Amazing Grace
Page 4
“Correct,” Mrs. Martin announced. “Vickie, spell spoken.”
So that was the bully’s name. Vickie.
“S-P-O-C-K-I-N,” Vickie called out the letters.
“I’m sorry, Vickie,” Mrs. Martin said. “That is incorrect.”
Vickie pulled a pencil out of her pocket and jabbed my arm with the just-sharpened tip as she left for her seat.
I rubbed my pencil-poked arm and took a good look at Vickie before she sat down. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in two pigtails, each one tied off with orange yarn. Miss Bear Claws probably doubled my weight and shot up at least four inches taller.
The next round I got bureau. I spelled it, but the words were getting harder. I was lucky with the last one. I had a bureau in my bedroom at Grandma’s, and she taught me how to spell the word.
With so many kids back in their seats, my turn was coming around faster. “Grace, spell antique,” Mrs. Martin said.
“A-N-T-E-K-E.” I knew as soon as the letters trickled out of my mouth that I had misspelled the word.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” Mrs. Martin announced. “That is incorrect.”
I headed back to my seat. As I turned to sit, Vickie scooted her foot out and tripped me. I landed in my chair with a bounce.
Vickie leaned toward me and whispered, “Showoff.”
I spun around to ask Vickie why she tripped me. Before I could say anything, she flung her arm up, waved it hard enough to flag down a train and yelled out, “Mrs. Martin, I can’t hear the spelling words. Grace keeps bothering me.”
I couldn’t believe that girl. After jabbing, tripping and calling me names, she now had Mrs. Martin believing that I was the troublemaker.
Mrs. Martin said, “Grace, please face the front of the classroom.” I wanted to explain what had really happened, but Mrs. Martin called out, “Turbulence.”
Turbulence wasn’t my word to spell, but it sure fit how I was feeling—agitated.
Vickie whispered in my ear, “Don’t mess with me.”
Vickie’s threat was no problem since messing with her was the last thing I wanted to do. Her bothersome attitude and snarly frown didn’t do much for her looks. Neither did her baggy pants that she had rolled up three or four cuffs. Nor her too-tight, dirty shirt. Or the black, lace-up cloth shoes that topped above her ankles, the kind that Johnny and Daddy wore.
A girl named Maxine won the spelling bee. Mrs. Martin gave her a certificate with a blue star. As soon as Maxine sat down, Mrs. Martin said we were going to work in pairs on our arithmetic lesson. I teamed with a girl named Carolyn.
Carolyn sat with me at my desk. Vickie moved back to work with someone else. As Vickie stood up, she jabbed me again with a pencil. This time, I’d had enough. I raised my hand to tell Mrs. Martin. Vickie saw me and whispered in my ear, “If you tell on me, you’ll be sorry. So will your snotty little brother.”
Mrs. Martin asked, “Grace, did you want something?”
I glanced at Vickie. She snarled her upper lip.
“No, Ma’am,” I answered and lowered my arm.
Chapter 8
Life without Daddy
One afternoon as Johnny and I walked home from school, we stopped on a grassy spot and watched the tugboats on the Ohio River. Johnny waved at a pilot sitting up high in a green-and-white tugboat that was towing a barge loaded with logs. The man waved back. Then he scrubbed our eardrums with a mighty blast of the foghorn.
Johnny leaped straight up and squealed almost as loud as the foghorn. “Grace Ann, did you see the man wave at me?” he asked. “Did you hear the foghorn?”
“I’m not blind, Johnny,” I answered. “Or deaf.” I’d had a bad day. Vickie had the sharpest pencils in school, and she was an expert at using them as weapons, especially on me. On top of that, we hadn’t heard from Daddy since he left. I thought about Daddy all the time and wondered if he could be injured. So I was in no mood for Johnny’s good mood, and Johnny’s good mood couldn’t be soured by my tart mood. I walked on toward Grandma’s.
“Wait up, Gracie Girl,” Johnny said. “I want to hear one more foghorn.” He waved at a red tugboat passing by. The pilot didn’t wave back, but he blasted us with another ear-scrubbing whistle.
As the foghorn blared, I felt a jab in my arm. I jerked around, thinking I’d scraped my arm against a thorn bush that grew wild along the path leading to Grandma’s house. I saw a thorn all right—a thorn named Vickie. That bully sneaked up behind me and jabbed me with her pencil and then darted down another street. I stopped in my tracks and pulled my sweater down to view the damage.
“What are you waiting on?” Johnny called to me. “Come on, slowpoke.” He was so busy watching the boats, he didn’t see Vickie. The last thing I needed was Johnny ticking off the bully even more than she already was.
I slowed my pace as I walked through the gate of Grandma’s front yard. Johnny ran ahead and scrambled up the steps.
Spot lunged at me. His tail swished a high-spirited I’m-glad-you’re-home greeting. I dropped my books and hugged my fuzzy-faced mutt.
“Spot, we need to talk,” I told him. I sat on the rock-paved sidewalk, and Spot sat beside me, ready to listen. I told him all about the bully, Vickie.
Spot rumbled a low growl. In dog talk, I assumed that meant to try to ignore the bully, but if ignoring didn’t work, tell Mrs. Martin.
“I tried ignoring Vickie,” I explained, “but all that got me was more jabs. If I tell Mrs. Martin, the bully might bother Johnny.”
Spot rumbled again. I knew right off that meant I should tell Mom or Grandma.
“If I tell Mom or Grandma, they’ll tell Mrs. Martin; then she’ll talk with Vickie. Not only will I get jabbed more, but Johnny will get jabbed too.” As big a pest as he was, I didn’t want him bullied by anyone, except me on occasion.
Spot rolled his big eyes my way without another rumble. He didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t either. I thanked Spot for listening, picked up my books and walked through the door. The scrumptious aroma of fried chicken and corn bread flavored each breath I drew. I was hungry enough to eat my toenails, or at least a cookie. Grandma stood at the stove and stirred the soup beans.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said as I reached for a warm molasses cookie. As I sunk my teeth into the first bite, Mom walked through the door, waving a bunch of letters and flashing the biggest smile she’d worn since Daddy left.
We huddled around Mom as she read all eight letters to us. Twice. Daddy said he missed us. He had been busy but not too busy to think about us every day and night. Daddy said he read our letters at night before he went to sleep, and he kept my drawings in a box beside his bed. He also said he didn’t remember Johnny’s eyes being crossed when he left.
Johnny looked at me and stuck out his tongue. I stared back at him and crossed my eyes.
At supper, Mom said, “I got a job today. I’m working for John Riley Smith in his apple orchard.”
“What’s an orchard?” Johnny wanted to know.
“A bunch of trees,” I told him. A big gob of corn bread was in my mouth, and my tongue was stuck to it. I swallowed part of the gob and gulped a drink of milk.
“What?” Johnny asked. He nibbled his chicken, hoping Mom and Grandma would notice his manners were better than mine.
I swallowed the corn bread gob and slugged down more milk. “It’s a bunch of trees,” I said.
“What kind?” he asked.
“What kind do you think? Grape, of course.” I tapped him on the head with my fist but not too hard. He squealed as if I had hammered him a good one.
“Mom’s tending apple trees,” Johnny said. “Grapes grow on vines.” He kissed his fingers and tapped his head, pretending he was some sort of genius.
Mom and Grandma paid no mind to our jabber.
“If Farmer Smith wants to borrow a couple of my beehives,” Grandma said, “he’s welcome to them for a few weeks.”
“Why would he want to borrow beehives, Grandma?” I asked.
“Who’s Polly Nate?” Johnny asked.
Grandma smiled. “Pollinate means the bees move the pollen from one plant to another. The pollen fertilizes the trees, and they’ll grow more fruit.”
“I mentioned the bees to him this morning,” Mom answered. “He said he didn’t think the apple trees would need them.”
“Mark my words and see, he’ll regret that,” Grandma said as she crumbled corn bread into a bowl of soup beans.
Later that evening, Grandma reopened each letter from Daddy and read them to herself. I held the letter sent to me and read it again. Johnny got his letter and read it to Mom. He didn’t know most of the words, but he pretended to read. Mom pretended that each word he read was correct.
Reading the letters made me miss Daddy even more. I grabbed a pencil and wrote him a letter.
Dear Daddy,
My new school has nine big rooms. Eight of them are classrooms, and the biggest is the cafeteria. Johnny is on one side of the school, and I am on the other. Outside near the playground is a well with a pump. A girl named Carolyn taught me to pour some water in the pump to prime it. Then I pumped the handle. After a few pumps, three or four, up shot the water. I drank two cups. I didn’t really want the second cup, but I liked pumping the handle. A pump is more fun than drawing a bucket from a well. I learned to make a cup by folding a sheet of paper.
My teacher hung my spelling test with the perfect score on the wall for all the students to see. She wrote a big “A” at the top beside my name.
Carolyn and Janie are my best friends. We work together in arithmetic class, dividing and multiplying fractions and numbers. Sometimes we hang out together after school. I told Carolyn and Janie all about you. I told them how you tell stories that make me laugh. They want to hear some of your stories when you come home. So do I.
I miss you, Daddy.
I love you,
Gracie Girl
When I finished the letter, I sat beside Grandma and Mom and listened to the wireless. Mom had bought a big map of the world and hung it on the parlor wall. The map was the same kind Mrs. Martin had on the wall at school. When the newsman mentioned a place, we scurried to the wall to find it. We found places like England, Germany, Italy, France and Belgium. As I looked at the map, I wondered what Daddy was doing.
Chapter 9
The Homefront
Daddy’s letters landed at the post office today, as they had most days. As soon as Mom got home from work, we huddled on the settee and read each letter out loud. Daddy’s military unit had landed in England, a country in Europe. I hurried to Grandma’s wall map, found England and traced my hand over the whole country.
Daddy was wrong for the very first time. He said I’d be fine. He said he would be home soon. Well, one thing for certain, I, Grace Ann Brewer, was not fine. I missed Daddy’s goodnight stories. I missed his hugs. I missed seeing him every day. Daddy picked a fine time to be wrong!
Being away from home wasn’t Daddy’s fault. I knew that. I also knew that Mom, Johnny and Grandma missed him as much as I did.
Grandma turned on the wireless after supper, and we sat around it listening for any news that might have something, anything, to do with Daddy. Each week we listened to Walter Winchell. Tonight, the radio crackled throughout the broadcast, so I listened extra carefully to hear each word. Winchell talked about the power of the Allied forces.
“They’re Daddy’s troops,” I told Johnny.
“I know,” Johnny said. “That’s the United States, Britain and Candy.”
“Canada,” I whispered. “Not Candy.”
Winchell talked so fast the crackling sounds blocked many of his words. The best I could hear was that the war was still in full swing. A peace treaty didn’t seem likely anytime soon. The newsman also talked about the Axis forces and how German Nazis were killing innocent people.
Johnny looked surprised and rolled his eyes up toward me.
“Bedtime,” Mom said quickly and switched off the wireless.
Johnny darted into our room and high dived onto his bed. Mom followed and picked up toys to make a path.
As I crawled under the covers, Mom perched on the edge of Johnny’s bed and read a story about a prince who turned into a frog and back to a prince.
When Mom closed the book, she told us a goodnight story. Her stories were about the times we spent together with Daddy—picnics on Sunday afternoon, fishing in the North Fork of the Kentucky River and dancing. Tonight, she told us about the day she and Daddy got married.
“I wore the most beautiful dress in the world for the handsomest man ever,” Mom said. A smile curled her mouth as she told us all about her special day.
Mom’s wedding dress was beautiful. Every year on their anniversary, Mom wore her wedding dress and Daddy called her his bride. Johnny and I called her a princess because she looked like one in her fancy outfit.
“I don’t remember your wedding,”Johnny said. “Was I there?”
“No, precious, you weren’t born yet,” Mom answered. She told us about their honeymoon at Cumberland Falls State Park and seeing a moonbow, a rainbow in the mist when the full moon glowed.
“I want to see a moonbow,” Johnny said.
“Me too,” I echoed my brother.
“When Daddy comes home, we’ll take a trip and see a moonbow,” Mom said. She kissed Johnny and then walked over to my bed and kissed me. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered as she closed the door.
In the middle of the night, Johnny’s snores turned to snorts and then to mumbling and grumbling. I couldn’t understand exactly what he said, but I made out the word “Daddy.” I could tell he was having a dream but not a sweet one. Johnny mumbled again.
I crawled out of my bed and slid my feet along the floor, scooting his stuff out of the way. I tried to get to Johnny without killing myself. Ouch! I stubbed my toe on his toy truck. I grabbed my foot and fell onto his bed. Johnny didn’t wake up, but he mumbled, “Daddy” again. I snuggled with him for a few minutes, and he quieted down. “If I stub my toe one more time on his toys that were scattered all over the floor, that boy might have to sleep by himself with his next not-so-sweet dream,” I muttered.
When Johnny finally started sleeping peacefully, Spot whimpered. I knew he heard me moving around and wanted me to tell him what was going on. I stumbled back across the room and raised the window. Sure enough, Spot plopped his two front paws on the side of the house and raised his head for a goodnight kiss. I leaned over and smacked one on top of his head. “Go to sleep, Spot. Johnny had a bad dream, but he’s fine now.”
Spot whimpered again. I crawled back into my bed, and as I rested my head on my pillow, Spot howled, long and low. I crawled out of bed to go talk with him.
As I passed Mom’s bedroom, I heard sniffling sounds. I stood there for a minute and listened with my ear pressed against the closed door. More sniffling scratched the air. Tears of my own spilled down my cheeks, leaving my eyes red and my heart full of emptiness. I tried to be brave, but missing Daddy and our family being together muddled my brain.
I tiptoed through the kitchen and eased open the door. I didn’t want Mom to know I heard her. She would only worry more.
Spot trotted over to me. “Can’t you sleep tonight, boy?” I asked.
Spot shook his head.
“Neither can I. Gumption is not easy to come by.” We sat under the stars a few minutes in the warm night air. I sat wondering when Daddy would return home and if he was safe. Spot shook his head again. He didn’t know the answer.
Recently, my mom hadn’t been talking much, not like she used to. Grandma seemed different as well.
This time, Spot nodded his head in a different direction, showing he had noticed the same thing.
“Grandma listens to the wireless more, not music—the news. She’s listening to hear something about Daddy.”
Spot sniffed and whimpered
. I began to think about how I had seen the worry lines mapping Grandma’s face that hadn’t been there before Daddy left.
“Mom tells me that when I start feeling blue about Daddy being gone, I should sit right down and write him a letter. I have never felt bluer, Spot, so I think I’ll go back in the house and make good use of a sharp pencil.”
Spot nodded.
Dear Daddy,
We got your letters today, and I read mine five times. Mrs. Martin said I was the best reader in sixth grade. I get lots of practice reading all your letters.
Mom is going to take me with her to the orchard next Saturday. I can’t wait. Did you know that apple blossoms make apples? A real apple grows from a flower. Mom learned how to prune apple trees. That means she cuts out some of the branches. Mom said cutting branches opened the tree to let more sunshine in.
When you come home, Daddy, I’ll show you the orchard. Maybe we can pick some apples this fall.
Grandma had a surprise for Johnny and me Wednesday when we got home from school. She hung a rope from a big limb on the oak tree in the front yard. She sawed a piece of wood for the seat and made us a swing. Spot let me hold him in my lap, and we swung together.
Remember when we looked at the bicycles at Wilson’s General Store? He has a red one I like. It looks brand-new. Mr. Wilson buys secondhand bicycles and fixes them. Mom says maybe next year I can get a bicycle. I hope it is still there next year. With the war going on, Mr. Wilson said he had a hard time getting new bicycles. He even has a hard time getting secondhand bicycles.
I miss your goodnight stories, and I miss dancing with you.
I love you,
Gracie Girl
P.S. Johnny is still messy. I’ve started calling him Rubble Trouble. The problem is he likes his new name. Last night, a lightning bug got in our bedroom. I told Johnny it was a mosquito with a flashlight looking for stuff in messy rooms, stuff that shouldn’t be left out, and if the light shines on any stuff, the mosquito takes it. Johnny said a flashlight-packing mosquito didn’t bug him because it was too little to carry off his good stuff. He said it was probably the right size to carry off my hair ribbons hanging on the bureau. Rubble Trouble is a tough nut to crack.