“You really think that’s where he’ll end up using this kinda skill?” Carry asked, sounding almost like the old Carry. She was even being funny again. “I think you’re bein’ overly optimistic.”
Dewey managed to nail all four of them targets with only four tries. Every single shot he made with that rifle was deadly accurate. None of us could believe it as we walked away with him carrying that goldfish bowl in his hands. He had a big, stupid grin on his face. “I’ve been practicin’,” he said.
“With what?” I asked.
“With my finger. Like that night in your room.”
I couldn’t see how that could possibly count as practice, but before I could tell him, my mother said, “That was some pretty impressive shootin’ back there, Dewey. Seriously, I don’t think I could’ve hit all four with even eight tries.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Teal,” Dewey said. He said it as though he himself wasn’t at all surprised by how well he did, though. It all felt very strange to me—almost as if I just saw a part of Dewey I’d never seen before, and I’d known Dewey a long, long time.
My thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting through a blow horn that the pie contest would be commencing at the top of Main Street in ten minutes.
“After all her gripin’,” my mother said, “Sheryl Davis better win.”
“Doesn’t she always win?” I asked.
We managed to get a spot within viewing of the judges. There were five of them in all, two of which were Chief Montgomery and Mr. Robert Lee Garner. All the judges wore big red bibs that said A WORD TO THE WISE, EAT ALVIN PIES on them in bright yellow letters.
This year, eight different pies were entered in the contest. Of course, one of them was strawberry rhubarb and belonged to Sheryl Davis, who brought hers to the judging table looking as proud as if she’d just saved the world from some kind of certain disaster like typhoid.
“They all gotta eat eight whole pies?” Dewey asked.
“I think they only gotta have a piece of each,” I said.
“Probably more like a mouthful,” my mother corrected.
“Oh,” Dewey said. I think he was a bit let down they weren’t gonna eat whole pies.
“For someone so good with a rifle,” I said, “you’re pretty dumb when it comes to normal stuff like pie contests.”
My mother shushed me. Carry said, “You’re just jealous because you ain’t got no goldfish.”
“I don’t want no goldfish,” I said.
“But you wish you could shoot like me,” Dewey said. I didn’t bother responding on account of I saw the potential of this conversation spiraling out of control.
One by one, each of the judges took a bite of each of the eight different pies, filling out a small form after every swallow. “I wonder what they’re writing about,” Dewey said.
“Probably making a list of groceries they need to remember to get,” I said, sarcastically.
My mother smacked the back of my head lightly. “Will you quit the snide remarks? You really are jealous about that goldfish, aren’t you?”
I said nothing.
“I think they’re likely rating different aspects of the pies,” my mother said. “Things like taste, texture . . . I dunno. Whatever you can rate pies on, I suppose.”
When they were finished, all the forms were handed down to Mr. Greenwood, a strange-looking man with very pointy facial features (especially his nose and chin) and cheeks that curved inward instead of out. He’d always reminded me of a fish. He usually worked at the post office, but today he was in charge of tallying the pie votes. It took him only a few minutes before he announced, “We have a winner! And the winner of this year’s Harvest Fair Pie Contest is . . .”
Sheryl Davis was beaming in her pink and white checkered apron. I could tell she was on the verge of stepping up to the table.
“. . . Nancy Tress’s blueberry apple.”
Everyone roared with applause as Nancy Tress, her face full of surprise and shock, walked up and accepted her certificate. She wore a bright yellow apron that said KICK THE COOK! on the front. The only person not clapping was Sheryl Lynn Davis, who now looked like she wished she had an air rifle full of pellets and that everyone in the crowd was white and made from wood.
“I bet she’s wishin’ you’d kept the fair canceled now,” Dewey said.
“Justice is a wonderful thing,” my mother said.
We walked back past the midway to the parts of the fair we hadn’t been to yet. “Look at that,” I said, pointing to Happy Shogun Sushi Palace. Except it was no longer Happy Shogun Sushi Palace. The restaurant had a completely new front, and the paint was so fresh you could smell it gleaming in the afternoon sun. The big fish swallowing the grumpy guys with the swords was gone from the window, replaced by a cowboy riding a bull with curved horns. The cowboy had a big ol’ grin on his face and held his hat up in the air. The restaurant name painted above the cowboy said HAPPY COW BURGER SHACK.
Standing out front, Mr. Nobu Takahashi handed pink fliers to people passing by. Instead of the red jacket with gold buttons, he now wore a white collared shirt with a bolo tie, tucked into brown denims. His thick leather belt had one of the biggest buckles I’d ever seen in my life. A cowboy hat hung off the back of his head, held there by leather ties fastened around his neck. He gave my mother one of the brochures.
“What happened to Happy Shogun Sushi Palace?” I asked.
“Nobody in Alvin like sushi much,” he said. “So we change. Come to second grand opening next week. Our specialty is French fries with bacon, smothered in cheese.” He did a quick two-step in his snakeskin cowboy boots.
“Your specialty sounds awesome!” Dewey said.
“Do you want to eat his fish?” I asked Mr. Takahashi. As soon as I said it, I worried my mother was about to give me a lecture for being racist, but instead everyone laughed, including Mr. Takahashi.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“Besides, it’s my fish,” Dewey said. “Only I can let other people eat it.”
I read the brochure my mother was holding. “You have a triple burger?” I asked Mr. Takahashi. “How big is it?”
“Bigger than your head,” he said.
“Sounds awesome,” Dewey said again.
“No octopus burgers?” I asked.
Again, everyone laughed. Funny, I still wasn’t entirely clear on what was racist and what was actually funny until after I said it, but it seemed to me I was doing a lot better sorting out the funny ones.
“No,” Mr. Takahashi said, “no octopus burger. Unless if you want one special, I make exception just for you.”
“No, that’s fine.”
We promised to be at the second grand opening and continued on. “I reckon he’ll do well with this one,” I said.
“I reckon you’re right,” my mother said. “And who knows? Maybe in a year or two, Alvin will be ready for sushi.”
I was about to add a bit of sarcasm that I’m sure would’ve resulted in another lecture on racism when I saw something up ahead that made me freeze on confusion and fear. Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow was making his way through the crowd straight toward us, his gaze locked on me and Dewey.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
“What?” said Dewey.
“Look.”
“We gotta get away,” said Dewey. “He’s going to kill us.”
“He’s got a sack,” I said.
“What’s in it?”
“How the heck should I know?” I whispered back. “I bet knives or something like that. Probably butcher knives.”
“Wish I still had that rifle.”
“Dewey,” I said, “it was an air rifle.”
“It was still a rifle.”
We turned and walked in the other direction, but a group of people were blocking the way. In a burst of confusion, we tried going left, then right, then left again, until the next thing I knew, Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow was standing right in front of us, barely a few feet away. Mr. Wyatt Edward
Farrow—in the flesh. His long face was pinched. His mouth formed a thin frown.
“I’ve got something for you boys,” he said, undoing the drawstring on his sack. The sack was big, like the sort of thing you see in Santa Claus displays through Christmas season, only it was canvas and gray in color. It was so large, it probably held lots of butcher knives or at least one really, really big one.
“Oh, God,” I heard Dewey whimper.
“Please,” I said to Mr. Farrow, “we . . .” But I stopped when he pulled out a wooden biplane with a wingspan near on as big as my arm. The whole thing was beautifully painted white with red and blue stars on the wings and tail. It even had wheels and a propeller. He handed it to me.
“Sorry it took so long for me to return my gratitude for the basket you brung over when I moved in. I had a dinin’ room set that needed buildin’. I was doin’ it on commission for an old woman up yonder in Jewelville. Then when I finally got that finished, it turned out one of the table legs broke durin’ transit, so I had to make a new one and send it out parcel post.”
He pulled out a second biplane, nearly identical to mine, only painted with different designs. He handed that one to Dewey, who accepted it with the same awe and surprise that I did.
“Anyhow, I figured you boys would probably like somethin’ like these,” he said.
“What do you guys say?” my mother asked.
“Thank you,” both Dewey and I responded. Although it came out more like questions than statements of gratitude. We were still sort of stunned.
Mr. Farrow looked at Carry. “I made somethin’ for you too, little lady, although I hope you aren’t too old to appreciate it.” He pulled out a small wooden rocking chair that was painted and polished to a bright cherry rose. It was the perfect size for one of Carry’s dolls and, whether she would admit it to anyone or not, Carry still loved those dolls.
“Thank you!” she said, taking the chair with a big smile.
“That will look just beautiful in your bedroom,” my mother said. Then to Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow, she said, “You’re a very gracious man, I can’t imagine how much time all these took to build.”
“It was my pleasure, ma’am. If nothin’ else, I can’t say I’ve ever had quite the audience as these two boys gave me those first couple months after I moved in. Kinda nice havin’ all that attention.”
I looked at Dewey and then back at Mr. Farrow. “You mean . . . you saw us?”
He grinned. “Every time I went to the toilet.”
“Wait,” Dewey said. “When did . . .” But I elbowed him, making him stop before he finished his sentence. It didn’t matter. Everybody laughed anyway.
Mr. Farrow seemed to notice Dewey’s fish for the first time. “Now, hey, how’d you win that?”
“Shot four people,” Dewey said.
“He shot four wooden people with an air rifle,” my mother corrected.
“And did it in just four shots,” Carry added.
“Wow, that’s some fine shootin’,” Mr. Farrow said. “Anyhow, I best be heading off. See y’all later.” He gave me a wink and disappeared into the crowd.
“I hope you learned something from that,” my mother said.
“I sure did,” Dewey said. “I learned it’s possible to go to the toilet in the dark.”
My mother lightly smacked him upside his head. I laughed.
“Mom?” I asked. “Is it okay if me and Dewey go home and play with our planes?” I figured she’d probably make us stay with her or make us wait so she could walk us home, but she surprised me.
“That’d be fine. I’m gonna stay here a while longer, though.”
“Dewey? You wanna go play with our planes?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said.
“Um,” Carry said, “would y’all mind if I tagged along, too?”
I gave her a wide grin. “Not one single bit.”
Me, Carry, and Dewey headed back toward the house. It felt good having the three of us together again. I guess my mother was worried all that time for nothing.
Carry’s hard time hadn’t lasted that long after all.
And to be completely honest, I was pretty glad about that.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
Dream with Little Angels
Michael Hiebert
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are included to enhance
your group’s reading of Michael Hiebert’s
Dream with Little Angels!
Discussion Questions
1. How would you describe the point of view that the prologue is written from? Contrast it to the rest of the book. Why do you think the author chose to write it this way?
2. Describe Abe’s relationship with his mother. Contrast this with his relationship to his sister, Carry, especially at the beginning of the book.
3. Do you feel Leah treats Caroline differently from how she treats Abe? If so, how? How much of this difference do you think comes from Leah’s own past and how much stems from Carry’s newly found insolence?
4. When the boys go hunting for Mary Ann Dailey, they wind up in the woods with Mr. Garner. He tells them about Ruby Mae Vickers disappearing twelve years ago. He even goes so far as to say, “Oh, she turned up, eventually. Just not in the same state she disappeared in.” Do you think this is an inappropriate conversation for him to have with eleven-year-old Abe and Dewey?
5. Other than telling the boys he put them there, Mr. Garner doesn’t say much else about those fresh flowers the boys see scattered around the base of the willow where Ruby Mae Vickers’s body was found. Why do you think this is? Why do you think Mr. Garner continues to put flowers around that tree?
6. Once Mary Ann Dailey hasn’t shown up for several days, Leah gets paranoid for her own children’s safety, to the point of not letting Abe walk with Dewey to school or allowing Caroline to walk to the bus stop. Do you think her paranoia is ungrounded, or is she acting in a rational way? How much of it is coming from her being a police officer?
7. Where do you think Abe’s constant racial statements and slurs ultimately stem from? Is he being influenced by someone or something external, or is it simply a case of innocent ignorance?
8. After Abe hears Carry crawl out of her window a few nights following the discussion he had with her in her room, he goes directly to his mother and tattles on her. Leah immediately tells Abe to put on his coat, saying they are going out to look for her. Uncle Henry starts questioning why Abe’s coming along, but Leah cuts him off and tells him, “Because I’m his goddamn mother, and I say he’s coming, that’s why.” Why do you think Abe tattles on his sister? Why do you think Leah takes Abe with her to look for Caroline?
9. Abe’s mother readily admits she doesn’t like talking about Abe’s pa, who died when Abe was two years old. She also rarely talks about Abe’s dead grandma and grandpa. Why do you think Leah seems to have such a problem dealing with death? Do you think the problem she has with the death of her ex-husband, Billy, is the same as the problem she has with the death of her folks?
10. After solving the case, Leah takes Abe up to Cornflower Lake, where she tells him she “has to get rid of something.” Carefully, she lifts the Virgin Mother from her neck. Throughout the book, Leah’s played with this necklace at various times. When Abe asks her what she’s going to do with it, she tells him she doesn’t need it anymore and tosses it into the lake. Why does Leah do this? What is the necklace symbolic of? What part of her has been “repaired” through solving this case that’s allowed her to let go of this necklace? What event had left that part in need of repairing up until now?
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Michael Hiebert
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8575-1
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8576-8
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8576-0
First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2013
Dream With Little Angels Page 27