Walking home, she scowled, realizing that now she would have to read Johnny Tremain again. She had wanted to practice rope-climbing tonight, if her father would help her get that rope up in the garage.
That was the other thing about the day: gym again. Rope-climbing again. Failure and humiliation again. Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby, looking pitying and sympathetic again.
The worst thing in the world, Anastasia decided, was being humiliated while wearing a gym suit. Being humiliated, that was bad. Wearing a gym suit in front of other people, that was terrible. But being humiliated while wearing a royal blue gym suit with gross elasticized legs at the same time—and especially in front of Ms. Wilhelmina Willoughby, the one person Anastasia admired most in the world—well, that was the worst feeling in the world, no question.
***
Anastasia plodded up the back porch steps, wishing her mother were home from Los Angeles. Anastasia liked Gertrude Stein a lot. But she couldn't really confide in Gertrude about life's problems the way she could with her mom.
And Sam didn't understand about those kinds of things. Sam often told Anastasia his problems, but they were things like: "I didn't get to play with the fire truck at nursery school today because Timmy and Jason were hogging it."
Big deal.
Gertrude was busy at the stove when Anastasia entered the house, and the kitchen was filled with a wonderful smell.
"I've started an apple pie for dinner, to welcome your parents back," she announced. "You can help me with the pot roast and the salad."
"I rolled the pie dough," said Sam proudly, looking up from the floor where he had arranged a long line of Matchbox cars. "And I sprinkled the cinnamon. I wanted to do salt and pepper, too, but Gertrustein said No Way."
Anastasia stepped over his line of cars and went to the refrigerator for a snack. "What time do Mom and Dad get home?" she asked.
"Their plane gets in at five, so they should be here by six. They called late this morning, before they left California. And guess what—"
Sam interrupted. "This long line of cars is a funeral," he announced. "They're all driving to the sedentary. Rrrrrrr." He crawled across the floor, moving the cars slowly one by one.
"They're what?" Anastasia asked. "How do you know about funerals?"
Sam looked up matter-of-factly. "Mom told me. They went to California to a funeral, and they were all going to be in cars and drive in a parade, going to the sedentary."
"Cemetery," Anastasia said.
"Right. That's what I said," Sam replied. "And when they get to the sedentary, the parade stops, like this." He stopped his line of cars in front of the washing machine. "Here. Here's the sedentary. And then they take Aunt Rose—" Sam reached for a small plastic GI Joe. "Here's Aunt Rose," he explained. "And they bury her, like a tulip bulb."
He laid the GI Joe on the kitchen floor, covered it with a paper napkin, and smoothed it with his hand. "Goodbye, dead Aunt Rose," Sam said.
"Sam!" Anastasia exclaimed. "That's gross!"
Sam looked up at her, wide-eyed. "No, it isn't," he said. "Mom said it wasn't. Mom said it was just like trees and flowers and little animals and bugs."
"Well," Anastasia said. Then she couldn't think of anything to add. "Well," she said again.
Sam wrapped GI Joe in the napkin and began to gather up all of his cars. "Now," he announced, "I'm going to have another funeral. This one will be in the hall. And the sedentary will be in the study. This time I'm going to bury Aunt Rose under Daddy's desk."
Anastasia and Gertrude watched him as he trotted off with his armload of cars to the hall.
"What were you going to say, before Sam interrupted?" Anastasia asked.
Mrs. Stein looked stricken. "I was going to tell you that your parents called to say that they're bringing your Uncle George back home with them for a visit." She stared for a moment down the hall where Sam, on all fours, was arranging his next funeral. "I sure hope," she added, "that Sam gets tired of burying Aunt Rose before they arrive."
***
Anastasia heard the taxi pull up in front of the house. Sam was upstairs, in the bathtub; she could hear splashing sounds and Mrs. Stein's voice as she talked to him.
Anastasia looked through the front window and saw the driver removing suitcases from the trunk of the cab. She saw her father taking his wallet out of his pocket, and she could see her mother lean over and whisper into her father's ear.
Anastasia knew what she was whispering: "Don't forget to give him a tip, Myron."
She could also see a tall man getting out of the other side of the taxi. Uncle George, obviously.
Quickly Anastasia dashed to the study and made sure that every bit of evidence of Sam's funeral and cemetery was gone. GI Joe, alias Aunt Rose, had been returned to the toy box, and all of the Matchbox cars were back on the windowsills in Sam's bedroom, where they usually stayed.
Whew.
"Anastasia? Hi, sweetie, we're home!" It was her mother's voice. Anastasia ran to the front door and greeted both of her parents.
"Dinner smells terrific," her father said as he took off his coat. "It's good to be back. Anastasia, do you remember my brother? This is your Uncle George."
Anastasia turned to shake hands with her uncle, and she said the words that she had carefully prepared in her head.
"I'm glad you came, Uncle George," she said politely, "and I'm really sorry about Aunt Ro-"
But then she stopped. She stared at him. She could hardly believe it.
"Holy—" Anastasia murmured. Then she caught herself. "I'm really sorry about Aunt Rose," she said again, since the words had trailed off the first time.
"Thank you," Uncle George replied, and smiled at her. He turned to hang up his coat, and Anastasia watched intently. Was it really Uncle George? She hadn't seen him since she was two, and she couldn't remember that. Had her parents maybe played a trick? They had had that conversation about Rhett Butler just the other night.
Had they brought Rhett Butler home to meet her?
Well, that was a stupid thought, Anastasia realized. Rhett Butler was a fictional character.
But had they—maybe—brought Clark Gable home from California?
That was even more stupid. Clark Gable had been dead for years.
It was Uncle George. It had to be. But he looked exactly like Clark Gable.
He's tall, thought Anastasia.
He's handsome.
He has a mustache.
He's—Anastasia remembered her parents saying this—rich.
And he is—well, maybe it was gross even to think this, since it was so recent that Sal Monella had done away with Aunt Rose, but let's face it, Anastasia thought; let's be honest—Uncle George is a bachelor.
And Anastasia knew a couple of women who would be thrilled to meet him.
5
"Anastasia," Gertrude Stein whispered at the Krupniks' back door as she buttoned her sweater and prepared to walk across the yard to her own house, "I'm going to make a very noble gesture. I'm going to relinquish any claims I might have."
"Are you sure?" Anastasia asked. "Because I really wanted you to have first shot at him. And I could tell at dinner that you liked him."
Gertrude chuckled. "Where's my bag? Oh, there—on the table. Would you hand it to me, Anastasia?" She took the little overnight bag that she'd been using and turned to leave. "I do like him," she said. "He's a very charming man. And you're right—he looks exactly like Clark Gable.
"But I'm afraid he's too young for me, Anastasia," she said. "Now, let's see: toothbrush, nightgown, slippers — I think I've got everything. Goodnight, Anastasia. Tell your mother I'll talk to her tomorrow."
She gave Anastasia a kiss on the cheek and headed down the porch steps and across the lawn toward her own house next door. Anastasia watched her. Gertrude walked very carefully and slowly because of her arthritis and because her eyesight wasn't what it once had been. She was a little stooped, and her hair was gray and wispy. Still, she was one of Anastasi
a's very favorite people, and Anastasia wanted Gertrude's life to be happier and less lonely.
"Gertrude!" she called in a loud whisper across the yard.
Mrs. Stein stopped and looked back. "What?"
"Cosmopolitan magazine had an article about it and they said it was not only okay but sometimes very desirable!" Anastasia called, trying to keep her voice down so that her parents, in the living room with Uncle George, wouldn't hear.
"What was okay? I can't quite hear you!" Gertrude cupped one hand behind her ear.
Anastasia ran down the steps and across the lawn. "Older women and younger men," she explained breathlessly to Gertrude. "Cosmopolitan says that sometimes it's the best combination of all, and you shouldn't back off from it out of fear for what people might say. It's not always true that the man is just trying to find a substitute mother!"
Gertrude started to laugh. "All right," she said, "I'll remember that. And if I meet a younger man—maybe seventy-three—I certainly won't back off for fear of what people might say. But I don't think your Uncle George is the one, Anastasia. And it's a little too soon, anyway, for George. Give him a little time, Anastasia. Your Aunt Rose has only been gone four days."
"Yeah, you're right," Anastasia said.
"But thank you," Gertrude added, as she turned to go on into her own yard. "Thank you for thinking of me."
Anastasia thought it over as she went back to the kitchen door, and she knew that Gertrude was correct. It was too soon. This was Thursday night. She'd give Uncle George a few more days.
***
"There! Got it!" Myron Krupnik called. "Pull it tight now!"
Anastasia stood in the door of the garage, with her mother, watching. It was Friday afternoon. Uncle George was up at the top of an extension ladder, one arm wrapped around the ceiling beam, as he tied the thick rope. Below him, on the floor, Anastasia's father was steadying the bottom of the rope and calling directions.
"Are you sure this is going to be safe?" asked Mrs. Krupnik apprehensively. "Don't forget that Sam already fell out of a second-story window once. I don't think I can deal with another skull fracture. That rope is awfully high."
"It's not nearly as high as the one in the gym," Anastasia told her. "Anyway, I never get more than two feet off the ground. I don't think you can fracture your skull if you only fall two feet."
"It's good and tight!" Uncle George called from the top of the ladder. He yanked at the rope a few times. "Look at that! It would hold an elephant!"
Sam appeared at the garage door. "An elephant can't climb a rope," he remarked. "Maybe a snake could, or a monkey. But not an elephant."
George laughed and started down the ladder while Anastasia's father held it steady. "Where did you come from, Sam?" he asked. "You should have seen me up there, like an acrobat."
Sam sat down on the floor of the garage and pulled off one sneaker. He tilted it and dumped out some sand. "I was in my sandbox," he explained to his uncle. "I was making a sedentary in my sandbox. Here, look." He reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out GI Joe. "This is poor dea—"
Anastasia interrupted hastily. "Thanks, Uncle George. Thanks, Dad. Now I can practice. Maybe I'll get a decent grade in gym if I learn to climb a rope."
"We used to have to climb ropes in gym," Mrs. Krupnik said. "I wonder if I can still..."
She put down the flowerpot she was holding, eyed the rope, and leaped upward suddenly. It was the most amazing thing Anastasia had seen in a long time: her mother leaping into the air, grabbing the rope, and dangling there for a moment. Then she wrapped her legs around, caught the rope in her feet—exactly the way Ms. Willoughby demonstrated, exactly the way Anastasia couldn't do it—and up she went, all the way to the ceiling.
"The Ascent of Woman," Anastasia's father said. "What a great book title!"
Back down came Katherine Krupnik, and she jumped off the rope, panting. "What do you think?" she asked proudly. "Great athlete here, or what?"
Anastasia didn't say anything. But no one noticed.
"My turn!" her father said. And off he went, and up he went—in about two seconds. He was so tall that he got a head start. Back down, he dropped from the rope, laughing, and took his pipe from his pocket. "It's all this pipe-smoking that keeps me in such great shape," he said. "How about you, George? You're a former U.S. Marine!"
Uncle George took a deep breath, brushed his hands together, measured the rope with his eyes, and jumped and grabbed. In a flash he was up at the ceiling and back down.
Anastasia still hadn't said anything.
"Now me!" called Sam. He put his GI Joe on the floor and held up his hands. "Now me!"
Mrs. Krupnik picked Sam up and held him so that he could grab the rope.
Okay, thought Anastasia. This is it. First my nonathletic thirty-eight-year-old mother climbs the rope. Then my nonathletic, slightly overweight, nicotine-addicted forty-eight-year-old father climbs the rope. Then my grief-stricken fifty-something-year-old uncle climbs the rope. If my three-year-old brother climbs that rope, I will have to leave home. I'll change my name and go to work in a leper colony somewhere and never return.
But Sam just dangled for a moment and then yelled "Help!" His mother lifted him back down.
Whew.
Later, when they had all gone off to do other things, Anastasia made certain that the garage door was closed so that no one would see. And then she tried.
And tried.
And tried.
***
"Sometimes I wish Sam would just disappear," Anastasia said grouchily to her mother that night. "Sometimes I wish Sam had never been born."
They were doing the dishes together after dinner. "Well," her mother responded cheerfully, "I can understand that. He's a pain in the neck sometimes."
Rats. Anastasia attacked a freshly washed pot angrily with the dish towel. Her mother was supposed to argue with her. Then she could say what a pain in the neck Sam was. If her mother agreed right off, then there wasn't any argument, and what was the point of—
"You know what?" her mother said. "George is ten years older than your dad, the same as you're ten years older than Sam. On the plane, coming back from California, they got to talking about old times. And George said pretty much the exact same thing. He thought your dad was a pain in the neck when he was little. He wished he had never been born."
"No kidding?" Anastasia walked to the pantry to put the pot away. "I can't imagine Dad being a pain in the neck, not even when he was little."
Her mother was laughing. "George said, 'Myron, you were such a pompous little show-off.' Apparently your dad was always trying to get attention. But no wonder. You know, he was the youngest of five boys. He probably would have gotten lost in the crowd if he hadn't been a pompous little show-off!"
"Sam's sort of a show-off, too, and he doesn't even have an excuse. He's the only boy. He gets plenty of attention."
Mrs. Krupnik put the last dish away and sat down at the kitchen table. "Are you feeling as if you're not getting enough attention, Anastasia? It has been kind of hectic around here, with Rose's death..."
Anastasia pulled out a chair and sat down beside her mother. "No, it's not that. It's that dumb rope. I hate it that I can't climb that rope. When you climbed it, Mom, I was so jealous of you. And I feel that way about every single girl in my gym class, even my best friends."
Mrs. Krupnik reached over and stroked Anastasia's hair. "I think the practicing will do it. I bet you'll be out there some afternoon in the garage and all of a sudden, when you least expect it, ZOOM! There you'll be, up at the top of the rope, amazed at yourself."
Anastasia grinned. "That's what Ms. Willoughby said."
"Who's Ms. Willoughby? Your gym teacher?"
"Yeah." Anastasia felt very shy, even in front of her own mother, who had known her ever since she was born. She wanted to tell her about something, but she felt too shy.
Suddenly she decided that maybe the dishes in the pantry needed rearranging, so she
went to the pantry and began to move them around. She moved the cups from one shelf to another; then she unstacked the plates and restacked them in a different place.
"Mom," she called, from the pantry, "I know this girl at school, and guess what? This is really weird—"
"What? I can't hear you. Why are you clanking all the dishes?"
Anastasia leaned around the doorway. "I know this girl at school," she said. "She's just my age, thirteen?"
"Yes? What about her? Is it someone I know?"
Anastasia's head disappeared. "No," she called. "You don't know her. You never met her. You don't even know her name." Quickly she moved two plates off their stack and put a soup bowl in their place.
"Oh. Well, what about her? Did you want to tell me something about her?"
Anastasia poked her head out again. "It's really sick. This girl, who you don't even know her name? She, ah, she has a crush on a teacher." She ducked back into the pantry and rearranged a sugar bowl and a tea cup.
"Why is that sick? Lots of your father's students have crushes on him. I think that's fairly typical."
"It's a woman teacher!" Anastasia wailed. "Isn't that gross?"
"Oh," Mrs. Krupnik said. "I see." She got up from the table and came to the pantry. Anastasia was standing with her back turned and her head down, but she could hear her mother coining. Her mother put her arms around her.
"It isn't gross at all," she said softly. "You can tell your friend that it isn't gross at all. And I'm an authority on that."
"You are?" Anastasia lifted her head a little. "How come?"
"Well, because when I was your age—and the age of this girl you know—thirteen, I had a crush on my piano teacher. A woman. Miss Hermione Fitzpatrick."
"Hermione?"
"Sorry about the name. But I adored her despite it. She was young and she was beautiful and she was a good musician, and—well, what can I say? I loved her. I even had fantasies about living with her after I grew up."
"What happened?"
Her mother shrugged. "Nothing. I got older. I got bored with piano lessons. Hermione Fitzpatrick married an oboe player. I haven't even thought of her for years and years."