Беверли Клири - Dear Mr. Henshaw / Дорогой мистер Хеншоу. 7-8 классы Страница 3

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Last night I was feeling low and was still awake after the gas station stopped pinging. Then I heard heavy feet coming up the steps, and for a minute I thought it was Dad until I remembered he always ran up the steps.

Mom is careful about opening the door at night. I heard how she turned on the outside light and knew she was looking out from behind the curtain. She opened the door, and a man said, “Is this where Leigh Botts lives?”

I was out of bed and in the front room in a second. “I’m Leigh Botts,” I said.

“Your Dad asked me to take this to you.” A man who looked like a trucker gave me a big package.

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” I probably looked puzzled because he said, “He asked over his CB radio for someone coming to this town who would like to play Santa. So here I am. Merry Christmas and a ho-ho-ho!” He waved a hand and walked away before I could say anything more.

“Wow!” I said to Mom. “Wow!” She just stood there in smiling while I began to take off the paper even if it wasn’t Christmas morning. Dad had sent what I always wanted – a down jacket with a lot of pockets, zips and a hood. I tried it on. It was the right size and felt great. Getting a present from my Dad in time for Christmas felt even better.

Today Katy invited us for Christmas dinner although this is a busy season for catering. She also invited some other women who work with her, and their kids, and a few old people from her neighborhood.

On the way home Mom said, “Katy has a heart as big as a football stadium. It was a lovely dinner for lonely hearts.”

I wondered if she was thinking about last Christmas when we tried to make songs about lonely lost shoes.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I got behind in my diary during Christmas vacation because I had a lot of things to do like going to the dentist, getting some new shoes, and a lot of things that I don’t have the time to do during school.

Today I wrote a fake name, or pseudonym, as they sometimes say, on my lunchbag. I printed Joe Kelly on it because that was the name of the boy in Ways to Amuse a Dog so I knew it was made-up. I guess I fooled the thief because nobody stole the chicken in bacon that Katy roasted just for me. It is good even when it is cold. I hope the thief watched me eat it.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad phoned me from a town in Oregon! I just looked in my book of road maps and saw where it is. He said he was waiting for a load of potatoes. I could hear music and some men talking. I asked about Bandit, and he said Bandit was fine, a great listener on a long haul even though he doesn’t have much to say. I asked Dad if I could ride with him sometime next summer when school is out, and he said he’d see. (I hate answers like that.) Anyway, he said he was sending the payment and he was sorry he forgot and he hoped I liked the jacket.

I surely wish that Dad lived with us again, but he said he would phone in about a week and to keep my nose clean. He had to go to make sure the potatoes were loaded.

This has been a good day. My lunch was safe again.

Mr. Fridley is so funny. Lots of kids are having their teeth straightened so when they eat lunch, they take out their retainers and wrap them in paper napkins while they eat because nobody wants to look at a retainer. Sometimes they forget and throw the napkin with the retainer into the garbage. Then they have to look through the garbage cans until they find their retainers because retainers cost a lot of money, and parents get mad if they get lost. Mr. Fridley always stands by the garbage cans to make sure kids put their forks and spoons on a tray and not in the garbage. When someone who has a retainer passes by, Mr. Fridley says, “Look out. Don’t lose your false teeth.” This helps them not to lose retainers.

Mom says that I am like Dad in one thing. My teeth are nice and straight which saves a lot of money.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

My little cheesecake was missing at lunchtime which made me mad. I guess somebody noticed that Joe Kelly’s lunch was really mine. When I went to throw my lunchbag in the garbage, Mr. Fridley said, “Cheer up, Leigh.”

I said, “How would you feel if somebody was always stealing the good stuff from your lunch?”

He said, “What you need is a burglar alarm.”

A burglar alarm on a lunchbag! I laughed at that, but I still wanted my cheesecake.

Dad will phone any day now. When I said that at supper, Mom said I shouldn’t hope for it, but I know Dad will remember this time. Mom never really says much about Dad, and when I ask why she divorced him, all she says is, “It takes two people to get a divorce.” I guess she means the same way that it takes two people to have a fight.

Tomorrow I am going to wrap my lunchbag in a lot of Scotch tape so nobody can sneak anything out of it.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

It’s funny how somebody says something, and you can’t forget it. I am thinking about Mr. Fridley saying that I needed a burglar alarm on my lunchbag. How could anybody put a burglar alarm on a paper bag? Today I used so much Scotch tape on my lunchbag that I couldn’t get my lunch out. Everybody laughed.

Dad should phone today or tomorrow. Maybe if he came home he would know how I could make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag. He was good about helping me make things in the past.

I reread your letter answering my questions and thought about your tips on how to write a book. One of the tips was listen. I guess you meant to listen and write down the way people talk, like in a play. This is what Mom and I said at supper:

ME: Mom, why don’t you get married again?

MOM: Oh, I don’t know. I guess it’s not easy to find a man when you are out of school.

ME: But you go out sometimes. You went to dinner with Charlie a couple of times. What happened to him?

MOM: A couple of times was enough. That’s the end of Charlie.

ME: Why?

MOM: (Thinks for a while.) Charlie is divorced and has three children. What he really wants is someone to help him.

ME: Oh. (Three sudden brothers or sisters was something to think about.) But I see men all around. There are lots of men.

MOM: But not the right type. (Laughs.) I guess I’m really afraid I might find another man who’s in love with a truck.

ME: (I think about this and don’t answer. Is Dad in love with a truck? What does she mean?)

MOM: Why are you asking all these questions all of a sudden?

ME: I was thinking that if I had a father at home, maybe he could show me how to make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag.

MOM: (Laughing.) There must be an easier way than my getting married again.

End of conversation.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

This is a real letter I am going to mail. Maybe I should explain that I have written you many letters that are really my diary which I keep because you said so and because Mom still won’t have the TV fixed. She wants my brain to be in good shape. She says that I will need my brain all my life.

Guess what? Today the school librarian stopped me in the hall and said she had something for me. She told me to come to the library. There she gave me your new book and said that I could be the first to read it. Probably I looked surprised. She said she knew how much I love your books since I borrow them so often. Now I know that Mr. Fridley isn’t the only one who notices me.

I am on page 14 of Beggar Bears. It is a good book. I just wanted you to know that I am the first person around here to read it.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I finished Beggar Bears in two nights. It is a really good book. At first I was surprised because it wasn’t funny like your other books, but then I started thinking (you said that authors should think) and decided a book doesn’t have to be funny to be good, but it often helps. This book did not need to be funny.

In the first chapter I thought it was going to be funny because of your other books and because the mother bear was teaching her twin cubs to beg from tourists in the national park. Then when the mother died because a stupid tourist fed her a muffin in a plastic bag and she ate the bag, too, I knew this was going to be a sad book. Winter was coming, tourists were leaving the park and the little bears didn’t know how to find food for themselves. When they went to sleep and then woke up in the middle of winter because they had eaten all the wrong things and didn’t have enough fat, I almost cried. I surely was happy when the nice ranger and his boy found the young bears and fed them and the next summer taught them to hunt for the right things to eat.

I wonder what happens to the fathers of bears. Do they just go away?

Sometimes I lie awake listening to the gas station pinging, and I worry because something can happen to Mom. She is so little compared to most moms, and she works so hard. I don’t think Dad is very much interested in me. He didn’t phone when he promised.

I hope your book wins a million awards.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

Thank you for sending me the postcard with the picture of the lake and mountains and all that snow. Yes, I will continue to write in my diary even if I have to pretend I am writing to you. You know something? I think I feel better when I write in my diary.

My teacher says my writing skills are better now. Maybe I really will be a famous author someday. She said that our school together with some other schools is going to print a book of works of young authors, and I should write a story for it. The writers of the best work will win a prize – a lunch with a Famous Author and with winners from other schools. I hope the Famous Author is you.

I don’t often get mail, but today I got two postcards, one from you and one from Dad in Kansas. His card showed a picture of a truck. He said he would phone me sometime next week. I wish someday he would have to drive a load of something to Wyoming and would take me along so I could meet you.

That’s all for now. I am going to try to think up a story. Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you to read. I know you are busy and I don’t want to be a nuisance.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Every time I try to think up a story, it is like something someone else has written, usually you. I want to do what you said in your tips and write like me, not like somebody else. I’ll keep trying because I want to be a Young Author with my story printed. Maybe I can’t think of a story because I am waiting for Dad to call. I get so lonely when I am alone at night when Mom is at her nursing class.

Yesterday somebody stole a piece of cake from my lunchbag. Mr. Fridley noticed that I was sad again and asked, “The lunchbag thief again?”

I said, “Yeah, and my Dad didn’t phone me.”

He said, “Don’t think you are the only boy around here with a father who forgets.”

I wonder if this is true. Mr. Fridley notices everything around school, so he probably knows.

I wish I had a grandfather like Mr. Fridley. He is so nice, big and comfortable.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad still hasn’t phoned, and he promised he would. Mom keeps telling me I shouldn’t be so hopeful, because Dad sometimes forgets. I don’t think he should forget what he wrote on a postcard. I feel terrible.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I looked in my book of highway maps and understood that Dad should be back here by now, but he still hasn’t phoned. Mom says that I shouldn’t be too hard on him, because a trucker’s life isn’t easy. Truckers sometimes lose some of their hearing in their left ear from the wind blowing past the driver’s window. Truckers also get out of shape from sitting such long hours without exercise and from eating too much fatty food. Sometimes truckers hurry so much that they even get stomach aches. Time is money for a trucker. I think she is just trying to make me feel good, but I don’t. I feel terrible.

I said, “If a trucker’s life is so hard, then why is Dad in love with his truck?”

Mom said, “It’s not really his truck he is in love with. He loves the feel of power when he is sitting high in his cab controlling a huge machine. He loves the joy of never knowing where his next trip will take him. He loves the mountains and the desert sunrises and the sight of orange trees with oranges and the smell of new asphalt. I know, because I rode with him before you were born.”

I still feel terrible. If Dad loves all those things so much, why can’t he love me? And maybe if I hadn’t been born, Mom would still be riding with Dad. Maybe I’m to blame for everything.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

Dad still hasn’t phoned. A promise is a promise, especially when it is in writing. When the phone rings, it is always a call from one of the women who Mom works with. I am so mad! I am mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. As she says, it takes two people to get a divorce, so I am mad at two people. I wish Bandit was here to keep me company. Bandit and I didn’t get a divorce. They did.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I am writing this sitting in my room because Mom invited some of her women friends. They sit around drinking coffee or tea and talking about their problems which are mostly men, money and kids. Some of them make quilts while they talk. They hope to sell them for extra money. It is better to stay in here than go out and say, “Hello, sure, I like school fine, yes, I guess I have grown,” and all that.

Mom is right about Dad and his truck. I remember how fun it was to ride with him and listen to calls on his CB radio. Dad showed me hawks sitting on telephone wires waiting for little animals to be run over. Dad was hauling a load of tomatoes that day, and he said that some tomatoes are grown especially strong for hauling. They may not taste good, but they don’t squash.