Read Online A Long Way From Chicago by Richard Peck - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Peck
Ads: Link
quaked. Even Mary Alice looked concerned.
“I’m a goner,” said Grandma.
A puttering sound deafened us. It was Barnie Buchanan, the air ace, right over our heads. He was doing his aerial stunts: barrel rolls and vertical figure eights, or whatever he did. Everybody looked up, though we could only see tent.
It was just a moment, but somehow I was sure. In that split second when we’d all looked up, I thought Grandma had switched her pie’s card with Rupert Pennypacker’s. It was a desperate act, but as Mrs. Weidenbach had said, these were desperate times. It was the wrong thing for Grandma to do, but I might get a plane ride out of it. My head swam.
Grandma nudged me away from the table and elbowed through a parting crowd. She was making for Mr. Pennypacker. I wondered if she’d reach down, grab him by his bib, and fling him out of the tent. With Grandma, you never knew. “Rupert,” she said.
Standing beside him was the scariest-looking old lady I’d ever seen, weirder than Aunt Puss Chapman. She was only a little taller than Mr. Pennypacker and dressed all in black, including the veil on her hat. She had warts, andher chin met her hat brim. There was a lump in her cheek that looked like it might be a bunch of chaw.
“You remember Mama,” Mr. Pennypacker said to Grandma.
His voice was high, like it had never changed. My voice hadn’t changed either, but I was twelve, so I still had hope.
His old mama hissed something in his ear and tried to pull him away with a claw on his arm.
“Well, may the best man win,” Grandma said, turning on her heel. By now the judges were at work. They carried little silver knives and miniature trowels for sampling the cobblers and pies. Tension mounted.
Nervously, Mrs. Weidenbach said to Grandma, “What a nice, moist consistency your pie filling has, Mrs. Dowdel. I’m sure it will be noted. How much water did you add to the mixture?”
“About a mouthful,” Grandma replied.
The judging went on forever, but nobody left the sweltering tent. We all watched the judges chewing. Finally, Mary Alice said she thought she might faint, so I took her outside.
Up among the clouds Barnie Buchanan was still putting his old biplane through its paces. He dived to earth, then pulled up in time. He gave us three loops and a snap roll. And my heart was up there with him, scouting for Germans.
A voice rose from inside the tent, followed by gusts of applause. They were announcing the winners: honorable mention, third prize, second—first. I didn’t want to goback in there. I hoped we’d win, but I wasn’t sure we should. Not if Grandma had switched—
The tent quivered with one final burst of applause. People began streaming out, flowing around us. Then out strolled Mr. Pennypacker and his mama, clutching him. You couldn’t read anything in that face of hers, but Mr. Pennypacker was beaming. From the clasp on his overall bib hung a blue ribbon.
“Shoot,” Mary Alice said. “After all that pie crust I rolled out.” In a way I was relieved. But then I saw my one and only chance for a plane ride crash and burn. Mr. Pennypacker was already heading for the field where the biplane was coming in for a landing.
At last Mrs. Weidenbach and Grandma came out. A nod from Grandma sent me back to the Hupmobile for our hamper of lunch. We ate it at a table in the Temperance tent, sliced chicken washed down with ice water. Grandma had her great stone face on, but Mrs. Weidenbach tried to make the best of things.
“Never mind, Mrs. Dowdel. As I have said, a red ribbon for second place is not to be sneezed at or scorned. You did right well.”
But Grandma hadn’t come to the fair for second prize. She didn’t wear it, if she’d bothered to collect it at all. “And you were up against stiff competition,” Mrs. Weidenbach said. “I daresay Rupert Pennypacker has had nothing to do all his life but wait on his dreadful mother and bake.”
Consoling Grandma was a thankless task. She ate
“I’m a goner,” said Grandma.
A puttering sound deafened us. It was Barnie Buchanan, the air ace, right over our heads. He was doing his aerial stunts: barrel rolls and vertical figure eights, or whatever he did. Everybody looked up, though we could only see tent.
It was just a moment, but somehow I was sure. In that split second when we’d all looked up, I thought Grandma had switched her pie’s card with Rupert Pennypacker’s. It was a desperate act, but as Mrs. Weidenbach had said, these were desperate times. It was the wrong thing for Grandma to do, but I might get a plane ride out of it. My head swam.
Grandma nudged me away from the table and elbowed through a parting crowd. She was making for Mr. Pennypacker. I wondered if she’d reach down, grab him by his bib, and fling him out of the tent. With Grandma, you never knew. “Rupert,” she said.
Standing beside him was the scariest-looking old lady I’d ever seen, weirder than Aunt Puss Chapman. She was only a little taller than Mr. Pennypacker and dressed all in black, including the veil on her hat. She had warts, andher chin met her hat brim. There was a lump in her cheek that looked like it might be a bunch of chaw.
“You remember Mama,” Mr. Pennypacker said to Grandma.
His voice was high, like it had never changed. My voice hadn’t changed either, but I was twelve, so I still had hope.
His old mama hissed something in his ear and tried to pull him away with a claw on his arm.
“Well, may the best man win,” Grandma said, turning on her heel. By now the judges were at work. They carried little silver knives and miniature trowels for sampling the cobblers and pies. Tension mounted.
Nervously, Mrs. Weidenbach said to Grandma, “What a nice, moist consistency your pie filling has, Mrs. Dowdel. I’m sure it will be noted. How much water did you add to the mixture?”
“About a mouthful,” Grandma replied.
The judging went on forever, but nobody left the sweltering tent. We all watched the judges chewing. Finally, Mary Alice said she thought she might faint, so I took her outside.
Up among the clouds Barnie Buchanan was still putting his old biplane through its paces. He dived to earth, then pulled up in time. He gave us three loops and a snap roll. And my heart was up there with him, scouting for Germans.
A voice rose from inside the tent, followed by gusts of applause. They were announcing the winners: honorable mention, third prize, second—first. I didn’t want to goback in there. I hoped we’d win, but I wasn’t sure we should. Not if Grandma had switched—
The tent quivered with one final burst of applause. People began streaming out, flowing around us. Then out strolled Mr. Pennypacker and his mama, clutching him. You couldn’t read anything in that face of hers, but Mr. Pennypacker was beaming. From the clasp on his overall bib hung a blue ribbon.
“Shoot,” Mary Alice said. “After all that pie crust I rolled out.” In a way I was relieved. But then I saw my one and only chance for a plane ride crash and burn. Mr. Pennypacker was already heading for the field where the biplane was coming in for a landing.
At last Mrs. Weidenbach and Grandma came out. A nod from Grandma sent me back to the Hupmobile for our hamper of lunch. We ate it at a table in the Temperance tent, sliced chicken washed down with ice water. Grandma had her great stone face on, but Mrs. Weidenbach tried to make the best of things.
“Never mind, Mrs. Dowdel. As I have said, a red ribbon for second place is not to be sneezed at or scorned. You did right well.”
But Grandma hadn’t come to the fair for second prize. She didn’t wear it, if she’d bothered to collect it at all. “And you were up against stiff competition,” Mrs. Weidenbach said. “I daresay Rupert Pennypacker has had nothing to do all his life but wait on his dreadful mother and bake.”
Consoling Grandma was a thankless task. She ate
Similar Books
