Беверли Клири - Dear Mr. Henshaw / Дорогой мистер Хеншоу. 7-8 классы Страница 4

That day we stopped at a weighing scale and then had lunch at the truck stop. Everybody knew Dad. The waitresses all said, “Well, look who is here! Our old friend, Wild Bill,” and things like that. Wild Bill is the name Dad uses on his CB radio.

When Dad said, “Meet my kid,” I stood up as tall as I could so they would think I was going to grow up as big as Dad. The waitresses all laughed a lot around Dad. For lunch we had chicken, potatoes, peas, and apple pie with ice cream. Our waitress gave me extra ice cream to help me grow big like Dad. Most truckers ate really fast and left, but Dad stayed around and played the video games. Dad always wins.

Mom’s friends are leaving, so I guess I can go to bed now.

Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,

I hate my father.

Mom is usually home on Sunday, but this week there was a big event, and she worked a lot. Mom never worries about paying the rent when there is a big order.

I was all alone in the house, it was raining and I didn’t have anything to read. I had to clean the bathroom, but I didn’t because I was mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. I feel that way sometimes which makes me feel awful because I know how hard she has to work and try to go to school, too.

I was looking at the telephone until I couldn’t wait any longer. I picked up the receiver and called Dad’s number in Bakersfield. All I wanted was to hear the phone ringing in Dad’s trailer which wouldn’t cost Mom anything because nobody would answer.

But Dad answered. I almost hung up. He wasn’t away in some other state. He was in his trailer, and he hadn’t phoned me. I thought I had to talk to him. “You promised to phone me this week and you didn’t,” I said.

“Easy, kid,” he said. “I just didn’t have the time to do it. I was going to call this evening. It’s not the end of the week yet.”

I thought about this.

“Some trouble?” he asked.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “My lunch. Somebody steals the good stuff out of my lunch.”

“Find him and punch him in the nose,” said Dad. I could tell he didn’t think that my lunch was important.

“I hoped you would call,” I said. “I waited and waited.” Then I was sorry I said it. I still have some pride left.

“There was heavy snow in the mountains,” he said. “I had to put chains on wheels and lost some time.”

I know about putting chains on trucks. When the snow is heavy, truckers have to put chains on the drive wheels – all eight of them. Putting chains on eight big wheels in the snow is no fun. I felt a little better. “How’s Bandit?” I asked.

There was a strange pause. For a minute I thought that we were disconnected. Then I knew something must have happened to my dog. “How’s Bandit?” I asked again louder, remembering that Dad might have lost some of the hearing in his left ear from all that wind.

“Well, kid – ” he began.

“My name is Leigh!” I almost shouted. “I’m not just some kid you met on the street.”

“Easy, Leigh,” he said. “When I had to stop to put on chains, I let Bandit out of the cab. I thought that he would get right back in because it was snowing hard, but after I chained up, he wasn’t in the cab.”

“Did you leave the door open for him?” I asked.

Big pause. “I think I did,” he said which meant that he didn’t. Then he said, “I whistled and whistled, but Bandit didn’t come. I couldn’t wait any longer because I had a deadline for delivering a load. I had to leave. I’m sorry, kid – Leigh – but that’s the way it is.”

“You left Bandit to freeze to death!” I was crying from anger. How could he?

“Bandit knows how to take care of himself,” said Dad. “I think he will jump into another truck.”

I wiped my nose. “Why would the driver let him in?” I asked.

“Because he’ll think that Bandit is lost,” said Dad, “He won’t leave a dog to freeze.”

“What about your CB radio?” I asked. “Didn’t you send a call?”

“Surely I did, but I didn’t get an answer. Mountains kill the signal,” Dad told me.

I was going to say that I understood, but here comes the bad part, the really bad part. I heard a boy’s voice. He said, “Hey, Bill, Mom wants to know when we’re going out to get the pizza?” I felt sick. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear any more, when Mom had to pay for the long distance phone call. I didn’t want to hear any more at all.

To be continued.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I don’t have to pretend to write to Mr. Henshaw anymore. I have learned to say what I think on a piece of paper. And I don’t hate my father either. I can’t hate him. Maybe things would be easier if I could.

Yesterday after I hung up on Dad I fell down on my bed and cried and swore and punched my pillow. I felt so terrible about Bandit riding around with a strange trucker and Dad taking another boy out for pizza when I was all alone in the house with the dirty bathroom when it was raining outside and I was hungry. The worst part of all was that I knew if Dad took someone to a pizza place for dinner, he wouldn’t have phoned me at all, no matter what he said. He would have too much fun playing video games.

Then I heard Mom’s car stop out in front. I washed my face and tried to look as if I hadn’t been crying, but I couldn’t fool Mom. She came to the door of my room and said, “Hi, Leigh.” I tried to look away, but she came closer and said, “What’s the matter, Leigh?”

“Nothing,” I said, but she didn’t believe me. She sat down and put her arm around me.

I tried hard not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. “Dad lost Bandit,” I finally said.

“Oh, Leigh,” she said, and I told her the whole story, with pizza and all.

We just sat there for a while, and then I said, “Why did you have to marry him?”

“Because I was in love with him,” she said.

“Why did you stop?” I asked.

“We just got married too young,” she said. “Growing up in that little town wasn’t exciting. There wasn’t much to do. I remember how at night I looked at the lights of Bakersfield in the distance and wished I could live in a place like that, it looked so big and exciting. It seems funny now, but then it seemed like New York or Paris.”

“After high school the boys mostly went to work in the fields or joined the army, and the girls got married. Some people went to college, but my parents weren’t interested in helping me. After graduation your Dad came in a big truck and – well, that was that. He was big and handsome and nothing seemed to bother him, and the way he drove his truck – well, he seemed like a knight to me. Things weren’t too happy at home with your grandfather drinking and all, so your Dad and I went to Las Vegas and got married. I loved riding with him until you were born, and – well, by that time I had had enough of highways and truck stops. I stayed home with you, and he was gone all the time.”

I felt a little better when Mom said that she was tired of life on the road. Maybe I wasn’t to blame after all. I remembered, too, how Mom and I were alone a lot and how I hated living in that mobile home. The only places we ever went to were the laundromat and the library. Mom read a lot and she read aloud to me, too.

Now Mom went on. “I didn’t think that such life was fun anymore. Maybe I grew up and your father didn’t.”

Suddenly Mom began to cry. I felt terrible making Mom cry, so I began to cry again, too, and we both cried until she said, “It’s not your fault, Leigh. You mustn’t ever think that. Your Dad is a good man. We just married too young. He loves the life on the road, and I don’t.”

“But he lost Bandit,” I said. “He didn’t leave the cab door open for him when it was snowing.”

“Maybe Bandit is just a bum,” said Mom. “Some dogs are, you know. Do you remember how he jumped into your father’s cab? Maybe he was ready to try another truck.”

She could be right, but I didn’t like to think so. I was almost afraid to ask the next question, but I did. “Mom, do you still love Dad?”

“Please don’t ask me,” she said. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there until she wiped her eyes and said, “Come on, Leigh, let’s go out.”

So we got in the car and drove to a diner and got a bucket of fried chicken. Then we drove down by the ocean and ate the chicken sitting in the car. It was raining outside, and there were waves breaking on the rocks. We opened the windows a little so we could hear the waves roll and break, one after another.

“You know,” said Mom, “when I watch the waves, I always feel that no matter how bad things are, life still goes on.” That was how I felt, too, only I didn’t know how to say it, so I just said, “Yeah.” Then we drove home.

I feel a lot better about Mom. I’m not so sure about Dad, although she says he is a good man. I don’t like to think that Bandit is a bum, but maybe Mom is right.

Today I felt so tired that I didn’t have to try to walk slowly on the way to school. I just did. Mr. Fridley had already raised the flags when I got there. The California bear was right side up so maybe Mr. Fridley didn’t need me to help him at all. I just put my lunch down on the floor and didn’t care if anybody stole any of it. But by lunchtime I was hungry, and when I found that my little cheesecake was missing, I was mad again.

I’m going to get the thief who steals from my lunch. Then he’ll be sorry. I’ll really fix him. Or maybe it’s her. Anyway, I’ll get them.

I tried to start a story for Young Writers. I wrote the title which was Ways to Catch a Lunchbag Thief. A mousetrap in the bag was all I could think of, and anyway my title sounded just like Mr. Henshaw’s book.

Today during a lesson I got so mad thinking about the lunchbag thief. I asked to go to the bathroom, and as I went out into the hall, I almost kicked the lunchbag that was closest to the door, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and there was Mr. Fridley.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, and this time he wasn’t funny.

“Go and tell the principal,” I said. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe you don’t,” he said, “but I do.”

That surprised me.

Then Mr. Fridley said, “I don’t want to see a boy like you get into trouble.”

“I don’t have any friends in this stupid school.” I don’t know why I said that. I guess I felt I had to say something.

“Who wants to be friends with someone who frowns all the time?” asked Mr. Fridley. “So you’ve got problems. Well, everyone else has them, too. You just don’t notice.”

I thought of Dad in the mountains chaining up eight heavy wheels in the snow, and I thought of Mom working hard and wondering if ‘Catering by Katy’ will pay her enough to cover the rent.

“Becoming a mean lunchbag-kicker won’t help anything,” said Mr. Fridley. “You need to think positively.”

“How?” I asked.

“That’s for you to find out,” he said and pushed me toward my classroom.

Today after school I felt so bad that I decided to go for a walk. I wasn’t going to any special place, just walking. I walked down the street past the stores and shops, a bakery and the post office, when I came to a sign that said BUTTERFLY TREES. I heard a lot about these trees where monarch butterflies fly a long way to spend the winter. I followed the signs until I came to a grove of trees with signs saying QUIET. There was a big sign that said WARNING. $500 FINE FOR MOLESTING BUTTERFLIES IN ANY WAY. I smiled. Who would want to molest a butterfly?

The place was shady and quiet, almost like church. At first I saw only three or four monarchs flying around. Then the sun came out from behind a cloud. The butterflies on the trees slowly opened their orange and black wings, thousands of them sitting on one tree. Then they began to fly off through the trees in the sunshine. Those clouds of butterflies were so beautiful that I felt good again and just stood there watching.

I felt so good that I ran all the way home, and while I was running I had an idea for my story.

I also noticed that some of the shops and the gas station had metal boxes that said “Alarm System.” I wonder what is in those boxes.

Today on the way home from school I asked a man who works in the gas station, “Hey, mister, what’s in that box that says ‘Alarm System’ on the side of the station?”

“Batteries,” he told me. “Batteries and a bell.”

Batteries are something to think about.

I started another story which I hope will be printed in the Young Writers’ Yearbook. I think I will call it The Giant Wax Man. All the boys in my class are writing strange stories about monsters and creatures from space. Girls are writing poems or stories about horses.

In the middle of working on my story I had a bright idea. If I take my lunch in a black lunchbox and get some batteries, maybe I will really make a burglar alarm.

Today I got a letter from Dad. I thought it was a letter, but when I opened it, I found a twenty-dollar bill and a paper napkin. On the napkin he wrote, “Sorry about Bandit. Here’s $20. Go buy yourself an ice cream. Dad.”

I was so mad I couldn’t say anything. Mom read the napkin and said, “Your father doesn’t really mean you should buy an ice cream.”

“Then why did he write it?” I asked.

“He is just trying to say that he is really sorry about Bandit. He’s not very good at expressing feelings.” Mom looked sad and said, “Some men aren’t, you know.”

“What should I do with the twenty dollars?” I asked.

“Keep it,” said Mom. “It’s yours, and it will be useful in some way.”

When I asked if I had to write and thank Dad, Mom looked at me and said, “That’s for you to decide.”

Tonight I worked hard on my story for Young Writers about the giant wax man and decided to save the twenty dollars to buy a typewriter. When I am a real author I will need a typewriter.

Dear Mr. Henshaw,

I haven’t written to you for a long time, because I know you are busy, but I need help with the story that I am trying to write for the Young Writers’ Yearbook. I started, but I don’t know how to finish it.

My story is about a giant man who drives a big truck, like the one my Dad drives. The man is made of wax, and every time he crosses the desert, he melts a little. He makes so many trips and melts so much he finally can’t drive the truck anymore. That is all that I have now. What should I do next?

The boys in my class who are writing about monsters kill all the bad guys on the last page. This ending doesn’t seem right to me. I don’t know why.