you mean?" he asked.
"Why—" I began, and then stopped my questions. His left eye had managed to quit its wandering and look right at me. I could see sadness there. Why, I reckoned he was just as worried as I was. He just couldn't say so. I figured the least I could do was pretend right along with him. "Wet fish! You sure are one funny fellow, Mickey Dooley," I said as I took the dipper he handed me. "Wet fish."
Back at my seat I watched out the window again. The flat, stubbly prairie looked like Papa's face when he needed a shave. Here and there were herds of animals Chester thought were antelope. Or moose. Or elk. Sure weren't buffalo, he said.
Luncheon? Apples and jelly sandwiches, of course, but by now the bread was dry except where the jelly had soaked in and made it soggy, and the jelly was mostly crusty sugar crystals, which crunched between my teeth. We also had milk and hard-boiled eggs that Szprot had bought at our last stop, but my mouth longed for something sour—a dill pickle or sauerkraut or Mama's headcheese with vinegar.
Nellie came and leaned against my legs. "I don't want to go west," she said. "Spud said the west is full of murderers and guns and wildfires. I'm plumb scared of the west." She was little and pale, and I was still worried that Miss Doctor would get rid of her, like she did Gertie, so I put aside my own thoughts for a moment.
"No. He's wrong. West is a good place to go," I told her. I lifted her up and settled her between Lacey and me. "My mama used to tell me a story about the west, when we first came from Poland, heading west to a whole new country. Seems there was a—"
"Once upon a time," said Nellie, nose dripping on my sleeve. "That's how stories start."
"Okay, then. Once upon a time in a town far away in Poland lived a tailor named Matuschanski. He was a very tall man with a very long nose and a very long beard. And he was so thin, he could pass through the eye of his own needle, so thin he fell through the cracks in the sidewalk, so thin he could eat only noodles, one at a time. But he was a kind man and a very good tailor."
Lacey snuggled closer to Nellie so that she could listen, until all three of us were pressed right up against the window of the train.
I went on. "One day a Gypsy passing through town cut her foot on a stone. She came to see the tailor, who darned it so neatly there was no scar. As payment, she read his fortune in his palm: 'If you leave this town on a Sunday,' she said, 'and walk always westward, you will reach a place where you will be king.'"
Chester and Mickey Dooley came and sat on the floor by my feet. "'Well,' said the tailor, 'I will never know whether or not she was right unless I go.' And so Pan Matuschanski packed up a bundle with a needle, a thousand miles of thread, and a pair of scissors."
"A thousand miles of thread?" asked Chester. "Im-possible."
"Possible in this story. Just listen. All the tailor knew of west is that it was where the sun set, and so he walked that way. After seven days he reached the kingdom of Splatt.
"Now Splatt had troubles. The king had died, and it was raining. It was pouring. Everywhere else it was sunny, but over Splatt it was raining and had been ever since the king died.
"The townspeople moaned, 'Oh, who will stop the rain? It comes in our windows and chimneys, floods our roads, washes away our flowers, drowns our fish.'"
"Drowned fish!" Spud and Joe, who had joined the bunch at my feet, laughed so hard at that they fell over in a heap, kicking and punching each other. Sammy jumped up and separated the two, made Joe sit down next to him, and motioned for me to go on. I never before saw Sammy
stop
anyone from fighting. A small miracle.
"The princess of Splatt said, 'I promise my hand in marriage to the person who can stop the rain.'
"The tailor liked the idea of marrying a princess and becoming king. He thought and thought. Hmm. Rain. From the sky. Ever since the king died. Hmm. 'I know!' he shouted
"Why—" I began, and then stopped my questions. His left eye had managed to quit its wandering and look right at me. I could see sadness there. Why, I reckoned he was just as worried as I was. He just couldn't say so. I figured the least I could do was pretend right along with him. "Wet fish! You sure are one funny fellow, Mickey Dooley," I said as I took the dipper he handed me. "Wet fish."
Back at my seat I watched out the window again. The flat, stubbly prairie looked like Papa's face when he needed a shave. Here and there were herds of animals Chester thought were antelope. Or moose. Or elk. Sure weren't buffalo, he said.
Luncheon? Apples and jelly sandwiches, of course, but by now the bread was dry except where the jelly had soaked in and made it soggy, and the jelly was mostly crusty sugar crystals, which crunched between my teeth. We also had milk and hard-boiled eggs that Szprot had bought at our last stop, but my mouth longed for something sour—a dill pickle or sauerkraut or Mama's headcheese with vinegar.
Nellie came and leaned against my legs. "I don't want to go west," she said. "Spud said the west is full of murderers and guns and wildfires. I'm plumb scared of the west." She was little and pale, and I was still worried that Miss Doctor would get rid of her, like she did Gertie, so I put aside my own thoughts for a moment.
"No. He's wrong. West is a good place to go," I told her. I lifted her up and settled her between Lacey and me. "My mama used to tell me a story about the west, when we first came from Poland, heading west to a whole new country. Seems there was a—"
"Once upon a time," said Nellie, nose dripping on my sleeve. "That's how stories start."
"Okay, then. Once upon a time in a town far away in Poland lived a tailor named Matuschanski. He was a very tall man with a very long nose and a very long beard. And he was so thin, he could pass through the eye of his own needle, so thin he fell through the cracks in the sidewalk, so thin he could eat only noodles, one at a time. But he was a kind man and a very good tailor."
Lacey snuggled closer to Nellie so that she could listen, until all three of us were pressed right up against the window of the train.
I went on. "One day a Gypsy passing through town cut her foot on a stone. She came to see the tailor, who darned it so neatly there was no scar. As payment, she read his fortune in his palm: 'If you leave this town on a Sunday,' she said, 'and walk always westward, you will reach a place where you will be king.'"
Chester and Mickey Dooley came and sat on the floor by my feet. "'Well,' said the tailor, 'I will never know whether or not she was right unless I go.' And so Pan Matuschanski packed up a bundle with a needle, a thousand miles of thread, and a pair of scissors."
"A thousand miles of thread?" asked Chester. "Im-possible."
"Possible in this story. Just listen. All the tailor knew of west is that it was where the sun set, and so he walked that way. After seven days he reached the kingdom of Splatt.
"Now Splatt had troubles. The king had died, and it was raining. It was pouring. Everywhere else it was sunny, but over Splatt it was raining and had been ever since the king died.
"The townspeople moaned, 'Oh, who will stop the rain? It comes in our windows and chimneys, floods our roads, washes away our flowers, drowns our fish.'"
"Drowned fish!" Spud and Joe, who had joined the bunch at my feet, laughed so hard at that they fell over in a heap, kicking and punching each other. Sammy jumped up and separated the two, made Joe sit down next to him, and motioned for me to go on. I never before saw Sammy
stop
anyone from fighting. A small miracle.
"The princess of Splatt said, 'I promise my hand in marriage to the person who can stop the rain.'
"The tailor liked the idea of marrying a princess and becoming king. He thought and thought. Hmm. Rain. From the sky. Ever since the king died. Hmm. 'I know!' he shouted
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