Read Online All the Way Home by Patricia Reilly Giff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Reilly Giff
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pocket. Claude would know.
He looked across the park. The boy was still on the swing, going back and forth as if it were a sunny day. It was as if he didn’t care about the rain pelting down on his head.
Mariel was there again without a sound. She sank down on the step, her head against the wall of the band shell, her hair flat and wet against her head. She closed her eyes. “Have to catch my breath.”
He sat waiting; he could see the folded piece of paper in her hand. “You have it,” he said.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the paper, too. “I have it,” she said slowly. “But I was thinking. The rain will make it hard for you. Slippery …”
“The rain will make it easier,” he said. “Not so hot walking. Don’t worry.” He wanted to tell her about the rain, how Mom loved watching it from their porch after supper. And when it stopped she’d listen to the crickets and katydids as they began their clicking and sawing again like strange instruments, in time for a moment, then out, then together again, thousands of them. “Stronger after the rain,” she’d say, “like a summer orchestra.”
Next to him Mariel’s face was sad, her mouth drooping just a bit. She was sorry he was leaving. He felt it, too. After today he might never see her again.
He reached for the paper, sliding it through her fingers, feeling her pull against him a little. It was almost as if she didn’t want to give it to him.
“Please …,” she began.
Something was wrong, worse than his leaving. He could see it in her eyes, and her fingers had begun that fluttering. “What is it, Mariel?”
She shook her head.
“Is it Ambrose?” he asked. “Something with Ambrose?” He wondered why he felt bad about Ambrose, why he hated to disappoint him by leaving. Claude would have liked Ambrose; Pop would have liked him, too. But then, thinking about it, he wassure of something. If Ambrose knew the story, the whole story, he’d understand. Ambrose would have done the same thing.
He opened the paper, looking at the map she had drawn, the directions in her small, even handwriting. “The bridge first,” he read aloud.
She rubbed her hands against her dress. “It’s a long walk to Windy Hill,” she said. “You must have come farther in that car than we thought.” She spoke slowly, looking away from him, the way Claude had the day he left. She stared at the center of the band shell. “Even to get to the Brooklyn Bridge is far.”
“Which way is the bridge?”
She pointed over her shoulder.
He searched for the top of it in the distance, but all he could see were the trees in the park, huge trees against the gray sky.
“Far …,” Mariel said. “Even if you could walk ten miles a day …”
“I can walk farther than that. Much farther.” He looked down at the paper, at the wavery lines she had drawn for roads, starting at one end of the page, trailing along the edge.
“Weeks,” she said. “More than two hundred miles.”
“I don’t have weeks,” he said.
Her fingers fluttered. She moved her hands down behind her back. “If only we had money, we could get you on a bus.”
He stared at her for a moment, then turned away. He shoved the paper in his pocket and headed for the park entrance, going fast, faster as his feet hit the path.
Two hundred miles, a thousand miles? He had to get home.
17
Mariel
“
W ait,” she called, and went after him, tripping over their lunch bags, leaving them. She knew she couldn’t catch up to him. Before she was halfway down the path, he went through the gate and ran along the sidewalk on the other side of the iron fence.
She went as far as the gate, still calling, but he was gone. She stood there in the rain, feeling it plaster her hair to her cheeks. She didn’t know where to go. Not back into the park. Maybe she’d never go into the park again. But not to school either, not home, not even her chipmunk-safe room. She pushed her hair back. She had never felt
He looked across the park. The boy was still on the swing, going back and forth as if it were a sunny day. It was as if he didn’t care about the rain pelting down on his head.
Mariel was there again without a sound. She sank down on the step, her head against the wall of the band shell, her hair flat and wet against her head. She closed her eyes. “Have to catch my breath.”
He sat waiting; he could see the folded piece of paper in her hand. “You have it,” he said.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the paper, too. “I have it,” she said slowly. “But I was thinking. The rain will make it hard for you. Slippery …”
“The rain will make it easier,” he said. “Not so hot walking. Don’t worry.” He wanted to tell her about the rain, how Mom loved watching it from their porch after supper. And when it stopped she’d listen to the crickets and katydids as they began their clicking and sawing again like strange instruments, in time for a moment, then out, then together again, thousands of them. “Stronger after the rain,” she’d say, “like a summer orchestra.”
Next to him Mariel’s face was sad, her mouth drooping just a bit. She was sorry he was leaving. He felt it, too. After today he might never see her again.
He reached for the paper, sliding it through her fingers, feeling her pull against him a little. It was almost as if she didn’t want to give it to him.
“Please …,” she began.
Something was wrong, worse than his leaving. He could see it in her eyes, and her fingers had begun that fluttering. “What is it, Mariel?”
She shook her head.
“Is it Ambrose?” he asked. “Something with Ambrose?” He wondered why he felt bad about Ambrose, why he hated to disappoint him by leaving. Claude would have liked Ambrose; Pop would have liked him, too. But then, thinking about it, he wassure of something. If Ambrose knew the story, the whole story, he’d understand. Ambrose would have done the same thing.
He opened the paper, looking at the map she had drawn, the directions in her small, even handwriting. “The bridge first,” he read aloud.
She rubbed her hands against her dress. “It’s a long walk to Windy Hill,” she said. “You must have come farther in that car than we thought.” She spoke slowly, looking away from him, the way Claude had the day he left. She stared at the center of the band shell. “Even to get to the Brooklyn Bridge is far.”
“Which way is the bridge?”
She pointed over her shoulder.
He searched for the top of it in the distance, but all he could see were the trees in the park, huge trees against the gray sky.
“Far …,” Mariel said. “Even if you could walk ten miles a day …”
“I can walk farther than that. Much farther.” He looked down at the paper, at the wavery lines she had drawn for roads, starting at one end of the page, trailing along the edge.
“Weeks,” she said. “More than two hundred miles.”
“I don’t have weeks,” he said.
Her fingers fluttered. She moved her hands down behind her back. “If only we had money, we could get you on a bus.”
He stared at her for a moment, then turned away. He shoved the paper in his pocket and headed for the park entrance, going fast, faster as his feet hit the path.
Two hundred miles, a thousand miles? He had to get home.
17
Mariel
“
W ait,” she called, and went after him, tripping over their lunch bags, leaving them. She knew she couldn’t catch up to him. Before she was halfway down the path, he went through the gate and ran along the sidewalk on the other side of the iron fence.
She went as far as the gate, still calling, but he was gone. She stood there in the rain, feeling it plaster her hair to her cheeks. She didn’t know where to go. Not back into the park. Maybe she’d never go into the park again. But not to school either, not home, not even her chipmunk-safe room. She pushed her hair back. She had never felt
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