she sometimes felt as if she were teaching a bunch of bananas. Members of Ramona’s class said, “What are you wearing that for?” or “That looks dumb.”
Then Ramona tried announcing, “We’re going to have a new baby at our house.” No one was interested. New babies were common in the families of her classmates. Because she had been to their homes, Ramona knew what new babies meant—a stroller in the hall, a playpen in the living room, a high chair in the kitchen, tiny clothes strewn around, plastic toys underfoot, zwieback crumbs sticking to chairs. Of course she could not expect her friends to get excited about the Quimbys’ new baby.
Weeks went by. Aunt Beatrice telephoned almost every evening to ask how her sister was feeling. The conversation of the grown-up sisters was filled with laughter, which puzzled Ramona and Beezus, who failed to see why having a baby was funny. They hung around, trying to guess what the laughter was about from their mother’s side of the mysterious conversations. They were able to guess that Aunt Bea was very busy, that she went skiing almost every weekend, but the ski season would soon be over. Their mother’s remarks were meaningless. “Why, Bea!” “I don’t believe it!” “What did Michael say?” “No. No, I won’t tell the girls.”
Both Beezus and Ramona pounced on their mother when a conversation ended. “What won’t you tell us?” they demanded.
“If I told you, you would know,” answered their mother.
“Mother-er!” protested Ramona. “You’re just plain mean.”
“Yes, exasperating,” agreed Beezus.
“Me?” Mrs. Quimby looked innocent. “Mean? Exasperating? Wherever did you get that idea?”
“Did Michael ask Aunt Bea to marry him?” demanded Beezus, eager for romance.
“Not that I know of,” answered their provoking mother.
Ramona stamped her foot. “Mother, you stop it! You’re getting to be as bad as Howie’s Uncle Hobart, always teasing.”
“Heaven forbid that I should be like Howie’s Uncle Hobart,” answered Mrs. Quimby, still teasing. “I’ll have to try to mend my ways.”
Ramona was strict with her mother. “See that you do,” she said. “I don’t like mysteries, except in books.”
Mr. Quimby, who was trying to study at the dining room table, frowned during all these conversations that disturbed his work. Something dreadful called a midterm was about to happen at the university. He was worried and nervous. The girls could tell because he made more jokes than usual. When he was worried, he always joked. When he saw Ramona lying on the floor looking at TV, he said, “There’s Ramona. Batteries not included.”
However, Mr. Quimby’s studies would be over the middle of June, when he would receive his teaching credential a few weeks before the baby, known as It, was due. Then he would work during the summer as a checker at one of the ShopRite Markets to replace checkers who took vacations. By September, he would have found a place in a school, if not in Portland, at least in a suburb. Mrs. Quimby would leave her job to take care of It, which pleased Ramona. The house always seemed so empty without her mother.
Of course, Beezus and Ramona were eager to know if It would be a boy or girl. Ramona wanted a boy. Beezus wanted a girl. Their parents said they would take whatever came along.
The girls were concerned with other questions. Whose room would It share? How long would their mother stay home to take care of It? Ramona wanted her mother home for keeps—babies weren’t much work, they just lay around all day. Maybe her mother could find time to let down the hems of Ramona’s skirts and pants and bake a few cookies. Beezus wished she could stay home from school to take care of It herself. However, she had the summer to look forward to. Mrs. Quimby said that after the girls’ father found a job and It was a few months old, she would like to take some evening courses at the University. “And I’ll take care of It while you study,” said Beezus.
“Enough of It,” said Mr. Quimby. “No child of ours is going to be called It Quimby. Think how everyone would laugh when the teacher called the roll. How would you feel introducing your new brot
her or sister by saying, ‘This is It’? And every time anyone said, ‘I don’t like it,’ about bread pudding or stupid TV programs, It’s feelings would be hurt.”
The family agreed that of course the baby needed a real name. Robert Quimby, Junior? Maybe, if It turned out to be a boy. Mrs. Quimby said the baby would not be named after herself because she had never liked being called Dorothy. Ramona thought Aston Martin would be good for a boy. She had heard the name someplace and thought it sounded nice. Beezus preferred Gary or Burt for a boy and thought April was a pretty name for a girl, except It would be born in July, which was not a name for a person.
Then Mr. Quimby brought home a pamphlet from the drugstore, called A Name for Your Baby, which listed names and their meanings. Ramona immediately found her own name and discovered that Ramona meant “wise helper.” How boring, she thought, and hoped this did not mean that she would be expected to change It’s diapers or anything like that.
Beezus, on the other hand, laughed when she discovered Beatrice meant “heavenly one.” “Whee!” she said, twirling around the living room and flapping her arms like wings. Her complexion had improved, which made her happier about everything.
Together the girls studied the pamphlet. Many names would not do at all. Philbert, which meant “superior,” sounded good with Quimby, but at school, boys would call him a nut. Beezus thought Abelard might be a good name for a boy because it meant “romantic hero,” but Ramona pointed out that everyone at school would call him “Lard.” Beezus also thought Lorelei, which meant “romantic siren,” was a pretty name for a girl until Ramona began to chant, “Loreliar, Loreliar, pants on fire.”
Ramona preferred Gwendolyn for a girl because the name meant “fair.” If she had to have another sister, she wanted one who always played fair.
Mr. Quimby suggested names that were much too fancy—Alphonso Horatio, Clarinda Hepzibah, or Quentin Quincy Quimby. His daughters, however, did not take him seriously. This was more of his joking because he was worried.
“What if It is twins?” Ramona’s thought presented a whole new problem. She studied the pamphlet once more. Paul and Pauline? Boris and Doris? Gerald and Geraldine?
“They could be two girls or two boys,” Beezus pointed out.
“Abby and Gabby,” said Mr. Quimby. “Peter and Mosquiter.”
“Daddy, you’re just being silly.” Ramona was always stern with her father when she felt he had gone too far with his jokes.
Mrs. Quimby asked what was wrong with plain names like Jane or John. Nothing, agreed her daughters, but fancy names were more fun to look up. They discovered that Hobart meant “clever,” but of course they weren’t going to name their baby after Howie’s uncle.
Finally It came to be known as Algie. When Mrs. Quimby could no longer squeeze into her clothes and changed to maternity clothes, Mr. Quimby recited:
“Algie went out walking.
Algie met a bear.
The bear was bulgy.
The bulge was Algie.”
Mrs. Quimby said, “You wouldn’t think it was so funny if men had babies.” However, she laughed and referred to the new baby as Algie after that. The girls, when told that Algie was short for Algernon, looked up the name and discovered it meant “courageous.”
“Of course, we couldn’t really name it Algernon,” said practical Beezus. “Everyone at school would make fun of him. Nobody is named Algernon except in old-fashioned books.”
Besides the fun of finding names, Beezus and Mrs. Quimby watched for sales of baby clothes. Ramona’s diapers, inherited from Beezus, had long ago been used for dust cloths, much to Ramona’s relief. She did not like to be reminded that she had ever worn diapers. “On TV, babies wear disposable diapers,” she told her mother.
“Much too expensive,” said Mrs. Quimby.
All the Quimbys’ needs seemed too expensive. Still no letters arrived asking Mr. Quimby to report for an interview. “Maybe I should go to Saudi Arabia like Old Moneybags, work double shifts, and earn enough to pay off our bills and the mortgage, and buy a car that wouldn’t eat us out of house and home in repair bills,” he said thoughtfully. This time his daughters were sure he was joking.
“Bob, please be practical,” said Mrs. Quimby. “You have no engineering experience.” Because she needed exercise, she left for her evening walk.
Ramona decided to go along because she wanted to talk privately to her mother. As they walked beneath the budding trees, she began by saying, “When Algie comes, I won’t be your baby anymore.”
“That’s right,” agreed her mother. “You will be my middle child, with a special place right in the middle of my heart. And when Algie comes, I will be home, so we can spend more time together. Daddy will have found a teaching job by then.”
Ramona was comforted. They walked in silence for a while before she asked another question that had been worrying her. “Does Algie hurt you?”
Mrs. Quimby’s smile was reassuring. “No, he doesn’t hurt me, but he does kick.” She laid Ramona’s hand on the bulge that was Algie, and sure enough, Ramona felt a kick so tiny it was almost a flutter. Ramona was stunned by the miracle of that little kick and was silent all the way home.
Mr. Quimby began to work double shifts weekends at the frozen-food warehouse. He looked so tired and discouraged that his daughters were frightened. Somewhere, someplace, there must be a school that wanted their father. Nothing in the world was worse than unhappy parents. Nothing. When parents were unhappy, the whole world seemed to go wrong. The weather even seemed rainier, although this was probably in Beezus’s and Ramona’s imaginations. Their part of Oregon was noted for rain.
Then one day a letter did arrive, offering Mr. Quimby a teaching position in a one-room schoolhouse, grades one through eight, in a town no one had ever heard of, in southeastern Oregon. Beezus ran out to the car for the road map. “That’s miles away,” she said when she had searched the map and found the town. “It’s miles from anyplace. It isn’t even on a red line on the map. It’s on a black and white line, almost in Idaho.”
“What’s in that part of the country?” wondered Mrs. Quimby who, along with her husband, had lived in Oregon all her life but never visited that corner of the state.
“Sagebrush, I guess.” Mr. Quimby was vague. “Juniper, lava rocks. I don’t know.”
“Sheep. I learned that in school.” Beezus did not seem happy about her knowledge.
“Hooray for the Portland public schools.” Mr. Quimby’s hooray did not express excitement.
“Lambs are cute,” ventured Ramona, hoping to make her father feel better about his offer.
“But our house,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and a new baby.” No one had thought that the family might have to move.
“And Picky-picky’s grave.” Ramona assumed her most sorrowful expression. “We would have to leave his little grave.”
“If I were single,” Mr. Quimby seemed to be thinking out loud, “I might enjoy teaching in a one-room schoolhouse for a year or two.”
But you’ve got us, thought Ramona, and I don’t want to leave Howie and my friends at school and Aunt Bea and all our nice neighbors.
“It sounds like Laura Ingalls Wilder,” said Beezus, “only with sheep.”
“Bob—” Mrs. Quimby hesitated. “If you want to take the job, we could rent our house. A small town might be an interesting experience for the girls until you found a job in the city.”
Strangers in their house, some bratty child in her room, marking up her walls with crayons. Please, Daddy, thought Ramona with clenched fists, please, please say no.
Mr. Quimby sat tapping the end of a ball-point pen against his teeth. His family waited, each thinking of the changes that might be made in her life. “No freeways,” he said, as if he were still thinking out loud. “Blue skies, wide open spaces.”
“We have blue skies here,” said Ramona. “Except when it rains.”
“No big library,” said Beezus. “Maybe no library at all.”
&
nbsp; Mrs. Quimby kissed her husband on the forehead. “Why don’t we think it over a few days? Now that you’ve had one offer, another might come along.”
“Good idea,” announced Mr. Quimby, “but I need a steady income, and soon.” He patted the bulge that was Algie.
“Daddy,” ventured Ramona, “if you don’t teach in that school, promise you won’t leave us and go to that Arabian Nights place. Please.”
“Not with Algie on the way.” Mr. Quimby hugged Ramona. “Anyway, I understand that camels spit.”
“Just like Howie’s Uncle Hobart used to do,” said Ramona.
Somehow the whole family felt better knowing that one school wanted Mr. Quimby, even if he was not sure he wanted the school.
6
A Surprise, Sort Of
Howie, who was beginning to wish his Uncle Hobart would go back to Saudi Arabia so he could sleep in his own room again, brought his bicycle and unicycle over to the Quimbys’ every day after school. Beezus never again objected to Ramona’s riding around the block.
Ramona thought how lonely she would be without Howie if she had to go live in the land of sheep. “Maybe we will move away to southeastern Oregon,” she confided.
“Hey, that would be neat,” said Howie. “They have wild horses down there. Maybe you could send me one.”
Ramona was offended. Howie wouldn’t even miss her. “I wouldn’t send you one even if I could catch it,” she informed him.
Howie understood. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss you,” he said. “I only meant if you have to leave and if catching a horse would be easy.”
Since no more offers of teaching positions arrived, no matter how often the family looked in the mailbox, Ramona saw that moving from Klickitat Street was a very real possibility.
One afternoon before Howie arrived, the telephone rang. Ramona beat Beezus to answering it.
Ramona Forever Page 4