told him. “Dad says I can’t bring him inside anyway. I think I’ll take him around to the back and fix up a bed for him to sleep on.”
Trickle wouldn’t get up when I prodded him, so I picked him up in my arms and carried him around the side of the house to the backyard. I left him there while I went in through the kitchen door and got him a bowl of water and I stopped on the way back to take a cushion off of the lawn chair. I brought them back to him and set them both down on the ground beside him.
Trickle sniffed at the cushion and then gave a great sigh and settled himself in the grass beside it. He didn’t even look at the water.
“Don’t you worry,” I whispered, moving one hand to scratch his tummy. “People aren’t going to stay mad at you forever. Everybody has a right to lose his temper once in a while, even a dog. By tomorrow I bet it’s all forgotten and you’re back inside sleeping on the foot of my bed.”
But when tomorrow came, nobody had forgotten anything. Dad sent Bobby out with a rope to tie Trickle to the elm tree.
Seven
On Monday of the following week we had the memorial service for Aunt Marge and Uncle Ryan, and on Tuesday the boxes containing their personal possessions arrived from Springfield. Dad and Peter carted them up to the attic and stored them there against the day when Julia might feel like opening them and going through the contents.
“Not now,” she said. “I just can’t do it now.”
Dad said, “Of course not, honey. Nobody expects you to do anything right now except eat and sleep and try to get used to your new family.”
They were standing in the hallway outside the door to the den and I was seated on the den floor, cutting out the material for my new dress. Their voices came to me as clearly as though they were in the same room.
“That part isn’t hard,” Julia said. “You’re so good to me, Tom, I’m used to you already.”
The scissors slipped from my hand and tumbled soundlessly into a mound of pink cloth. Had that been Julia speaking, my cousin Julia? That throaty voice, rich with warm affectioncould it have been the same one that had risen in fury”You vigrous, rat-fanged varmant!”a shriek of rage that had shrilled through the front yard?
And”Tom”! She had called my father “Tom.” Why not “Uncle Tom” as she called my mother “Aunt Leslie”? True, it was Mother who had been her mother’s sister, but I had called Julia’s father “Uncle Ryan” even though he was no blood relation. “Tom” sounded so strange from the lips of a girl so little older than myself, so oddly familiar, almost rude.
But my father did not seem to find it so. He laughed, a pleased little laugh, and I could picture him ruffling her hair, the way he did mine when he was feeling fond and friendly.
“We’re not ‘being good,’” he said, “we’re just ‘being family.’ We love you, Julie, and we want you to be happy.”
Julia went upstairs then and Dad came into the den, looking for the paper. He gave me a playful tap with his foot as he went by and then paused and said, “What’s that you’re making?”
“A dress,” I said, “for the dance. It’s the end of this week.”
“Pink?” Dad said. “Since when does a carrot-top like you start wearing pink? I thought it was against the law or something.”
“Why shouldn’t I wear something different once in a while?” I said irritably. “The material was on sale and it’s pretty so I bought it.”
“Don’t get your back up,” Dad said, locating the paper and settling himself into a chair to read it. “It’s fine with me whatever you wear. You’re the one who’s always screamed if somebody gave you something pink.”
He was right. I had never worn pink. It didn’t go with orange hair and freckles. I sat staring down unhappily at the soft piles of rose-colored material. Why I had bought it I simply couldn’t imagine. There had been other colors just as pretty that
Trickle wouldn’t get up when I prodded him, so I picked him up in my arms and carried him around the side of the house to the backyard. I left him there while I went in through the kitchen door and got him a bowl of water and I stopped on the way back to take a cushion off of the lawn chair. I brought them back to him and set them both down on the ground beside him.
Trickle sniffed at the cushion and then gave a great sigh and settled himself in the grass beside it. He didn’t even look at the water.
“Don’t you worry,” I whispered, moving one hand to scratch his tummy. “People aren’t going to stay mad at you forever. Everybody has a right to lose his temper once in a while, even a dog. By tomorrow I bet it’s all forgotten and you’re back inside sleeping on the foot of my bed.”
But when tomorrow came, nobody had forgotten anything. Dad sent Bobby out with a rope to tie Trickle to the elm tree.
Seven
On Monday of the following week we had the memorial service for Aunt Marge and Uncle Ryan, and on Tuesday the boxes containing their personal possessions arrived from Springfield. Dad and Peter carted them up to the attic and stored them there against the day when Julia might feel like opening them and going through the contents.
“Not now,” she said. “I just can’t do it now.”
Dad said, “Of course not, honey. Nobody expects you to do anything right now except eat and sleep and try to get used to your new family.”
They were standing in the hallway outside the door to the den and I was seated on the den floor, cutting out the material for my new dress. Their voices came to me as clearly as though they were in the same room.
“That part isn’t hard,” Julia said. “You’re so good to me, Tom, I’m used to you already.”
The scissors slipped from my hand and tumbled soundlessly into a mound of pink cloth. Had that been Julia speaking, my cousin Julia? That throaty voice, rich with warm affectioncould it have been the same one that had risen in fury”You vigrous, rat-fanged varmant!”a shriek of rage that had shrilled through the front yard?
And”Tom”! She had called my father “Tom.” Why not “Uncle Tom” as she called my mother “Aunt Leslie”? True, it was Mother who had been her mother’s sister, but I had called Julia’s father “Uncle Ryan” even though he was no blood relation. “Tom” sounded so strange from the lips of a girl so little older than myself, so oddly familiar, almost rude.
But my father did not seem to find it so. He laughed, a pleased little laugh, and I could picture him ruffling her hair, the way he did mine when he was feeling fond and friendly.
“We’re not ‘being good,’” he said, “we’re just ‘being family.’ We love you, Julie, and we want you to be happy.”
Julia went upstairs then and Dad came into the den, looking for the paper. He gave me a playful tap with his foot as he went by and then paused and said, “What’s that you’re making?”
“A dress,” I said, “for the dance. It’s the end of this week.”
“Pink?” Dad said. “Since when does a carrot-top like you start wearing pink? I thought it was against the law or something.”
“Why shouldn’t I wear something different once in a while?” I said irritably. “The material was on sale and it’s pretty so I bought it.”
“Don’t get your back up,” Dad said, locating the paper and settling himself into a chair to read it. “It’s fine with me whatever you wear. You’re the one who’s always screamed if somebody gave you something pink.”
He was right. I had never worn pink. It didn’t go with orange hair and freckles. I sat staring down unhappily at the soft piles of rose-colored material. Why I had bought it I simply couldn’t imagine. There had been other colors just as pretty that
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