Read Online Not the End of the World by Rebecca Stowe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Stowe
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idea of being walled in and never being able to make a move without some white-shoed attendant following me around like my conscience. Everyone would whisper when I shuffled by like a zombie and mothers would tell their children I had been perfectly normal, in fact I had baby-sat for them when they were little, and then all of a sudden something snapped and I had to be walled in with my parents for ever.
“What happened to Miss Benson?” I asked Wally, who knew everything. Wally had the corner store, up on St. Joseph Avenue, and he was my fourth favorite person in North Bay “I don’t know, Toots,” he said, shaking his head. “She was a nice girl, but she was flighty Kind of like Blanche DuBois.” I wanted to know who Blanche DuBois was and Wally said she was some crazy southern belle. “You mean like Mrs. Moore?” I asked and Wally laughed so hard he spat his coffee all over the counter. “She never looked you in the eye,” he said as he wiped up his spit. “Remember this, Margarita: there’s something wrong with somebody who won’t look you in the eye.”
I asked him if he meant there was something wrong as in the person was bad, or something wrong as in something bad happened to them and he said that was a good question. He thought about it for a minute and then said, “Wrong as in they’re hiding something. There’s something they don’t want you to know and I guess it doesn’t matter much whether it’s something they did or something that was done to them. Whatever it is, it’s not exactly right.”
Luckily, Hans wasn’t out so I climbed over the Bensons’ fence and crept along it, hoping nobody was looking out the window. Mr. Benson would come out with a rake if he saw kids sneaking around, and chase after them as if they were stray cats. “Go on, get out of here!” he’d shout and the kids would shriek with fright and joy. Then he’d kind of shuffle back to the house, looking old and defeated. I felt sorry for him, but not as sorry as I felt for Clara. You were always supposed to feel sorry for the parents rather than the children; after all, the parents worked and slaved and sacrificed and bent over backwards and for what? “You, you ingrate!” they’d shout. “And what have you done for me? Nothing! A big fat zero! After all I’ve done for you, you go crazy and now I can’t go out of my house without a rake!” In the movies, it was always the parents who were good and kind and sweet and self-sacrificing and it was the children who were evil and who tormented their poor, bewildered parents for no reason other than sheer wickedness. I hated those stupid movies. They gave kids a bad name.
Goober had already crossed the Bensons’ yard and I could hear her at their gate, barking for me to hurry up. Tom Ditwell said one night he saw Clara come out and run about in the yard, screeching like a hawk, circling around in some weird Indian dance. That was when the rumor started that the Bensons belonged to a cult and had sacrificed Clara to get in. It was a stupid rumor, but the kids liked it because it was scary. It didn’t help that the house itself was spooky: atwo-story dark pointy house with tiny leaded windows with shutters on the inside that really closed. It had been surrounded by big old elms, but they all got sawed down, like ours, when the Dutch Elm disease hit North Bay and turned Edison Woods into Edison Shrubs. The Bensons replaced their trees with fat, prickly bushes that grew right outside the windows. We used to dare each other to sneak up to the house and peek in, to see if Clara was running around in a black cloak and a pointed hat, and I guess that was why the Bensons got Hans.
There was music coming from their house, some kind of opera, and I ran the last few yards, hopped over the fence and jumped down. Safe! I looked back and there was Clara, standing in the window, waving at me as if I’d just been to tea. I waved back, sadly, and thought about how lonely she must
“What happened to Miss Benson?” I asked Wally, who knew everything. Wally had the corner store, up on St. Joseph Avenue, and he was my fourth favorite person in North Bay “I don’t know, Toots,” he said, shaking his head. “She was a nice girl, but she was flighty Kind of like Blanche DuBois.” I wanted to know who Blanche DuBois was and Wally said she was some crazy southern belle. “You mean like Mrs. Moore?” I asked and Wally laughed so hard he spat his coffee all over the counter. “She never looked you in the eye,” he said as he wiped up his spit. “Remember this, Margarita: there’s something wrong with somebody who won’t look you in the eye.”
I asked him if he meant there was something wrong as in the person was bad, or something wrong as in something bad happened to them and he said that was a good question. He thought about it for a minute and then said, “Wrong as in they’re hiding something. There’s something they don’t want you to know and I guess it doesn’t matter much whether it’s something they did or something that was done to them. Whatever it is, it’s not exactly right.”
Luckily, Hans wasn’t out so I climbed over the Bensons’ fence and crept along it, hoping nobody was looking out the window. Mr. Benson would come out with a rake if he saw kids sneaking around, and chase after them as if they were stray cats. “Go on, get out of here!” he’d shout and the kids would shriek with fright and joy. Then he’d kind of shuffle back to the house, looking old and defeated. I felt sorry for him, but not as sorry as I felt for Clara. You were always supposed to feel sorry for the parents rather than the children; after all, the parents worked and slaved and sacrificed and bent over backwards and for what? “You, you ingrate!” they’d shout. “And what have you done for me? Nothing! A big fat zero! After all I’ve done for you, you go crazy and now I can’t go out of my house without a rake!” In the movies, it was always the parents who were good and kind and sweet and self-sacrificing and it was the children who were evil and who tormented their poor, bewildered parents for no reason other than sheer wickedness. I hated those stupid movies. They gave kids a bad name.
Goober had already crossed the Bensons’ yard and I could hear her at their gate, barking for me to hurry up. Tom Ditwell said one night he saw Clara come out and run about in the yard, screeching like a hawk, circling around in some weird Indian dance. That was when the rumor started that the Bensons belonged to a cult and had sacrificed Clara to get in. It was a stupid rumor, but the kids liked it because it was scary. It didn’t help that the house itself was spooky: atwo-story dark pointy house with tiny leaded windows with shutters on the inside that really closed. It had been surrounded by big old elms, but they all got sawed down, like ours, when the Dutch Elm disease hit North Bay and turned Edison Woods into Edison Shrubs. The Bensons replaced their trees with fat, prickly bushes that grew right outside the windows. We used to dare each other to sneak up to the house and peek in, to see if Clara was running around in a black cloak and a pointed hat, and I guess that was why the Bensons got Hans.
There was music coming from their house, some kind of opera, and I ran the last few yards, hopped over the fence and jumped down. Safe! I looked back and there was Clara, standing in the window, waving at me as if I’d just been to tea. I waved back, sadly, and thought about how lonely she must
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