Ramona and Her Father

by Beverly Cleary

  Her father’s voice, coming through the furnace pipes, sounded hollow and far away. “Why did you give in to her?” he was asking. “She had no business saying you would make her a sheep costume without asking first. She has to learn sometime.”

  I have learned, thought Ramona indignantly. Her father did not have to talk this way about her behind her back.

  “I know,” answered Ramona’s mother in a voice also sounding hollow and far away. “But she’s little, and these things are so important to her. I’ll manage somehow.”

  “We don’t want a spoiled brat on our hands,” said Ramona’s father.

  “But it’s Christmas,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and Christmas is going to be slim enough this year.”

  Comforted by her mother but angry at her father, Ramona climbed back into bed. Spoiled brat! So that was what her father thought of her.

  The days that followed were difficult for Ramona, who was now cross with her cross father. He was mean, talking about her behind her back that way.

  “Well, what’s eating you?” he finally asked Ramona.

  “Nothing.” Ramona scowled. She could not tell him why she was angry without admitting she had eavesdropped.

  And then there was Beezus, who went around smiling and looking serene, perhaps because Mrs. Mester had given her an A on her creative-writing composition and read it aloud to the class, but more likely because she was practicing for her part as Mary. Having a sister who tried to act like the Virgin Mary was not easy for a girl who felt as Ramona did.

  And the costume. Mrs. Quimby found time to bleach the old bathrobe in the washing machine, but after that nothing happened. The doctor she worked for was so busy because of all the earaches, sore throats, and flu that came with winter weather that she was late coming home every evening.

  On top of that, Ramona had to spend two afternoons watching Howie’s grandmother sew on his sheep suit, because arrangements had now been made for Ramona to go to Howie’s house if Mr. Quimby could not be home after school. This week he had to collect unemployment insurance and take a civil-service examination for a job in the post office.

  Ramona studied Howie’s sheep suit, which was made out of fluffy white acrylic. The ears were lined with pink, and Mrs. Kemp was going to put a zipper down the front. The costume was beautiful, soft and furry. Ramona longed to rub her cheek against it, hug it, take it to bed with her.

  “And when I finish Howie’s costume, I am going to make another for Willa Jean,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Willa Jean wants one, too.”

  This was almost too much for Ramona to bear. Besides, her shoes felt tighter than ever. She looked at Willa Jean, who was clomping around the house on her little tuna-can stilts. Messy little Willa Jean in a beautiful sheep suit she didn’t even need. She would only spoil the furry cloth by dribbling apple juice down the front and spilling graham-cracker crumbs all over it. People said Willa Jean behaved just the way Ramona used to, but Ramona could not believe them.

  A week before the Christmas program Mrs. Quimby managed to find time to buy a pattern during her lunch hour, but she did not find time to sew for Ramona.

  Mr. Quimby, on the other hand, had plenty of time for Ramona. Too much, she was begining to think. He nagged. Ramona should sit up closer to the table so she wouldn’t spill so much. She should stop making rivers in her mashed potatoes. She should wring out her washcloth instead of leaving it sopping in the tub. Look at the circle of rust her tin-can stilts had left on the kitchen floor. Couldn’t she be more careful? She should fold her bath towel in half and hang it up straight. How did she expect it to dry when it was all wadded up, for Pete’s sake? She found a sign in her room that said, A Messy Room Is Hazardous to Your Health. That was too much.

  Ramona marched out to the garage where her father was oiling the lawnmower so it would be ready when spring came and said, “A messy room is not hazardous to my health. It’s not the same as smoking.”

  “You could trip and break your arm,” her father pointed out.

  Ramona had an answer. “I always turn on the light or sort of feel along the floor with my feet.”

  “You could smother in old school papers, stuffed animals, and hula hoops if the mess gets deep enough,” said her father and added, “Miss Radar Feet.”

  Ramona smiled. “Daddy, you’re just being silly again. Nobody ever smothered in a hula hoop.”

  “You never can tell,” said her father. “There is always a first time.”

  Ramona and her father got along better for a while after that, and then came the terrible afternoon when Ramona came home from school to find her father closing the living-room windows, which had been wide open even though the day was raw and windy. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke in the room.

  “Why there’s Henry running down the street,” said Mr. Quimby, his back to Ramona. “He may make it to the Olympics, but that old dog of his won’t.”

  “Daddy,” said Ramona. Her father turned. Ramona looked him in the eye. “You cheated!”

  Mr. Quimby closed the last window. “What are you talking about?”

  “You smoked and you promised you wouldn’t!” Ramona felt as if she were the grown-up and he were the child.

  Mr. Quimby sat down on the couch and leaned back as if he were very, very tired, which made some of the anger drain out of Ramona. “Ramona,” he said, “it isn’t easy to break a bad habit. I ran across one cigarette, an old stale cigarette, in my raincoat pocket and thought it might help if I smoked just one. I’m trying. I’m really trying.”

  Hearing her father speak this way, as if she really was a grown-up, melted the last of Ramona’s anger. She turned into a seven-year-old again and climbed on the couch to lean against her father. After a few moments of silence, she whispered, “I love you, Daddy.”

  He tousled her hair affectionately and said, “I know you do. That’s why you want me to stop smoking, and I love you, too.”

  “Even if I’m a brat sometimes?”

  “Even if you’re a brat sometimes.”

  Ramona thought awhile before she sat up and said, “Then why can’t we be a happy family?”

  For some reason Mr. Quimby smiled. “I have news for you, Ramona,” he said. “We are a happy family.”

  “We are?” Ramona was skeptical.

  “Yes, we are.” Mr. Quimby was positive. “No family is perfect. Get that idea out of your head. And nobody is perfect either. All we can do is work at it. And we do.”

  Ramona tried to wiggle her toes inside her shoes and considered what her father had said. Lots of fathers wouldn’t draw pictures with their little girls. Her father bought her paper and crayons when he could afford them. Lots of mothers wouldn’t step over a picture that spread across the kitchen floor while cooking supper. Ramona knew mothers who would scold and say, “Pick that up. Can’t you see I’m trying to get supper?” Lots of big sisters wouldn’t let their little sister go along when they interviewed someone for creative writing. They would take more than their fair share of gummybears because they were bigger and…

  Ramona decided her father was probably right, but she couldn’t help feeling they would be a happier family if her mother could find time to sew that sheep costume. There wasn’t much time left.

  7

  Ramona and the Three Wise Persons

  Suddenly, a few days before Christmas when the Quimby family least expected it, the telephone rang for Ramona’s father. He had a job! The morning after New Year’s Day he was to report for training as a checker in a chain of supermarkets. The pay was good, he would have to work some evenings, and maybe someday he would get to manage a market!

  After that telephone call Mr. Quimby stopped reaching for cigarettes that were not there and began to whistle as he ran the vacuum cleaner and folded the clothes from the dryer. The worried frown disappeared from Mrs. Quimby’s forehead. Beezus looked even more calm and serene. Ramona, however, made a mistake. She told her mother about her tight shoes. Mrs. Quimby then wasted a Saturday a
fternoon shopping for shoes when she could have been sewing on Ramona’s costume. As a result, when they drove to church the night of the Christmas-carol program, Ramona was the only unhappy member of the family.

  Mr. Quimby sang as he drove:

  “There’s a little wheel

  a-turning in my heart.

  There’s a little wheel

  a-turning in my heart.”

  Ramona loved that song because it made her think of Howie, who liked machines. Tonight, however, she was determined not to enjoy her father’s singing.

  Rain blew against the car, headlights shone on the pavement, the windshield wipers splip-splopped. Mrs. Quimby leaned back, tired but relaxed. Beezus smiled her gentle Virgin Mary smile that Ramona had found so annoying for the past three weeks.

  Ramona sulked. Someplace above those cold, wet clouds the very same star was shining that had guided the Three Wise Men to Bethlehem. On a night like this they never would have made it.

  Mr. Quimby sang on, “Oh, I feel like shouting in my heart….”

  Ramona interrupted her father’s song. “I don’t care what anybody says,” she burst out. “If I can’t be a good sheep, I am not going to be a sheep at all.” She yanked off the white terry-cloth headdress with pink-lined ears that she was wearing and stuffed it into the pocket of her car coat. She started to pull her father’s rolled-down socks from her hands because they didn’t really look like hooves, but then she decided they kept her hands warm. She squirmed on the lumpy terry-cloth tail sewn to the seat of her pajamas. Ramona could not pretend that faded pajamas printed with an army of pink rabbits, half of them upside down, made her look like a sheep, and Ramona was usually good at pretending.

  Mrs. Quimby’s voice was tired. “Ramona, your tail and headdress were all I could manage, and I had to stay up late last night to finish those. I simply don’t have time for complicated sewing.”

  Ramona knew that. Her family had been telling her so for the past three weeks.

  “A sheep should be woolly,” said Ramona. “A sheep should not be printed with pink bunnies.”

  “You can be a sheep that has been shorn,” said Mr. Quimby, who was full of jokes now that he was going to work again. “Or how about a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

  “You just want me to be miserable,” said Ramona, not appreciating her father’s humor and feeling that everyone in her family should be miserable because she was.

  “She’s worn out,” said Mrs. Quimby, as if Ramona could not hear. “It’s so hard to wait for Christmas at her age.”

  Ramona raised her voice. “I am not worn out! You know sheep don’t wear pajamas.”

  “That’s show biz,” said Mr. Quimby.

  “Daddy!” Beezus-Mary was shocked. “It’s church!”

  “And don’t forget, Ramona,” said Mr. Quimby, “as my grandmother would have said, ‘Those pink bunnies will never be noticed from a trotting horse.’”

  Ramona disliked her father’s grandmother even more. Besides, nobody rode trotting horses in church.

  The sight of light shining through the stained-glass window of the big stone church diverted Ramona for a moment. The window looked beautiful, as if it were made of jewels.

  Mr. Quimby backed the car into a parking space. “Ho-ho-ho!” he said, as he turned off the ignition. “’Tis the season to be jolly.”

  Jolly was the last thing Ramona was going to be. Leaving the car, she stooped down inside her car coat to hide as many rabbits as possible. Black branches clawed at the sky, and the wind was raw.

  “Stand up straight,” said Ramona’s heartless father.

  “I’ll get wet,” said Ramona. “I might catch cold, and then you’d be sorry.”

  “Run between the drops,” said Mr. Quimby.

  “They’re too close together,” answered Ramona.

  “Oh, you two,” said Mrs. Quimby with a tired little laugh, as she backed out of the car and tried to open her umbrella at the same time.

  “I will not be in it,” Ramona defied her family once and for all. “They can give the program without me.”

  Her father’s answer was a surprise. “Suit yourself,” he said. “You’re not going to spoil our evening.”

  Mrs. Quimby gave the seat of Ramona’s pajamas an affectionate pat. “Run along, little lamb, wagging your tail behind you.”

  Ramona walked stiff-legged so that her tail would not wag.

  At the church door the family parted, the girls going downstairs to the Sunday-school room, which was a confusion of chattering children piling coats and raincoats on chairs. Ramona found a corner behind the Christmas tree, where Santa would pass out candy canes after the program. She sat down on the floor with her car coat pulled over her bent knees.

  Through the branches Ramona watched carolers putting on their white robes. Girls were tying tinsel around one another’s heads while Mrs. Russo searched out boys and tied tinsel around their heads, too. “It’s all right for boys to wear tinsel,” Mrs. Russo assured them. Some looked as if they were not certain they believed her.

  One boy climbed on a chair. “I’m an angel. Watch me fly,” he announced and jumped off, flapping the wide sleeves of his choir robe. All the carolers turned into flapping angels.

  Nobody noticed Ramona. Everyone was having too much fun. Shepherds found their cloaks, which were made from old cotton bedspreads. Beezus’s friend, Henry Huggins, arrived and put on the dark robe he was to wear in the part of Joseph.

  The other two sheep appeared. Howie’s acrylic sheep suit, with the zipper on the front, was as thick and as fluffy as Ramona knew it would be. Ramona longed to pet Howie; he looked so soft. Davy’s flannel suit was fastened with safety pins, and there was something wrong about the ears. If his tail had been longer, he could have passed for a kitten, but he did not seem to mind. Both boys wore brown mittens. Davy, who was a thin little sheep, jumped up and down to make his tail wag, which surprised Ramona. At school he was always so shy. Maybe he felt brave inside his sheep suit. Howie, a chunky sheep, made his tail wag, too. My ears are as good as theirs, Ramona told herself. The floor felt cold through the seat of her thin pajamas.

  “Look at the little lambs!” cried an angel. “Aren’t they darling?”

  “Ba-a, ba-a!” bleated Davy and Howie.

  Ramona longed to be there with them, jumping and ba-a-ing and wagging her tail, too. Maybe the faded rabbits didn’t show as much as she had thought. She sat hunched and miserable. She had told her father she would not be a sheep, and she couldn’t back down now. She hoped God was too busy to notice her, and then she changed her mind. Please, God, prayed Ramona, in case He wasn’t too busy to listen to a miserable little sheep, I don’t really mean to be horrid. It just works out that way. She was frightened, she discovered, for when the program began, she would be left alone in the church basement. The lights might even be turned out, a scary thought, for the big stone church filled Ramona with awe, and she did not want to be left alone in the dark with her awe. Please, God, prayed Ramona, get me out of this mess.

  Beezus, in a long blue robe with a white scarf over her head and carrying a baby’s blanket and a big flashlight, found her little sister. “Come out, Ramona,” she coaxed. “Nobody will notice your costume. You know Mother would have made you a whole sheep suit if she had time. Be a good sport. Please.”

  Ramona shook her head and blinked to keep tears from falling. “I told Daddy I wouldn’t be in the program, and I won’t.”

  “Well, OK, if that’s the way you feel,” said Beezus, forgetting to act like Mary. She left her little sister to her misery.

  Ramona sniffed and wiped her eyes on her hoof. Why didn’t some grown-up come along and make her join the other sheep? No grown-up came. No one seemed to remember there were supposed to be three sheep, not even Howie, who played with her almost every day.

  Ramona’s eye caught the reflection of her face distorted in a green Christmas ornament. She was shocked to see her nose look huge, her mouth and red-rimmed eyes
tiny. I can’t really look like that, thought Ramona in despair. I’m really a nice person. It’s just that nobody understands.

  Ramona mopped her eyes on her hoof again, and as she did she noticed three big girls, so tall they were probably in the eighth grade, putting on robes made from better bedspreads than the shepherd’s robes. That’s funny, she thought. Nothing she had learned in Sunday school told her anything about girls in long robes in the Nativity scene. Could they be Jesus’s aunts?

  One of the girls began to dab tan cream from a little jar on her face and to smear it around while another girl held up a pocket mirror. The third girl, holding her own mirror, used an eyebrow pencil to give herself heavy brows.

  Makeup, thought Ramona with interest, wishing she could wear it. The girls took turns darkening their faces and brows. They looked like different people. Ramona got to her knees and peered over the lower branches of the Christmas tree for a better view.

  One of the girls noticed her. “Hi, there,” she said. “Why are you hiding back there?”

  “Because,” was Ramona’s all-purpose answer. “Are you Jesus’s aunts?” she asked.

  The girls found the question funny. “No,” answered one. “We’re the Three Wise Persons.”

  Ramona was puzzled. “I thought they were supposed to be wise men,” she said.

  “The boys backed out at the last minute,” explained the girl with the blackest eyebrows. “Mrs. Russo said women can be wise too, so tonight we are the Three Wise Persons.”

  This idea seemed like a good one to Ramona, who wished she were big enough to be a wise person hiding behind makeup so nobody would know who she was.

  “Are you supposed to be in the program?” asked one of the girls.

  “I was supposed to be a sheep, but I changed my mind,” said Ramona, changing it back again. She pulled out her sheep headdress and put it on.

  “Isn’t she adorable?” said one of the wise persons.

  Ramona was surprised. She had never been called adorable before. Bright, lively, yes; adorable, no. She smiled and felt more lovable. Maybe pink-lined ears helped.