"Rampant? Paul had the most manicured garden I've ever seen!"
"You know what I mean."
Silent for a second, she spoke again about Nicole and the two-year-old girl who would go into an orphanage if her mother died. Dad said someone was sure to adopt her quickly if she did. He stood up to pull on his sports jacket. "Stop looking on the darkest side. Nicole may recover. She's young, strong, basically healthy. But if you're so worried, I'll stop by and have a talk with her doctors."
"Daddy," piped up Bart, who'd scowled darkly all morning. "Nobody here can make me go East this summer! I won't go and can't nobody make me!"
"True," said Dad, chucking Bart under the chin and playfully rumpling his already unruly dark hair. "Nobody can make you go--I'm just hoping you'd rather go than stay home alone." He leaned to kiss Mom goodbye.
"Drive carefully." Mom had to say this every day just as he was leaving. He smiled and said he would, and their eyes met and said things I
understood, in a way.
"There was an ole lady who lived in a shoe," chanted Bart. "She had so many children she didn't know what to do."
"Bart, do you have to sit there and make a mess? If you aren't going to finish your meal, excuse yourself and leave the table."
"Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her; put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well." He grinned at her, got up and left the table--that was his way of excusing himself.
Great golly, almost ten and he was still chanting nursery rhymes. He picked up his favorite old sweater, tossed it over his shoulder, and, in so doing, he knocked over a carton of milk. The milk puddled to the floor, where Clover was soon lapping it up like a cat. Mom was so enthralled with a snapshot of Nicole's little girl that she didn't notice the milk.
It was Emma who wiped up the milk and glared at Bart, who stuck out his tongue and sauntered away. "Excuse me, Mom," I said, jumping up to follow Bart outside.
Again on the top of the wall, we sat and stared over, both of us wishing the lady would hurry and move in. Who knows, maybe she'd have
grandchildren.
"Missin that ole house already," complained Bart. "Hate people who move in our place."
We both fiddled away the day, planting more seeds, pulling up more weeds, and soon I was wondering how we were going to pass a whole summer without going next door even once.
At dinner Bart was grouchy because he too missed the house. He glared down at his full plate. "Eat heartily, Bart," said Dad, "or else you may not have enough strength to enjoy yourself in
Disneyland."
Bart's mouth fell open. "Disneyland?" His dark eyes widened in delight. "We're goin there really? Not goin East to visit ole graves?"
"Disneyland is part of your birthday gift," explained Dad. "You'll have your party there, and then we'll fly to South Carolina. Now don't complain Other people's needs have to be considered as well as yours. Jory's grandmother likes to see him at least once a year, and since we skipped last summer, she's doubly anticipating our visit. Then there's my mother, who needs a family too."
I found myself staring at Mom. She seemed to be smoldering. Every year she was like this when the time came to visit "his" mother. I thought it a pity she didn't understand why mothers were so very important. She's been an orphan so long maybe she'd forgotten--or maybe she was jealous.
"Boy, I'd rather have Disneyland than heaven!" said Bart. "Can never, never get enough of
Disneyland." "I know," said Dad in a dry way.
But no sooner did it sink in that Bart was getting his "heart's delight" than he was complaining again about not wanting to go East. "Momma, Daddy, I am not goin! Two weeks is too long for visitin ole graves and ole grandmothers!"
"Bart," said Mom sharply, "you show such disrespect for the dead. Your own father is one of those dead people whose grave you don't want to visit. Your aunt Carrie is there too. And you are going to visit their graves, and Madame Marisha too, whether you want to or not. And if you open your mouth again, there will be no trip to Disneyland!"
"Momma," now a subdued Bart wanted to make up. "Why did your daddy who's dead in Gladstone, Pa. . . ."
"Say Pennsylvania, not Pa."
"How come the picture of him looks so much like the daddy we have now?"
Pain flashed in her eyes. I spoke
up, hating the way Bart had of grilling everyone. "Gee,