As I was about to leave I noticed a small black ball bobbing far off to my left. Then another further out. Old tires perhaps. The first one moved closer. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? I stood up and raised my hand to block the sun. My breath came faster. I walked backwards, not taking my eyes off the object. I leapt off the pier and ran to the little beach just as he was reaching the shore.
“Pup! Is it really you?” I knelt down and spread my arms wide. He hesitated. The little heart shape above his left eye sparkled in the sun. He nuzzled me and nipped my arm. I pulled his heavy body close and held him for a brief moment before he wiggled and splashed with two strong flippers. The cool water struck me and dripped into my eyes. I dashed it away.
When I could see clearly again, Pup was further out in the water beside the other shape. Yes, there were two! Another seal, a bit smaller and darker than Pup was by his side.
“Oh, Pup, I’m so happy for you.” Tears of relief finally pushed the sad tears out. I cried. And cried.
Pup and his friend splashed around a while and then took off. “Come back again, Pup,” I called. “I love you!”
19
I WENT AROUND in a daze for the first two weeks of summer vacation.
One night, bored out of my brain, I glanced at the local newspaper. It was filled with articles about the annual port picnic. Our town picnic was always held in the field down on the other side of the pier, across from Miss Cogshell’s house. I supposed I would go. All of Port Wells turned out each 4th of July. There was usually watermelon and three-legged races. That sort of thing. For the last few years they had added a small stage and hooked up a microphone to a generator, so people could sing and dance and make fools of themselves. It was usually pretty funny.
There was also an interesting story in the news about a project where young puffins were being transplanted from Newfoundland to Eastern Egg Rock, a tiny island in Maine. I smiled. New little friends for Pup.
I skimmed an article about Skylab 1. The three astronauts were back from a record breaking 28 days in space. A month ago when they were sent up, I had thought it wasn’t really such a long time. Now I realized a lot could happen in a month.
I turned to the next page of the newspaper and spotted a public auction notice. The small blurry photo below the notice showed none of the beauty of the little house by the sea. I thought I was going to be sick. How could the town sell Miss Cogshell’s special home to just anybody? I threw down the paper and ran to find my father.
Dad was in his study, as usual, and we had strict orders not to disturb him when the door was closed. Except for emergencies. I turned the knob after a quick knock.
He placed his index finger on the work in front of him, slid his glasses further down his nose and then greeted me over the top of them with a this had better be important look. “Yes?”
I foolishly begged him to buy the house, sharing one wild scheme after another. “We could even rent it out to vacationers,” I insisted.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amy. There’s just no way I could afford another place even if I wanted to. And that house has definitely seen better days.” His finger hovered over his papers and I knew he wanted to get back to work.
It was no use. I closed the office door quietly behind me. Then I went to my room and climbed onto my window seat.
The next day, early, before anyone else was up, I ran down the hill. The salty air was dense with morning fog. A startled heron flapped its way out of the marshy area by the beach. Tears streamed down my face as I watched it soar overhead. It had been a long night.
I plunked myself down on Miss Cogshell’s back steps. Only a few withered blossoms clung to the lilac bush, but the lupines were going strong. Their bright rainbow spikes let out a peppery scent.
My head ached as I dwelled on my problems. The auction was set for July 10th. What could I do to stop it? I closed my eyes and pictured the inside of the house. I went through each room with its special things. I thought of all those books, just lying there rotting. A plan formed in the back of my mind.
LUCKILY, CRAIG ANSWERED on the first ring or I probably would have chickened out and hung up. It had been a while since we’d talked. He was thrilled to hear I had seen Pup and his pal at the pier. Then, I blurted my scheme of how to save Miss Cogshell’s house. I finally stopped to take a breath and heard silence. Even over the phone lines he could make my face redden. “I guess it’s a stupid idea,” I said.
“No,” said Craig quickly. “I’m just thinking you should announce it at the picnic next week.”
“Announce it? In front of the whole town? Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious,” said Craig, “If you tell them just the way you told me, it might work. And there’s not much time. I was down at Al’s this morning and some city people came in talking about Miss C’s house. They wanna tear it down and squish in a hotel.”
“That’s stupid,” I snapped. “A hotel wouldn’t fit on that little . . . ”
I heard Craig’s mother yell in the distance.
“I’ve gotta go,” said Craig, and he hung up. I wondered about his mom and decided I would ask about her when I saw him at the picnic. In the meantime I had to figure this out.
I went up to my room and started pacing, just like in the cartoons. Part of me said, “They are not going to get her house.” My other half said, “Forget it, there’s no way a stringy-haired kid is going to make any difference.” One thing I knew for sure was I couldn’t make a town announcement. I finally decided to find Craig at the beginning of the picnic and convince him to give the speech.
Day after day I moped around my room. I didn’t read any books, or do any cross-stitching. I sat in my window seat, stared out into the backyard, and waited for the picnic—my only hope.
My exasperated parents threatened to send me off to summer camp.
“This one has lots of activities for girls and boys,” said my mother. “Oh, when I was your age I dreamed of going to a co-ed camp.” Mom got a faraway look on her face while she went off in a reverie of canoe races, crafts, and campfires.
But I couldn’t snap out of it. All I could think about was Miss Cogshell’s beautiful home getting smashed to smithereens.
Even Nancy attempted to be nice to her poor, sorrowful sister. I caught her looking at me the day before the picnic. She shook her head, her pink lips in a frown.
“Remember we used to play beauty parlor?” she said.
I nodded.
“How about I’ll wash and trim your hair. And while it’s drying, I’ll paint your nails!”
I eyed her suspiciously. “You just want to fix me up.”
“Well, yeah-h.”
Since I had nothing better to do, I went along with it. Well, except for the nail polish part. Nancy set me up at the kitchen sink. I relaxed under her competent hands and enjoyed the smell of the green-apple shampoo. Then we moved to the middle of the kitchen with a towel around my shoulders. With each snip of the scissors I worried I would end up looking like the Dutch boy on the paint cans. But, in the end, I didn’t look half bad.
“Well, it’s the best I can do,” said Nancy.
“With what you had to work with.” I finished the saying under my breath and rolled my eyes.
I was pleased and grateful for my new look, though. Nancy used so much shampoo that I could almost call my hair fluffy, and being cut blunt gave it a little thickness. Every time I passed by a mirror, I gave my head an extra swing. Now to just get through tomorrow.
20
ON JULY 4TH, I put on a red striped T- shirt to go with my blue shorts, and headed down to breakfast.
“How sweet,” said Nancy. She wore super short, purple paisley, hot-pants with a matching halter and looked about ten years older than me.
“Backatcha,” I snapped, pretending to gag. Mom was busy gathering up craft items for the bazaar table.
I rushed through my bowl of cereal. Then, I headed down the hill towards the field to see what was going o
n. A strong sea smell filled the air. Long red, white, and blue banners were draped along the edge of the post office roof. Large tables were set up and little kids decorated their bikes with streamers. Chairs had been placed along the road to reserve prime spots for parade viewing. Although with half of the Port in the parade and the other half watching, there was hardly a need to save seats. If you couldn’t see in one place, just move up a bit. Oh, well, must be the summer people leaving the chairs. They usually tended to keep their city ways, to show they were used to much fancier affairs.
Around 11:00 the parade lined up and began to march. A sad little band was in the lead with about a dozen out-of-tune members. Then came our one and only clown leaping around to make up for the lack of more performers. Each time the boom of the bass drum sounded, he jumped in surprise. Next came kids doing cartwheels or pulling pets in wagons. Then a bunch more on their decorated bikes. A few moms ran along the side. They yelled at the kids to go slow, so they wouldn’t run anyone over or bump into the band. As usual, they didn’t think to let the bikes go first.
At the tail end of the parade was Port Wells’ pride and joy—an antique LaFrance fire engine. Chief Sorensen waved from one of the side footholds. Most of us covered our ears until the blaring siren moved past. Then a welcome pause of silence.
When I heard more music coming up at the rear I got excited for a minute, then I remembered it was just the first band over again. Duh, I’m fooled every year. They always went up the road past the general store and post office, turned right and then came back around in a circle. Sometimes they circled around three or four times. Everybody cheered and waved just as hard as the first two rounds. I bounced up and down on my tiptoes in search of Craig. No sight of him.
The sun was beating down hot by noon, so I wandered over to the shady edge of the field to see if the wild blueberries were ripe yet. Nope, still small and white. I plunked down on the blanket my parents had spread out on the grass before they went off to mingle.
My gaze fell fondly on Miss Cogshell’s home across the way. I wished Craig would hurry up and show his face, so we could plan his speech. If only we could save the little house from destruction. I sat there swatting mosquitoes and smelling that good charcoal smell, until someone rang the dinner bell.
We all got in line at the food tables. The grub was always delicious at Port Wells picnics. I had three chickens on a stick and heaps of potato salad.
Later, I slurped down watermelon while I watched people play games and run races. Several fishermen were actually taking the day off, catching up on local news, chewing tobacco and spitting the brown juice into the grass. An ice cream truck played a tinny jingle of Pop Goes the Weasel as it pulled right onto the field to await customers.
I might have considered it one of the best 4th of July celebrations yet, if I weren’t so worried about the house auction. Because of the big turnout this year, I still couldn’t find Craig. Each time I thought I saw the top of his head, he’d disappear again.
Finally, Ed Johnson started tapping the microphone. “Testing one, two, three,” he said. “All performers please wait to the right of the stage.” I looked over and saw Pamela Johnson was first in line. I could feel my sweaty hair plastered to the back of my neck, but she looked cool and crisp in a perky little bun. Every year, Pamela opened up the show with “The Star Spangled Banner.” That would have been fine if she could sing. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t just being jealous; she really and truly stunk.
I continued to search for Craig. I began to panic. Where was he? He’d said he liked my idea, and it would be nothing for him to talk in front of an audience—unlike me, who would probably pass out if I had to speak. People began to fill in around the stage and it became harder to see anything. The performer line grew longer as I raced back and forth searching.
I decided to go over and save a place in line for Craig, so he’d have a slot to announce our proposal. I squeezed through the crowd while everyone watched two little girls do cartwheels. I stood in back of a kid with juggling sticks. After each person finished, Mr. Johnson gave the next performer a nudge and made us all move up.
“I’m just waiting for someone,” I told him.
“Okay, move forward,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. My stomach started feeling funny, and I wished I hadn’t eaten so much.
Before I knew it, the kid with the juggling sticks was on stage and I was up on the steps, next in line. I started to sweat, hunting everywhere for Craig among the crowd of faces. Then I heard clapping and felt Mr. Johnson nudge me onto the platform. I tried to turn around and go back down the same stairs, but they were filled with newly arrived kids waiting to perform. My heart pounded as I took the few paces over to the microphone.
I was about to say I was up there by mistake, but no words came out. I made a tight fist with both hands, a trick I had read about in a book, and then I opened them slowly. This was supposed to help you calm down, although I couldn’t tell if it worked. I looked out past the faces, and my eyes fell on Miss Cogshell’s little house and that is when I began to relax. It seemed like Miss Cogshell, a smiling plump angel, was watching me from somewhere. I wanted to show her what I could do.
“We have lost one of our kindest citizens,” I began, trying to copy the way the minister had spoken.
“Speak up!” someone shouted. I tucked my newly trimmed hair behind my ears and moved closer to the microphone.
“Miss Cogshell knew lots about everything. She was born in Port Wells, grew up in Port Wells and died in Port Wells.” I looked out at the faces and landed on the harbormaster and his church-going wife. “She taught and worshiped with many in this community.” I bit my lip and took another breath. I whispered, “Miss Cogshell loved Port Wells.” The microphone carried my words out over the silent crowd. “And she loved her home,” I added, pointing at the little gray house. “There is a rumor that strangers want to tear down her home and build a big, ugly hotel.”
I could hear murmuring as I poured out my heart. “But . . . but we can save it. The reason Miss Cogshell knew lots about everything is because there are hundreds of books in her home. Ones that she would want shared and we . . . ” I paused. “We need a library. Why should we drive all the way to Thomaston when we can have our own library right here?”
My gaze landed on Pamela and memories of my oral book report disaster swam over me. But this time, Pamela wasn’t smirking. I continued in a stronger voice. “I’m sure many of us have extra books we could donate and I’ll work in the library every day, if you can just help me save this local treasure.” The audience remained silent as if waiting for more.
I didn’t know what to do. My eyes began to water. I heard clapping and followed the sound past the people sprawled out on blankets, past the lawn chairs, to the back of the crowd. A blurry Craig was standing on an upturned trashcan. His bike was propped against the side of the barrel below him. Others began to clap too, until there was a burst of applause.
A sturdy girl, about my age, stood at the front of the crowd. I’d never seen her before. She waved a small American flag high above her head and cheered, “Yay for a new library! Yay for a new library!”
I stood dumbfounded for a moment and then groped my way down the stage steps. I didn’t look to the right where my family stood, Nancy gawking for sure, or towards the left at Pamela’s crew. I just plowed straight ahead to the back. My mind kept going over the last five minutes. I should have said thank you at the end, but I’d forgotten. By the time I reached Craig, I thought I’d burst out crying—my emotions were that full. He wore a big, sloppy grin and he was waving a long piece of paper around.
“Signatures,” he called out, “almost a hundred so far.”
I arranged my shaking face in a questioning look, unable to speak.
“All people in favor of a library. I’ve been working the crowd for an hour.” Craig gave me the paper. His warm fingers brushed against my bare arm, and then he stuck his hands into the pockets of his army j
acket. I couldn’t believe he was still wearing it.
I wasn’t sure I could trust my voice yet, but finally blurted out, “Aren’t you sweltering? I mean it must be 85 degrees.”
“I’m fine.” Craig gave another grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“How’s your mom?” I remembered to ask.
“Fine,” Craig answered. “I’ve gotta get back . . . ” Loud clapping for an accordion player interrupted us, and then a tap dance group took their place on stage. I watched them and tried to come up with something else to say to Craig—something to make up for the last two questions.
People started moving away from the stage area as the last performance ended. A group of big kids strolled past us. I could see purple paisley in the middle of them. “That was my sister,” I heard Nancy say. I turned back to Craig, but he was gone.
For the rest of the day, people came up to me and told me what a great idea I had, and how they would help however they could. I had them sign the petition if they hadn’t already. But I wasn’t sure what I should do with it. Who could I give it to?
One woman said she had been trying to get a library in the Port for years. “Sylvia’s house might offer the perfect solution,” she said, eyeing my list of signatures. “My name is Mrs. Baldwin. What are you planning to do with that petition?”
I looked down at all the names and let out a small sad sigh. “I’m not really sure.”
“I’d be happy to help you present it to town officials, if you’d like. Then, if they approve your idea for a library, we can enlist a group of people to help.”
“Thank you,” I said with gratitude and relief. We made plans to meet first thing Monday morning.
As the picnic neared the end, I wandered down to the pier where it would be slightly cooler, navigating past three spinning little girls with sparklers in their outstretched hands. I searched the water and wondered how Pup was doing. I would have liked to talk to Craig about him.
Call Me Amy Page 10