The Same Stuff as Stars

“That’s their name,” said Miss Liza. “Mr. Stanley Q. Stupid, his wife, Mrs. Stupid, Buster Stupid, Petunia Stupid, and their wonderful dog called—Can you guess what they call their dog, Bernie?”

“Stupid!”

“No, they call their dog Kitty.”

“Kitty Stupid!” said Bernie, and he laughed right out loud.

Angel snatched the newest-looking of the cookbooks off the shelf and hurried over to hear the story of the Stupids, who tried to slide up the banisters and take baths with no water, for fear they’d wet their clothes. Mrs. Stupid perched a cat on her head instead of a hat, and Mr. Stupid wore his new socks on his ears. When Bernie saw that picture, he shrieked with laughter. And by the time the Stupids ate their mashed-potato sundaes with butterscotch syrup he was almost rolling on the floor.

“It’s my guess,” said Miss Liza, “that you like the Stupids. You might want to know that we have more books by Harry Allard and James Marshall.” She got up from the child-sized chair she had been sitting on and found Bernie another book. She twisted her face up toward Angel. “And what kind of book would you like, Angel? In addition to your cookbook?”

“Do you—um—do you have one about stars?” Angel asked.

Miss Liza smiled, looking nothing at all like a witch. “Ah,” she said, almost to herself. “I think we must have a mutual friend.”

That meant the librarian knew the star man. It only seemed right that she should, both of them being so different from ordinary people. Angel longed to ask the librarian about him, but something kept her quiet. What sort of questions were you supposed to ask about a man you only saw on starry nights and who told you so little about himself?

Miss Liza took a small paperback book from a nearby shelf. Angel caught a glimpse of the title: Know the Stars. Good. That was what she wanted—to know the stars. The librarian sat down at the desk and printed their names and “Morgan Farm Road” on cards. “You may keep your books for two weeks,” she said.

“We can’t come back for two whole weeks?” Bernie cried.

“No, no, you can come anytime you want,” she said, handing him his books, which he clutched to his chest as though afraid she would change her mind about lending them out. “Don’t pay any attention to the sign. I’m nearly always here. Just knock hard if the door is locked. It hardly ever is.”

Bernie was so tickled when they left the library that Angel had forgotten about the treat. Bernie hadn’t. “I need a Popsicle,” he said when they were in front of the store.

“Me, too,” said Angel.

Walking home, carrying their library books under one arm, licking a Fudgsicle, she didn’t even mention to Bernie that his Popsicle was dripping down his shirt front.

“Mashed-potato sundaes!” Bernie exclaimed suddenly

.

“With butterscotch syrup!” Angel answered. They both nearly collapsed on the road, they were giggling so hard.

“Grandma! Grandma!” Bernie yelled, racing into the house ahead of Angel. “I got a book all about Stupids. Everybody in the book is stupid.”

“Yeah?” Grandma was in her rocker. “That’s all we need around here—more stupidity. Well,” she said to Angel, “I take it she ain’t dead yet.”

“Who?”

“Liza Irwin. Who do you think?”

“She’s a hundred years old!” Bernie said. “And she’s all crooked like her back broke over.”

“Hmmph,” said Grandma, a little smile playing around her lips. “Even uglier than me, huh?”

“But I wasn’t scared of her one bit,” Bernie went on. “She’s nice.”

The smile deserted Grandma’s face. “So I guess now you like her better than you do me, huh? Well, why don’t you just go live at her house, then. Go on. See if I care.” Bernie looked stricken. “I didn’t mean I wanted to live with her. I just mean I like the Stupids.”

“Then you better stay with me. Being stupid was the only thing I could ever beat that smart little Liza Irwin at.”

Angel wanted to say something, but what? Don’t be so down on yourself, Grandma. You’re really smart! Or C’mon, Grandma, Bernie and me think you’re just fine. While she stood there, not knowing what to say or do, Bernie went over to the rocker and put his arm around the thin shoulders. “Don’t worry, Grandma. Angel and me likes you the best, and we always will. Always. Always. Always.” He had his anxious little face right up in her old wrinkled one. “Okay?”

“Hmmph,” she said.

A shrill sound pierced the quiet, making Angel jump. Another shriek. Another. The phone. The phone was ringing. She ran to snatch it off the hook. “Hello?”