“Ramona?” It was Willa Jean.
“Willa Jean!” Ramona was astonished. “I didn’t know you knew how to dial.”
“Uncle Hobart showed me,” explained Willa Jean. “Ramona, come back and play with me. Please. It’s lonesome here with Grandma.”
Ramona felt sad and guilty. “I’m sorry, Willa Jean, I can’t. Maybe your Uncle Hobart will play with you.”
“He’s not around much,” said Willa Jean. “He has a girlfriend, and anyway, he’s a grown-up.”
“I know,” said Ramona, meaning she knew he was a grown-up, not that he had a girlfriend.
“Good-by.” Willa Jean, who had nothing more to say, hung up.
Ramona sighed. She remembered what it was like to be the littlest child in the neighborhood. She remembered all too well the days back in kindergarten when she was known as Ramona the Pest. Maybe she could ask Howie to bring Willa Jean over to play sometime when her mother stopped working. Nursery school had done Willa Jean a world of good, as all the grown-ups except Mrs. Kemp said. Mrs. Kemp thought Willa Jean was perfect to begin with.
On the bus the next morning, Ramona sat beside Howie. “Willa Jean says your Uncle Hobart has a girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” Howie wasn’t much interested. “Some teacher.”
A terrible suspicion crossed Ramona’s mind. “What teacher?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Howie. “He acts like it’s a big secret. Maybe she has two heads or something.”
Ramona was silent all the way to school. She had that sinking feeling she always felt when she rode down in an elevator. She knew—she just knew—that Howie’s uncle was seeing her aunt. She didn’t know why she knew, but she knew.
After school, Ramona confided her fears to her sister, who said, “Oh, I don’t think that could be—Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Hobart.” She spoke so doubtfully that Ramona knew Beezus thought she might be right.
“Maybe that’s what the big secret is. Mom doesn’t want us to know because we don’t like Uncle Hobart. She thinks we might say something to Aunt Beatrice.”
“Oh well,” said Ramona, “he’ll have to go back to Saudi Arabia sometime. Then we’ll be rid of him.”
“I wonder what happened to Michael,” Beezus thought aloud.
Then one Sunday Mrs. Quimby told the girls to set two extra places at the table for dinner.
“Who’s coming?” asked Ramona.
“Your Aunt Bea and a friend.” Mrs. Quimby was smiling.
“What friend?” demanded both girls.
“Oh, just a friend,” answered their maddening mother.
“A man?” asked Beezus.
“Girls, I really don’t have time to play guessing games.” Mrs. Quimby turned her attention to something on the stove.
“It’s a man.” Ramona was positive. “It’s Howie’s uncle.”
Mrs. Quimby looked startled. “How did you know?”
“Oh, a little bird told me.” Ramona tried to sound as annoying as any grown-up.
Beezus was indignant. “You mean Aunt Bea is bringing that awful man here? How did she meet him?”
“He remembered her from high school and asked Howie’s mother about her. She called to ask if I thought my sister remembered him, and I said she did, so he phoned her, and now they’re coming to dinner.”
So that was what the mysterious telephone calls were all about, thought Ramona, but she said, “Well, he better not spit around here.”
“You behave yourself,” said Mrs. Quimby, and meant it.
Ramona made sure she answered the doorbell when the guests arrived. There they stood—Aunt Bea and Uncle Hobart.
“Good evening, Ramona.” Uncle Hobart, who had grown a neat beard and was wearing a jacket and tie, spoke to Ramona as if they were the same age.
Ramona was blunt. “Mr. Kemp, how come you’re still here?” Nobody would catch her calling him Uncle Hobart even though, because of Howie, this was the way she thought of him.
“Ramona!” Mrs. Quimby’s voice was a warning. “Come on in,” she said to the couple. “Don’t pay any attention to Ramona.”
Aunt Bea laughed and said to Ramona, “Hobart and I have renewed our high school friendship.”
“Does he still spit?” Ramona asked under her breath, hoping her mother wouldn’t hear.
“Not on the carpet,” answered Uncle Hobart under his breath.
Mrs. Quimby had heard. “Ramona, do you want to go to your room?”
“No.” Ramona sulked. Aunt Bea would be sorry if the family moved off to the land of sheep. Where would she go for Thanksgiving and Christmas? Her imagination spun a sad picture of Aunt Bea alone in her apartment, eating a frozen chicken pie.
When dinner was served, Ramona was seated across from Uncle Hobart. While the adults talked and laughed, she stared at her plate until a lull came in the conversation, when she asked as politely as she could under the circumstances, “Mr. Kemp, I expect you’ll be going back to Saudi Arabia soon.”
He smiled a very nice smile. “What’s the matter, Ramona? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Ramona looked down at her plate.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not going to Saudi Arabia at all,” Uncle Hobart informed Ramona. “I’m going to Alaska.”
At least he was going someplace.
“That’s why I grew a beard,” he explained. “Alaska is cold in winter and full of mosquitoes in summer.”
“Oh,” said Ramona.
“Of course, women can’t grow beards, so they scratch a lot in summer,” said Uncle Hobart.
Ramona refused to laugh.
When dessert had been eaten by everyone except Mrs. Quimby, who was careful about calories, and the adults were drinking coffee, Ramona was about to ask to be excused when Uncle Hobart spoke directly to her. “Ramona,” he said, “how would you like to have me for an uncle?”
Ramona felt her face grow red. She was surprised and puzzled by his question. She wanted to say, No, thank you. Of course, grown-ups would think her rude, so she said, “You’re already Howie and Willa Jean’s uncle.”
“I would like to have a couple of readymade nieces,” said Uncle Hobart.
Ramona had not caught on. “But how could you be our uncle?” she asked.
“Nothing to it,” said Uncle Hobart. “All I have to do is marry your Aunt Beatrice.”
Ramona sank back in her chair and thought, How dumb can I get? Aunt Bea was trying to hide her laughter, which did not make Ramona feel any better.
“You mean—” began Beezus.
Aunt Bea burst out laughing. “Hobart and I are getting married in two weeks, before we leave for Alaska. There is oil in Alaska, too, you know.”
Ramona frowned at Uncle Hobart. Why didn’t he come right out and say he and Aunt Bea were going to marry? Her parents were smiling. They already knew and hadn’t said a word. Traitors! Ramona felt as if her world were falling apart—Aunt Bea in Alaska, the Quimbys among strangers, sagebrush, and sheep.
“But Aunt Bea, what will you do in Alaska?” asked Beezus.
“Fish through the ice,” said Uncle Hobart. “Build us an igloo.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Aunt Bea. “I plan to teach. I sent off an application and received a telegram accepting me.”
Suddenly Ramona saw the solution to all her family’s problems. “Aunt Bea,” she said, bursting with excitement. “If you aren’t going to teach in Portland, Daddy can have your job.”
Sudden silence at the table. “I’m afraid not,” said Aunt Bea gently. “I’m not going to be replaced. My school is not expecting as many pupils next fall and is not hiring any teachers.”
“Oh,” said Ramona. There was nothing more to say. Her happy plan had come to nothing.
The silence was broken by Beezus. “Oh, Aunt Bea!” She was ecstatic. “A wedding!”
“We aren’t planning a wedding,” said Aunt Bea. “There isn’t time. We’re going to be married at the City Hall.”
“
Bea, you can’t.” Mrs. Quimby was distressed. “A wedding should be a happy occasion, a gift from the bride’s family.”
“But there isn’t time for a real wedding,” insisted Aunt Bea. “Dad can’t plan a wedding from his mobile home in Southern California. With a baby due so soon, you can’t possibly take on a wedding.”
“Aunt Bea,” wailed Beezus. “There must be a way. It isn’t fair for Mom to have had a wedding and you to get married at City Hall without any bridesmaids or anything.”
Mrs. Quimby’s voice was gentle. “Don’t forget—your Grandma Day was living when I was married. She arranged it all.”
“Don’t men count in this event?” asked Uncle Hobart. “I don’t like the idea of a City Hall wedding myself. There’s no reason why we can’t throw together some kind of wedding.”
Pooh to you, thought Ramona with a scowl. You’d just mess things up.
“But weddings aren’t that simple.” Mrs. Quimby pushed her chair back from the table to rest her arms on the bulge that was Algie. “You can’t throw together a wedding.”
“Nonsense,” said Uncle Hobart. “Women just make them complicated. Watch me take charge.”
“You could wear Mother’s wedding dress,” Beezus suggested to her aunt. She and Ramona had often lifted their mother’s wedding dress from its tissue-paper-lined box to admire. Beezus always held it up and tried on the veil in front of the mirror.
“There you are,” said Uncle Hobart. “The wedding dress is taken care of.”
“But you won’t catch me being matron of honor, not in my shape,” said Mrs. Quimby.
“Beezus and Ramona can be bridesmaids, and I won’t have a matron of honor.” Aunt Beatrice was beginning to like the new plan.
Ramona perked up at the thought of being a bridesmaid. A wedding might be interesting after all.
“Willa Jean can be a flower girl.” Aunt Bea stopped and frowned. “Oh, what am I thinking about? I have to write out performance reports for twenty-nine third graders, we both have to buy cold-weather clothes for Alaskan winters, I have to sell my car, Hobart has to trade in the van on a four-wheel-drive truck, and—”
“You have a great new ski outfit,” interrupted Uncle Hobart, who probably did not know that a man named Michael had been the reason for the ski clothes. Whatever happened to Michael? Only Aunt Bea knew.
Uncle Hobart went on. “And all you have to write on those twenty-nine performance reports is, ‘You have a great kid who will turn out okay.’ That’s what parents want to hear, and most of the time it’s true.”
Ramona looked at Uncle Hobart with real respect. He understood about performance reports. Perhaps he would not make such a bad uncle after all.
Mr. Quimby, who had been quiet, spoke up. “I’ll donate my frozen-food warehouse socks to cut down on shopping. As soon as school is out, I am leaving the frozen-food warehouse forever. The temperature in there is about the same as Alaska in winter, and you are welcome to my socks. If the market hadn’t furnished the rest of my cold-weather gear, I’d give that to you, too.”
This news produced silence, broken by Ramona. “Daddy, did you hear from another school that wants you to teach?”
“No, Baby, I didn’t,” he confessed, “but I was offered a job managing one of the ShopRite Markets. The pay and fringe benefits are good. I accepted, and start as soon as school is out.”
“Daddy!” cried Beezus. “You mean you’re going back to that market and won’t teach art after all? But you don’t like working in the market.”
“We can’t always do what we want in life,” answered her father, “so we do the best we can.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Quimby. “We do the best we can.”
“It’s not the end of the world, Beezus. Being manager is better than being a checker and much better than filling orders in the frozen-food warehouse.” Mr. Quimby’s smile could not hide the discouraged look in his eyes. “Now let’s get on with plans for the wedding.”
Relief flowed through Ramona. No strange child would mark her walls with crayons. She would not have to leave Howie, her school, her friends. Only Aunt Bea would be missing.
Uncle Hobart broke the silence that followed Mr. Quimby’s news by saying, “Yes, about our wedding. Women get all worked up and exhausted when there’s a wedding in the family, but not this time. You invite your friends by telephone, and I’ll take care of the rest. There’s nothing to it.”
The adult sisters looked at one another with amused “he’ll-see” smiles. “Great!” said Aunt Bea. “I’ll be perfectly happy with any wedding you plan. Now all I have to do is persuade Dad to leave his shuffleboard, bingo, and sunshine and come up from Southern California to give me away.” The family had seen little of Grandpa Day since he had retired and moved away from Oregon’s rainy winters.
“He’ll come,” said Ramona, who loved her grandfather. “He’s got to come.”
“First thing Saturday morning,” said Uncle Hobart, “I’ll gather up you girls, along with Willa Jean, and we’ll go shopping for your dresses while Bea dashes off those progress reports.”
“It sounds like the fastest wedding in the West,” said Mr. Quimby.
Ramona and her sister exchanged a look that said each was wondering what shopping with a bachelor petroleum engineer would be like.
7
The Chain of Command
Saturday morning, Willa Jean and a very cross-looking Howie arrived with Uncle Hobart in his van to collect Beezus and Ramona to go shopping for wedding clothes.
“How come you’re going shopping with us?” Ramona demanded of Howie.
Howie did not answer Ramona, but instead complained to his uncle, “I’ve said a million times I don’t want to be a ring bearer. I don’t care what Grandma says. I’m too big. That stuff is for little kids. Carrying a ring on a pillow is dumb. Besides, it will fall off.”
“I’m on your side, kid,” said Uncle Hobart. “But let’s humor your grandmother. She’s busy making a fancy pillow for the ring, and says she will fasten the ring in place with a couple of loose stitches. And don’t blame me if my favorite nephew’s a big kid instead of a little kid.”
“I’m not your favorite nephew,” said Howie. “I’m your only nephew.”
“You may have competition when Algie arrives,” said Uncle Hobart. “Now, Beezus, where do we go for girl things?”
“Well…there’s a bridal shop in the mall of the shopping center.” Beezus was shy about directing Uncle Hobart. “But I’m not sure they have our sizes.”
“Heigh ho, off we go!” Uncle Hobart backed his van out of the driveway and headed for the shopping center, where they found the parking lot crowded. “Now what we need is a chain of command,” said Uncle Hobart when he had finally found a parking space. “I’ll keep an eye on Beezus, who keeps an eye on Howie, who keeps an eye on Ramona, who watches out for Willa Jean. Each makes sure that the next person behaves and doesn’t get lost.”
“I don’t need Beezus to keep an eye on me,” grumbled Howie. “And Beezus always behaves.” Willa Jean slipped her fingers into Ramona’s hand, an act that Ramona found touching and made her feel protective, even though the little girl’s fingers were sticky. The chain of command proceeded into the mall, where they found the bridal shop filled with pale, floating dresses, wedding veils, and thin, floppy hats.
“Oh—” breathed Beezus.
“Yuck,” said Howie.
The three-way mirror tempted Ramona to look at herself, but she resisted. She must set a good example for Willa Jean. Howie flopped down on a couch and scowled at his feet. The saleswoman looked as if she wished they would all go away.
“Bridesmaid dresses for two, and one flower-girl dress.” Uncle Hobart sounded as casual as if he were ordering hamburgers.
Dresses were produced. Beezus and Ramona were bashful about spending so much of Uncle Hobart’s money and were uncertain about choosing. Willa Jean was not. “I like that one,” she said, pointing to a ruffled pink dres
s in her size.
“Okay, girls?” asked Uncle Hobart. The sisters, who would have preferred yellow, nodded. The correct sizes for Beezus and Ramona, it turned out, would have to be ordered from other outlets in the chain of bridal shops. Yes, they would arrive in time for the wedding. The saleswoman promised. While Uncle Hobart paid for all three dresses, Ramona whispered to Willa Jean to sit beside Howie. Willa Jean actually minded.
Ramona slipped over for a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror, which reflected her back and forth from every angle. She began to dance, to watch all the Ramonas. Obediently, they imitated her, dancing on and on into the distance, tinier and tinier until they could no longer be seen. Forever me, thought Ramona. I go on forever.
“Now, what about our ring bearer?” Uncle Hobart looked at Howie, who slid down on the couch and scowled.
Ramona was aware that the saleswoman eyed Howie as if he did not belong on her couch. She danced on, twirling to make the myriad Ramonas twirl.
“To dress properly,” said the saleswoman, “a boy in a wedding party should wear short pants, knee socks, a white shirt, and a jacket; but ring bearers are usually little boys. Four-or five-year-olds.”
“See, what did I tell you?” Howie said to his uncle.
Uncle Hobart ignored his nephew. “Come, Beezus,” he said, holding the box with Willa Jean’s dress under his arm. As the next link she said, “Come on, Howie,” who said, “Come on, Ramona,” who said, “Come on, Willa Jean. Thank you for being such a good girl.” Willa Jean beamed. The saleswoman looked happy to see them go.
Uncle Hobart led his chain of command to a boys’ shop where, much against Howie’s wishes, he bought short navy blue pants, a white shirt, and a pale blue jacket. “Everybody will make fun of me,” said Howie. The salesman said the shop did not carry knee socks for boys.
Beezus felt responsible for Howie. “Girls’ shops have knee socks,” she suggested.
“You shut up,” said Howie.
Uncle Hobart’s good nature was not disturbed. “Shut up yourself,” was his cheerful order as he led his troops into a girls’ shop, where he bought a pair of navy blue knee socks for Howie. “Now, Beezus, what else do we need for a wedding?”
Ramona Forever Page 5