“I don’t have a coin,” said Willard.
“Then you can’t . . .” Louie’s mouth was stuck open, as though something were jammed into both sides. He couldn’t talk. He massaged the corners of his mouth till it felt normal again. “When I was little, I used pebbles for money.”
“I got pebbles.” Willard ran to the driveway and came back with two handfuls of pebbles. He closed his eyes and threw them into the wishing well. “I wish . . .”
“You can’t say it out loud,” said Louie quickly. “You have to wish silently. Inside your head. Just like wishing with candles on your birthday.”
Willard stood there with his eyes closed. He squinched up his face. Then his eyes shot open, and he ran to Stewball. He stood over the sleeping dog. He stood there a long time.
Finally, Louie walked up behind Willard. He rubbed his hands on his jeans to get the sand off. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“I can see that,” said Louie. “What for?”
“I’m going to be first.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Stewball’s going to be a horse. And I’m going to be first to ride her.”
Louie tilted his head. “You poor kid. You really are crazy.”
Angel Talk
Did you grab his foot?” asked the Archangel of Imagination.
“Yup. I stood behind him.” The Little Angel of Imagination pointed to a red spot on his shin. “I was standing so close, I got kicked.”
“And did you do something to his mouth?”
The Little Angel of Imagination held out his hand. Teeth marks crossed the top.
“That must have hurt,” said the archangel.
“It was worth it. I stopped him from saying Willard couldn’t make a wish because he didn’t have a coin.”
“That’s a blessing,” said the Archangel of Imagination. “No little kid should be told that wishes depend on money.”
The little angel nodded. “And each time I stopped Louie, it gave him a moment to think it over and remember what he used to do when he was little. That’s good, too, right?”
“Right,” said the archangel. “But physically restraining him has its problems. You’d better come up with something else fast, or you’re going to need bandages.”
The little angel laughed and gingerly touched the teeth marks on the back of his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The Grocery
“Louie, Willard, I have to go grocery shopping.” Mamma beckoned them in.
“Shopping, shopping,” chanted Willard, marching into the kitchen. “I love shopping.”
“How can anyone love shopping?” said Louie.
“Come on, Louie, don’t be such a grump. You used to love going to the grocery with me when you were little.” Mamma washed off the counter and put the milk, eggs, and butter back in the refrigerator.
“Go have a good time, then,” said Louie, heading off for the TV.
“Come.” Willard grabbed the hem of Louie’s shirt. “You come, too.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Come with me,” wailed Willard.
“Mamma, get him off me.”
Willard let go of Louie’s shirt. “I’ll stay with Louie.”
“Uh-uh,” said Mamma. “You’re coming shopping with me.”
“No,” said Willard.
“You love shopping, remember?”
“I want Louie.”
“Louie’s coming, too,” said Mamma.
“What?” Louie glared at Mamma. “That’s not fair.”
“I only have a couple of last-minute things to get. I’ll be quick. And you have to take care of him for a while longer when we get home, anyway, so what does it matter?” Mamma slung her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Mamma. . . ”
“Right now.”
• • •
Willard sat in the metal seat of the cart and swung his legs. Mamma was comparing prices on cans in the foreign foods aisle. “Louie,” said Willard.
Louie looked down to read the ingredients on a can of lobster bisque. “Hmmm?”
“Catch me,” said Willard.
Louie looked up in time to see Willard, who was now standing in the seat, take a giant step out. He grabbed him around the chest, and they both fell, Willard on top of Louie.
“What’re you boys doing?” Mamma rushed over.
“I want to walk,” said Willard. “Louie’s taking me.”
Louie shook his head, but somehow he couldn’t open his mouth to talk. He could hardly even breathe.
“Well, all right,” said Mamma, straightening Willard’s shirt. “But I only have a few more things to get. So meet me at the checkout counter in fifteen minutes.” She threw a can into the cart and pushed it down the aisle.
Louie gasped for breath as air finally filled his lungs again.
“Come,” said Willard. He ran off.
Louie caught up with him. “Where’re you going?”
“You have to hold me up.”
“What? Up where?”
“Come.” Willard ran to the meat section and stood in front of the butcher’s window. “Ring the bell.”
“You want to talk to the butcher?”
“Yes.”
“What’ll you say to him?”
“Ring the bell.”
“Don’t be stupid, Willard. He’ll get mad if we ring the bell for no reason.”
“Ring the bell,” shouted Willard.
A woman searching through the steaks glanced at them and gave Louie a frown.
“Don’t shout,” whispered Louie. Then, as if by magic, his hand lifted up, and he rang the bell.
The butcher opened the window. “What can I do for you?”
“Me,” said Willard. “Me. Hold me up, Louie.”
“You can talk loud enough from there,” said Louie.
“Please.” Willard hopped in place.
“Oh, all right.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” asked the butcher.
“I want horse food,” said Willard.
“Horse? We don’t sell horse here.” The butcher closed the window and went away.
Willard looked at Louie. “Ring the bell again.”
“No. Listen, Willard, he didn’t even know what you were talking about because your question was so stupid.”
Willard’s face crumpled in that way Louie knew too well.
“Don’t cry,” said Louie. “It doesn’t help to ask the butcher. Horses don’t eat meat.”
“What do they eat?” asked Willard.
“Carrots, apples, things like that.”
“Stewball doesn’t like those things.”
“Stewball?” Louie shook his head. “I thought you were asking about horses.”
“I am. What else do horses eat?” asked Willard.
Louie shrugged. “Well, grains.”
“Where’s the grain window?” asked Willard.
“There is no grain window. Grains are in everything. Bread and spaghetti and cookies and . . . ”
“Cookies,” said Willard. “Let’s feed Stewball cookies. Then she can grow into a horse.”
Louie took Willard by the hand. “You are one sorry little crazy person,” he said. “That won’t work. But at least we can get some good cookies.”
They picked Oreo cookies and Fig Newtons and Chips Ahoy! and ran to meet Mamma at the checkout.
“Cookies?” said Mamma. “I already picked out a box of graham crackers. That’s a much better snack.”
“Cookies,” said Willard.
Louie smiled at Mamma. “You heard him.” He dumped the cookie boxes into the cart.
Angel Talk
Watch out,” said the archangel.
“You almost smothered him.”
“I didn’t mean to. I just put my hands over his nose and mouth for a moment.”
“And then you lifted his hand and made him ring the bell.” The Ar
changel of Imagination shook her head. “I know you’re working hard to help Louie. But if you do things like that, he’s going to think he’s losing control of himself.”
“He isn’t worried yet,” said the little angel. “He has so little imagination, he just accepts everything that happens to him.”
“Exactly. So that’s the problem you have to focus on: opening his mind, not restraining his body. Louie’s got to choose to use his imagination. You can’t force it on him.”
The Little Angel of Imagination made a fist of his right hand and lightly punched it into his left palm. “This kid is such a tough case. But I’m going to find a way. And I’m going to find it without holding him back anymore.”
“Go for it.”
Fig Newtons
“We’ll help put things away,” said Louie.
Mamma smiled happily. “What a nice offer. Thank you, boys. Then I can get right back to work on dinner.” She carried a bag of lettuce to the sink and washed it.
Willard took the cookie boxes out of the grocery bags one by one and handed them to Louie, who stacked them in the cupboard. When Willard handed him the Fig Newtons, he tucked them under his shirt, putting his finger to his lips to hush Willard. “Let’s go out back, Willard,” he said loudly, so that Mamma would hear.
They ran out the door.
Willard went straight to Stewball. “Get ready, doggie.” He jumped in place.
Stewball opened her eyes.
Louie ripped the top off the box of Fig Newtons. He jammed one in his mouth and handed one to Willard.
Willard jammed it in his mouth and held out his hand. “For Stewball,” he mumbled as he chewed.
Louie gave Willard another cookie.
Willard held the cookie over Stewball’s nose, just like Louie had held the ice-cream sandwich.
Stewball’s nose twitched. She lifted her head and ate the cookie in one gulp.
Willard watched her. “She doesn’t look any bigger.”
“I told you,” said Louie, biting into another Fig Newton. “She needs more.”
Louie handed Willard another cookie.
Stewball stood up.
Willard put the cookie in Stewball’s mouth. “She still doesn’t look bigger.”
“What’d I say?”
“She needs more cookies.”
“We shouldn’t waste them,” said Louie.
“Give me some.”
“No.”
Willard grabbed at the box of cookies, and the front side ripped off. A long stack of Fig Newtons fell on the ground.
Stewball gobbled them up fast, making lots of smacking noises as she tried to clean the sticky fruit off her teeth. Then she looked eagerly at Louie.
“Forget it.” Louie clutched the rest of the cookies to his chest.
“She’s growing,” said Willard.
“No she isn’t,” said Louie.
“Look at her legs.”
Louie looked closely at Stewball’s legs. “I don’t see anything.”
“They’re longer. Like a horse’s legs.” Willard wrestled his way onto Stewball’s back.
Stewball lay down.
“Fig Newtons aren’t doing anything,” said Louie.
“Let’s try the Chips Ahoy!”
“We can’t,” said Louie.
“Why not?”
“I forgot to tell you,” Louie said, looking away. He lowered his voice. “Dogs can’t eat chocolate.”
“What? Why not?”
Louie mumbled, “It’s bad for them.”
“Can horses eat chocolate?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let’s feed her Oreo cookies.”
“Don’t be dumb. Oreo cookies have chocolate, too,” said Louie.
“What? Then we have nothing else to feed her.” Willard looked at Louie. “You’re mean.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“You knew dogs can’t eat chocolate.” Willard threw himself over Stewball’s neck in despair.
Angel Talk
Is it true that dogs can’t eat chocolate?” asked the little angel.
“I’m not sure, but I think so,” said the Archangel of Imagination.
“Then Louie did do a really mean thing to Willard.” The Little Angel of Imagination got hot with anger. “He got Willard to make Mamma buy the cookies he wanted to eat, not the cookies that would make Stewball grow into a horse.”
“Wait a minute,” said the archangel. “Listen to what you just said. You’re not actually thinking that a dog can change into a horse, are you?”
“Oh.” The Little Angel of Imagination gave a small shrug. “Of course not. I guess I got carried away again.” Then he rubbed his palms together. “Ha! If I could get carried away like that, I bet Louie could, too. And he deserves a little shaking up.”
The archangel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Ears and Tail
“I’m sorry, Willard,” said Louie gently. “But, really, it doesn’t matter how many cookies you would have fed her. Stewball’s a dog and she’ll never be a horse.”
“How do you know?” Willard sobbed. “Her ears were just starting to change.”
Louie got down on one knee. “Her ears are like they’ve always been, Willard.”
Stewball’s ears stood up for a second, then they flopped back down. The dog tilted her head, as if she was confused.
Louie blinked. He petted Stewball.
Stewball’s ears stood up again.
Louie dropped his head forward and gaped.
Stewball’s ears flopped back down.
Louie looked at Willard, but Willard’s face was buried in the dog’s hair; he hadn’t seen Stewball’s ears stand up.
Louie petted the dog’s ears. Then he held up the tips. The dog looked quizzically at him.
Willard turned his head to face Louie. “What are you doing?”
“I thought Stewball did something funny with her ears.”
“She did?” Willard put his face right in front of Louie’s. “See? Let’s feed her more Fig Newtons. Fast.”
Louie handed two cookies to Willard.
Willard laid them on the ground in front of Stewball.
Stewball stood up and snarfed down the cookies. Then she lay back down and licked at her teeth. Suddenly her tail stuck straight out behind her. Stewball jerked her head up and looked quickly back over her shoulder.
“What’s going on?” said Louie.
“She’s a horse,” said Willard.
“That’s impossible.” Louie sat down and crossed his legs.
Willard sat beside him.
The boys stared at the dog.
Angel Talk
The Archangel of Imagination doubled over with laughter. When she finally straightened up, she put her hand on the little angel’s shoulder. “Good trick.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’re not planning on walking around behind that dog all day long, holding out her tail and ears, are you?”
“No,” said the little angel. “I just wanted to give Louie a little shock.”
“Well, you certainly did that. He’s staring at Stewball as though he expects her to start whinnying any moment.”
The Little Angel of Imagination whinnied himself and pawed at the air with his arms.
“What are you doing now?”
“I can’t figure out what to do next, so I’m trying to think like a horse. If I can imagine every detail of a horse’s life, maybe an idea will come.”
“Sometimes the details don’t have to fit,” said the archangel.
“Yes they do. The details are very important,” said the Little Angel of Imagination. “If the details are wrong, nothing you make up seems real.”
“Is it working?” called the archangel as the little angel galloped by.
“I think so.”
A Break
“Nothing’s happening,” said Louie.
“Let’s feed her
bread.”
“Stewball won’t eat bread.”
“She has to,” said Willard. “You said grains are in bread, so she has to eat bread or she won’t grow into a horse.”
“Stewball hates bread.”
“We need better grain. And we don’t have any.” Willard slumped forward, with his elbows on his knees. “I’ll never ride a horse.” His voice cracked.
Louie put his arm around his little brother’s shoulders. “Don’t be so sad.”
Willard sighed loudly.
Louie remembered unpacking the groceries. “Let’s go get the graham crackers Mamma bought.”
“Are graham crackers grain?”
“Yup.”
Willard grinned and ran into the house. Louie followed.
“Good. You’re just in time,” said Mamma. “I’m ready to take Grandma to the beauty parlor. So you’re off duty, Louie. Willard’s coming with me.”
“I don’t want to come with you,” said Willard. “I have to feed Stewball.”
“Stewball doesn’t eat in the middle of the day.” Mamma put on her sunglasses. “Come on.”
“Stewball needs graham crackers,” screamed Willard.
“Don’t shout, Willard.” Mamma looked at Louie. “Are you the one behind feeding the dog all these things?”
“Me?” said Louie.
“Yeah, you. You fed her the ice-cream sandwich.”
Louie didn’t say anything.
“Well, no more odd food for the dog,” said Mamma.
“She needs grains,” moaned Willard.
“Grains?” Mamma took Willard by the hand. “We’ll talk about this later. We can’t make Grandma late.” She pulled Willard down the hall and out the front door.
Louie headed straight for the TV. He grabbed the remote control as he sank onto the couch. He surfed the channels. All the good shows were over already. But that didn’t matter. The afternoon was full of great reruns. He settled on one and let himself relax.
The couch was soft, and pretty soon Louie felt drowsy. He laid his head back on the cushions. His eyes slowly closed.
“Neigh!”
Louie sat upright. He looked around the room. Then he laughed at himself. The horse was on TV, of course. Where else could it be? But, hey, this wasn’t the channel he had chosen. This was some old Western. He must have pressed on the remote control by accident when he was settling into the cushions. He switched back to the other channel and leaned back. A different show now, but another rerun. Before long, he was dozing again.
Playing Games Page 2