Read Online Eggs by Jerry Spinelli - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerry Spinelli
Tags: Ages 8 and up
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flipped the lid off Primrose’s jug, turned it over and shook it.
By the time Primrose reclaimed the jug, a half-dozen ten-inchers were on the ground crawling back into the night.
In the beam from David’s flashlight her eyes burned like a demon’s. She stepped toward him. He backed up. She was about to take another step, but halted. She smiled evilly. She held her flashlight before him. “Take a good look,” she said. As David stared, he was impressed by the perfect red roundness of the disc. He wondered why worms couldn’t see it. Primrose’s voice, seeming to come from the red disc, said liltingly, “Have a nice night.” And the light went out.
David raised his own light, pointed it. She was moving off, reduced already to a shoulder and a jug rope at the dissolving limit of the red beam. He tore off the rubber cap and jabbed the fresh light outward. She was gone. He heard a rustle. There? . . . There? . . . His light showed only weeds and night.
21
The clock on the wall said 10:55 when Refrigerator John heard the screams. A moment later he was lurching down Tulip, cursing his bad leg. He veered into the weeds, the beam of his flashlight probing the night, homing in on the shrill cries.
He found the boy screaming with his eyes shut and his flashlight thrust upward, its pitiful beam vanishing mere inches above his head into the black vastness. “David!” John barked and took hold of him; impossibly, the screaming got louder. The boy fought, flailed his flashlight. Only when John pinned his arms and gathered him in and smothered him to his own body did the boy release his terror and sob, “Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” into his chest. The boy clung to him with surprising strength.
John held him there until the sobbing and trembling ceased. Fearfully then, having no idea what had happened, he called out Primrose’s name. He prayed he would not have to call a second time. A sniffle in the dark, a rustling to the right, and his answered prayer walked into the light. Her glistening, gaping eyes; the hunched stiffness of her shoulders; and the cold terror on her face told him no reproach was needed. A lesson had been learned.
On the way back to the abode, the boy told what had happened. John marveled that such combat could result from a broken worm. He told them now what he should have told them before. “When a nightcrawler splits,” he said, “the head end grows a new tail and the tail end grows a new head, and there you go — two new worms.”
They both went, “Wow!”
Fifteen minutes later they were sipping hot chocolate. The boy had suggested it. Primrose’s response — “In
July
?” — was more reflex than protest, and as it turned out, the boy was right. Hot chocolate was perfect for the moment.
Thirty minutes later the kids were squabbling over the TV. Refrigerator John sat back and relaxed and found reassurance in their return to the usual bickering. He suspected it was no accident, that some instinct beyond their years was driving them onto safe, familiar ground.
An hour later the boy was braiding her hair and she was grousing because he was pulling too hard.
22
The first Saturday in August featured perfect flea-market clouds: sun-blockers but not rain-makers. The tables on the gravel acre along Ridge Pike displayed everything from watches to monkey wrenches.
One of the tables was rented by Refrigerator John, who in turn donated a third of his space to Primrose. David helped arrange the wares from their Thursday night shopping sprees. One of them was a toilet seat. A sign taped to it said, wouldn’t this make a charming picture frame?
There were also two paperback mystery novels, a painting of a bullfighter on velvet, an old blue-green Coke bottle, five baseball cards, a hubcap, an orange-colored bowl, a vase, a beaded lizard-looking pocketbook, and, under the table, the child’s rocking chair that John had repaired.
Primrose was even grumpier than usual this day. John had
By the time Primrose reclaimed the jug, a half-dozen ten-inchers were on the ground crawling back into the night.
In the beam from David’s flashlight her eyes burned like a demon’s. She stepped toward him. He backed up. She was about to take another step, but halted. She smiled evilly. She held her flashlight before him. “Take a good look,” she said. As David stared, he was impressed by the perfect red roundness of the disc. He wondered why worms couldn’t see it. Primrose’s voice, seeming to come from the red disc, said liltingly, “Have a nice night.” And the light went out.
David raised his own light, pointed it. She was moving off, reduced already to a shoulder and a jug rope at the dissolving limit of the red beam. He tore off the rubber cap and jabbed the fresh light outward. She was gone. He heard a rustle. There? . . . There? . . . His light showed only weeds and night.
21
The clock on the wall said 10:55 when Refrigerator John heard the screams. A moment later he was lurching down Tulip, cursing his bad leg. He veered into the weeds, the beam of his flashlight probing the night, homing in on the shrill cries.
He found the boy screaming with his eyes shut and his flashlight thrust upward, its pitiful beam vanishing mere inches above his head into the black vastness. “David!” John barked and took hold of him; impossibly, the screaming got louder. The boy fought, flailed his flashlight. Only when John pinned his arms and gathered him in and smothered him to his own body did the boy release his terror and sob, “Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” into his chest. The boy clung to him with surprising strength.
John held him there until the sobbing and trembling ceased. Fearfully then, having no idea what had happened, he called out Primrose’s name. He prayed he would not have to call a second time. A sniffle in the dark, a rustling to the right, and his answered prayer walked into the light. Her glistening, gaping eyes; the hunched stiffness of her shoulders; and the cold terror on her face told him no reproach was needed. A lesson had been learned.
On the way back to the abode, the boy told what had happened. John marveled that such combat could result from a broken worm. He told them now what he should have told them before. “When a nightcrawler splits,” he said, “the head end grows a new tail and the tail end grows a new head, and there you go — two new worms.”
They both went, “Wow!”
Fifteen minutes later they were sipping hot chocolate. The boy had suggested it. Primrose’s response — “In
July
?” — was more reflex than protest, and as it turned out, the boy was right. Hot chocolate was perfect for the moment.
Thirty minutes later the kids were squabbling over the TV. Refrigerator John sat back and relaxed and found reassurance in their return to the usual bickering. He suspected it was no accident, that some instinct beyond their years was driving them onto safe, familiar ground.
An hour later the boy was braiding her hair and she was grousing because he was pulling too hard.
22
The first Saturday in August featured perfect flea-market clouds: sun-blockers but not rain-makers. The tables on the gravel acre along Ridge Pike displayed everything from watches to monkey wrenches.
One of the tables was rented by Refrigerator John, who in turn donated a third of his space to Primrose. David helped arrange the wares from their Thursday night shopping sprees. One of them was a toilet seat. A sign taped to it said, wouldn’t this make a charming picture frame?
There were also two paperback mystery novels, a painting of a bullfighter on velvet, an old blue-green Coke bottle, five baseball cards, a hubcap, an orange-colored bowl, a vase, a beaded lizard-looking pocketbook, and, under the table, the child’s rocking chair that John had repaired.
Primrose was even grumpier than usual this day. John had
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