Ramona and Her Mother (5 page)

Ramona felt Howie was being most unfair. She did not spill the bluing on purpose. Besides, why wasn't the top of the bottle screwed on tight? Because some grown-up had not screwed it on, that's why. Children weren't the only people who did things wrong. She fumbled through the blue water, now much bluer than any ocean, and pulled the plug. As the water drained out, she and Howie looked at one another. Now what should they do?

Mrs. Kemp called down the stairway. “It's awfully quiet down there. What are you two up to?”

“We had—sort of an accident,” confessed Howie.

Mrs. Kemp came running down the stairs. “Oh, my land!” she cried. “Oh, my goodness!”

Willa Jean began to howl at the top of the stairs.

“Grandma won't let the furnace get you, darling,” said Mrs. Kemp. Willa Jean sat down at the top of the stairs and wept.

Mrs. Kemp lifted dripping Ramona out of the tub. Then, right there in front of Howie, she pulled off Ramona's socks, slacks, and blouse and dumped them in the washing machine. Then she pulled off Howie's socks, shirt, and jeans and dumped those in the washing machine, too. Ramona and Howie did not know where to look, they were so embarrassed to be standing there in their underwear. Two years ago they would not have minded, but now that they were in the second grade, they felt that underwear was private.

Mrs. Kemp filled the tub with a few inches of clear water and lifted Ramona back in. Without a word she began to scrub Ramona's feet with a bar of yellow soap. When it was plain that Ramona's feet were going to stay blue, she lifted Ramona out again, pulled a towel out of the dryer, and handed it to her. Then Mrs. Kemp went to work on Howie's blue hands.

When Ramona's blue feet were dry, she asked politely, “What will I wear?” Of course she could not go around in her underwear.

“We'll find something.” Mrs. Kemp, rinsing Ramona's shoes, sounded grim. She held up the shoes, now a strange greenish brown, to let the water drain off them before she leaned them against the furnace to dry.

Suddenly Mrs. Kemp missed Willa Jean. “Oh, my goodness!” she cried, and dashed up the stairs. Ramona and Howie, careful not to look at one another, followed. What Ramona saw made tears come to her eyes. There sat Willa Jean under the dining-room table holding a pair of scissors, sharp scissors, and Woger, who now had only one leg. Willa Jean had cut off Woger's leg! That lovable bear. How could Willa Jean do such a terrible thing? Ramona felt like crying, she loved Woger so.

“Give Grandma the scissors,” coaxed Mrs. Kemp. “We don't want the scissors to hurt Willa Jean.”

“Boy, Willa Jean.” Howie was disgusted. “What did you have to go and do a dumb thing like that for?”

Willa Jean looked as if her brother had said something unkind. “I wanted to see if Woger had bones,” she said.

“He is so soft you should know he doesn't have bones,” said Howie. “You didn't have to wreck him.”

Willa Jean looked at the stuffing coming out of her bear's wounds and began to cry.

“Never mind, darling,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Grandma will sew Woger's leg back on after she finds some clothes for Howie and Ramona.”

Ramona was soon bundled into Howie's old shirt and jeans and a pair of ragged sneakers much too big for her. She sat on one end of the couch while Howie sat on the other.

Ramona was cross because she did not like wearing Howie's old clothes. Howie was cross because Ramona had thought of dying the water blue. Both were cross with Willa Jean for spoiling the checker game. Mrs. Kemp, who was sewing Woger's leg back on, was cross with Ramona and Howie, but of course she was not cross with Willa Jean. Only Willa Jean, lying on her back under the coffee table and sucking her thumb, was happy.

This afternoon was not the first time Ramona had been in trouble at the Kemps' house. There was that day she and Howie found Mrs. Kemp's pinking shears. Ramona had been pinking Howie's hair when Mrs. Kemp discovered what they were up to. Ramona had thought she was unreasonably displeased, because Howie's hair was so curly the pinking did not show.

Now Ramona worried. If she got into any more trouble, maybe Mrs. Kemp would not want to look after her. Then her mother could no longer work in Dr. Hobson's office and would have to stay home. Ramona quickly squashed a deep-down thought that she would like to have her mother stay home again. She waited anxiously for Beezus to come. She waited and waited. No Beezus.

Howie looked at a sporting-goods catalog, turning the pages with blue hands. Boots, quilted jackets with many pockets, and those tents that folded into tiny packages interested Howie. He did not offer to share the catalog with Ramona, even though he knew she liked pictures of duck decoys.

Ramona heaved a gusty sigh. She wished she had brought her Betsy book with her. She enjoyed reading about Betsy because everyone in the book was so nice to her.

When Woger's wounds were mended, Mrs. Kemp started supper. The fragrance of pork chops floated from the kitchen. The younger Mrs. Kemp, Howie's mother, came home with packages and bags of groceries. “Why, hello, Ramona,” she said. “I didn't know you were still here.”

Mr. Kemp came home from work. “Hello there,” he said. “Are you still here?”

Ramona did not know how to answer such a question. She felt embarrassed, in the way, unwanted. Where was Beezus? What had happened to her parents? Her ears strained for familiar footsteps or the sound of the Quimby car.

“Your mother and father are late today,” remarked Howie's mother as she set the table.

Once more Ramona did not know how to answer. Cars were now driving with their lights on. Why didn't someone come? What if her mother and father had been in an accident? Who would take care of Ramona? It seemed as if she might have to sit here on the couch in Howie's old clothes forever.

Ramona began to feel hungry. How good a pork chop would taste! She knew she would not be asked to share the Kemps' supper. With the price of meat these days there would not be an extra chop. Ramona's mouth watered so much she had to swallow. She thought of the pot-roast sandwich she had not finished at lunchtime.

“Ramona, could I fix you some peanut butter and crackers?” asked Howie's mother.

“No, thank you.” Ramona pictured a brown chop with mashed potatoes and pool of gravy.

The Kemps sat down at the table with Willa Jean perched on two cushions beside her grandmother, who began to cut her meat for her. And she won't even eat a whole chop, thought Ramona, who felt like a stranger, an intruder in the lives of others. The Kemps said little as they ate. Perhaps they did not want to talk in front of an outsider. Ramona listened to the clink of knives and forks against plates as the Kemps ate their pork chops. She was profoundly embarrassed.

“Willa Jean, darlin', we don't chew with our mouth open,” said Willa Jean's grandmother.

At last, when Ramona was blinking back tears because she was sure her parents would never come, the old familiar car turned into the driveway.

“Good-bye!” cried Ramona, pulling on her car coat as she ran out the door.

Mr. Quimby was driving, Mrs. Quimby sat next to him, and Beezus was in the back seat. She must have been picked up at a friend's house. “You were late,” Ramona informed her family, her voice stern. “You kept me waiting.”

“I'm sorry.” Mrs. Quimby sounded tired. “It was one of those days. After work when I went to catch a bus to the garage to pick up the car, the bus was late, and when I finally got to the garage, the mechanics hadn't finished the job and I had to wait some more. And I had to keep your father waiting, too.”

“What a day!” said Mr. Quimby. “Price changes to remember, and I worked the express line besides.” Ramona knew her father disliked the express line in which customers were not supposed to have more than nine items in each basket. Many people tried to slip through with ten or eleven items. Everyone in line was in a hurry and counted the items in one another's baskets. There were arguments. All this unpleasantness took a lot out of Mr. Quimby.

Please, please like your job, prayed Ramona, forgetting her own troubles for a moment.

Mrs. Quimby turned in the front seat to look at her daughters. Of course she noticed Ramona was wearing Howie's old clothes.

“Ramona, why are you wearing . . . ?” Mrs. Quimby seemed too tired to finish the question.

“Howie and I sort of spilled some stuff and Mrs. Kemp washed our clothes and they aren't dry yet,” explained Ramona. Her mother could discover her blue feet later. “It was Willa Jean's fault. She wrecked our checker game so we had to go down in the basement to get away from her.”

“Sounds like you,” said Beezus. “I can remember when you used to bump the coffee table with your tricycle when I was playing checkers with a friend.”

“I did not!” Ramona was indignant.

“You did, too,” said Beezus. “You just can't remember.”

“Girls!” said Mrs. Quimby. “It doesn't really matter who wrecked whose checker game or where or when.”

Rain slanted through the beams of the car lights, the windshield wipers
splip-splopped
, the family was silent. Ramona, huddled in the corner of the back seat, wondered if she really had been as awful as Willa Jean. Nobody loved Ramona—well, maybe her father a little bit sometimes. If her mother really loved her, she would say to Beezus that Ramona was never anything like Willa Jean.

Ramona not only felt unloved, she was so hungry her stomach growled. As Mr. Quimby turned their car into the driveway, she thought of the stew that had been simmering away in the Crock-Pot all day. How good it would smell when they opened the door! The Crock-Pot always gave out a warm and welcoming fragrance as if Ramona's mother had been home all day preparing supper to greet them. One whiff of stew, Ramona was sure, and everything would be all right again. Her mother would forget her troubles with the car, her father would begin to make jokes again, she and Beezus would set the table, and they would all sit down to a nice warm dinner.

A
s soon as Ramona stepped through the back door, she knew something was wrong. There was a chill about the house, and it had the faint mustiness of a place that had been closed and unoccupied all day. There was no welcoming fragrance of simmering meat and vegetables. The tiny light on the Crock-Pot was dark, the pot cold.

“Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Quimby, noticing.

“What's wrong?” asked Mr. Quimby, coming in from the hall where he had gone to turn up the thermostat of the furnace.

“Wrong!” Mrs. Quimby lifted the lid of the electric casserole on the kitchen counter. “Someone forgot to plug in the Crock-Pot this morning, that's what's wrong.”

The family gathered to peer in at the cold vegetables and raw meat.

“I'm starving!” wailed Beezus.

“Me, too,” said Ramona.

“I thought you turned it on,” said Mrs. Quimby to her husband as she shoved the plug into the socket. The stew could cook overnight and be warmed up for the next evening.

“Don't look at me,” said Mr. Quimby to his wife. “I thought you turned it on.” There was an edge to his voice.

For some reason his remark annoyed Mrs. Quimby. “I suppose you think turning on a Crock-Pot is woman's work.” The edge in her voice matched the edge in his.