I was nodding. No school Saturday or Sunday. Why not? Carpe diem. I'd never babysat before.
“I trust you, Meggie. You have a head on your shoulders. I know you can do this.”
What had Eddie said? No more baby, Meggie.
On Saturdays Mom had to go to work, but she came over to kiss Ronnelle goodbye, and we both watched as Ronnelle drew a careful pencil line up the back of her leg. “To look like seams,” she said. “I ran my last pair of silk stockings.” She shrugged. “No more silk until after the war, but at least I can look as if I'm wearing them.”
Mom gave her a last hug and told her to be careful. I sat on the floor playing with Lulu, watching Ronnelle comb her hair into a pageboy. She looked beautiful with her eyes sparkling. I even liked her freckles.
A little later, Dad and I went to the bus stop with her. Lulu clung to my shoulder, calling “Bye-bye.” Ronnelle leaned out the bus window, wearing Pan-Cake makeup and bright red lipstick. “I love you,” she called. “We'll be back soon. Both of us.”
We walked home, Dad saying, “I miss the sound of the Sundae, Monday, and Always ice cream truck. Maybe Arnold has gone into the army at last.”
I nodded. I knew that Arnold's bag was packed. He was leaving any day now, probably to finish the war in the Pacific, but I'd never say anything about the medal. That part was a secret. No one knew about it but Grandpa and me.
I waited until Dad had gone to bed and Lulu had fallen asleep on her blanket in the living room. Then I went into the hall closet for clean sheets. I made my bed with them and dusted and mopped; then I tiptoed back into the living room to make up the foldout couch. That was where I'd be sleeping from now on.
Patches and I were going to plaster up the hole in the wall. She said she knew how to do it, and that we could talk just as easily on the way to school every morning. Patches, who had blisters on both heels, who said it wasn't so terrible not to have shoes after all. Patches, who had become a friend I'd have forever, even after the war was over. We had promised each other that when we were grown, she'd find Rockaway and I'd find the mountains of Tennessee. And in the meantime, we could always write.
I looked around. Everything was ready. There was nothing I could do about Eddie except hope.
But there was something I'd been able to do about Grandpa.
Chapter Twenty-two
On Sunday we went to Mass together, Dad and Mom, Lulu and me. Lulu stretched herself out on the pew and lay there quietly through the whole service, taking her thumb out of her mouth only once. She pointed up at a stained-glass window of a man in a garden. A bird was perched on one of his hands.
“Who?” she asked.
“St. Francis, I think,” I whispered back, looking at the stained-glass lilies around him. He could almost have been Grandpa in his garden in Rockaway. But I knew Grandpa wouldn't be in his garden today.
After church we stopped at the bakery for Danish pastries with cheese in the center like golden suns, and ate them walking home. And as we turned the corner, we saw Ronnelle and her husband, Michael, tall and very skinny, standing at our front door.
I let go of Lulu's hand so she could run to them, but she didn't. She stood there, her mouth covered with crumbs, just staring at them.
Michael came down the walk slowly with Ronnelle in back of him, and there were tears in his eyes. He knelt down in front of Lulu and said, “I've been waiting to see you forever.”
“Are you Daddy?” she asked.
Ronnelle's outstretched hands were clasped, the veil on her blue hat a little crooked, and she was crying, too.
And then Michael was hugging Lulu, not minding her sticky face, and Mom nudged Dad and me. “Let them have some time,” and we went into the house.
The morning went on and on. I wanted to say a million things to Mom, silly things like Why don't you put a pot of coffee on? or Guess it'll seem strange that I'll be sleeping on the couch.
I closed my teeth tight so I didn't say any of it, but I spent the morning, heart thudding, going from the window to the door, and at last it was noon, and I couldn't bear it anymore. “How about…,” I said to Mom as she sliced tomatoes for sandwiches. She looked at me over her shoulder. “… putting on a little lipstick,” I finished.
Noon, he had written. By noon at the latest, and he was never late. But the church bells had rung, it was after noon, and I thought about his old car. “You don't have to worry about me,” he had said when we said goodbye. But I was going to tell him I did have to worry about him, I was glad to worry about him.
Next door I could hear Michael laughing. “Nice,” I told Mom, “for Lulu to have her father.” I smiled to myself, watching her.
She layered the tomato on the bread and cut a cucumber to put on top. She began to say something, but she never finished. The knife clattered into the sink as she looked out the window.
A car was pulling up in front, sounding loud, sounding terrible. But it had made it, just like our old Ford.
Mom ran her hands down her apron, and then we were out the door together, yelling back to Dad, “Wake up! Hurry!”
Grandpa tipped that terrible hat to us, then put his arms out, and we flew into them. “Margaret,” he said, looking down at me.
“Yes,” I told him as soon as I could talk. “Welcome home.”
Dear Eddie,
I'm putting this letter away for you. We'll
open both envelopes when you come home.
There are so many things I want to tell you,
and I don't want to forget any of them.
First, outside the door we have a salad garden
growing.
I planted it late, but a few of the seeds finally came up. The lettuce never turned into heads, but I'm going to cut the leaves tonight and they'll taste fine. We even have one cucumber started; it's no bigger than my thumb, but still, it will make a fine pickle.
That's what Grandpa said.
Grandpa is here now. I wrote to him and sent my five dollars from winning the contest so he could take the bus.
But that's not what he did. He said he had enough gas for his car to get here, and that we'd save the five dollars for when we see the sights in New York.
That first night Grandpa and I sat on the steps. I told him that my friend Arnold's garden needed taking care of, and he said, “That's a job for us.” He said we have to do things for each other. He thinks that's the only way the wars might stop.
Dear Eddie. We sit at the table having dinner
every night, looking at your picture.
I know you're coming, too. I'm waiting for
you. We all are. I have hope.
Love,
Margaret
About the Author
Patricia Reilly Giff is the author of many beloved books for children, including the Kids of the Polk Street School books, the Friends and Amigos books, and the Polka Dot Private Eye books. Several of her novels for older readers have been chosen as ALA Notable books and ALA Best Books for Young Adults. They include The Gift of the Pirate Queen; All the Way Home; Nory Ryan's Song, a Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators Golden Kite Honor Book for Fiction; and the Newbery Honor Books Lily's Crossing and Pictures of Hollis Woods. Lily's Crossing was also chosen as a Boston Globe–Horn Book Honor Book.
Patricia Reilly Giff lives in Connecticut.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-54937-2
February 2007
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Patricia Reilly Giff, Willow Run
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