Tumbleweed Skies Read online

  "No hurry," Grandma said. Mrs. Knowles thanked her again and was gone.

  Marcy squealed and gave me a huge hug. She jumped up and down a little at the same time, which nearly knocked me over.

  I didn't mind.

  Grandma frowned but she didn't tell Marcy not to jump or squeal. She didn't even give her a mean look. Instead, she told us to go play until lunchtime.

  "I guess you can show me that bird you were telling me about," Marcy said.

  I led her out to the shed, hoping Sammy might behave himself today. Of course, that didn't happen. The second I opened the door, he set up the awfullest racket you ever heard. But not just then! He screeched and hollered at us like crazy the whole time we were in there.

  I gave him some flies but he'd eaten just a little while earlier, so even the food didn't tempt him into better behavior.

  "REE! REE! REE!" he yelled on and on.

  "He's pretty rude," Marcy commented. "I thought you said he did other things. It doesn't sound like he does anything except scream!"

  "He's not hungry right now," I said. "And he's not used to other people."

  "Didn't I hear you brag about how he listens to you?"

  "He does," I said, "but right now he feels like talking."

  "You call that talking? Some birds learn to say real words, you know," she told me. "Mr. Fletcher had a bird that could say 'bad kitty' and 'sunny day.' It used to live at his store."

  "What happened to it?" I glanced at Sammy doubtfully. I was pretty sure he was never going to learn to say real words.

  "It died."

  "Oh. Well, Sammy here hasn't learned to talk…yet," I said. "But he might, if he stays long enough."

  Marcy burst out laughing. "That bird of yours," she said when she could speak again, "couldn't talk if it was here for a hundred years."

  I felt kind of indignant at that, even though I'd been thinking the very same thing just a moment before Marcy said it.

  Sammy never stopped his screeching even after we left the shed and walked across the yard.

  "So, what is there to do around here?" Marcy asked.

  "You want to hunt for some bugs and worms for Sammy?" I asked.

  "No," Marcy answered. She looked cross at the very idea of it. "I want to do something fun. And who cares about a dumb old bird anyway? There are millions of them around here."

  I cared, but I didn't say anything back.

  "Let's play with your toys," Marcy suggested. "How many dolls do you have?"

  "I didn't bring my dolls with me," I said, carefully avoiding admitting I only had one doll. "I have a coloring book of circus pictures, though, and nearly half the pages aren't colored yet."

  "Plain old coloring is boring," Marcy said. "We could draw our own pictures and color them and have a contest like we did at my house. That was fun."

  "Grandma has no plain paper," I said. I had no idea, really, whether she did or not, but I wasn't going to ask her for any, that was for sure. And there was no way I was going to ask her to judge a contest like Marcy's mom had done. I could picture Grandma telling us that all of our drawings were terrible.

  "Well, I only color in boring old books when it's raining or I have a tummy ache and have to stay in bed," Marcy told me.

  Tummy aches were of interest to me. I'd had several pains in my stomach in the last few weeks. I thought perhaps Marcy knew of a remedy, but before I could ask her about it, she went on.

  "Anyway, I have a coloring book of safari animals. Safari animals are a lot better than circus animals."

  "They are?"

  "Everyone knows that. Because they're not in cages."

  "Oh," I said.

  Marcy sighed. "So, do you have anything else to play with?" she asked. She looked bored and a little grumpy.

  "I didn't bring my toys with me," I explained. There was a racing feeling inside me, a kind of panic to hurry and think of something. I was afraid Marcy was wishing she wasn't there.

  "I know! Let's pretend we're going for a drive," Marcy said, pointing to Uncle Roger's truck. Before I could even get my mouth open, she ran over to it, pulled open the door, and slid into the driver's seat. I followed slowly and got in on the passenger side.

  "I don't know if we should be in here," I said.

  "Why not? My daddy lets me play in our car anytime I want. And sometimes when we go for a drive, he even lets me sit with him and steer."

  "I still don't think we should be in here without asking Uncle Roger first," I said. I felt like I should say more to persuade her, but that was all I could get out. Marcy's talk about her father made me think about driving along with Daddy, and it felt like something was squeezing my chest.

  Before I could get rid of the tight feeling so that I could say something more about it, Marcy started jiggling the gear shift and cranking the wheel back and forth.

  And then it happened.

  The truck started to move.

  Thirteen

  Now, the truck wasn't moving fast at all—there's not much of a slope in the ground, but it was still pretty scary to feel ourselves moving forward.

  Marcy screamed. It was good and loud too, but it wasn't one bit helpful.

  "Marcy!" I hollered, trying to make myself heard over her screeches. "Step on the brake!"

  I don't know if Marcy didn't hear me or if she was in too much of a panic to take in what I was saying, but she decided to do something else. Instead of trying to stop the truck, she grabbed the door handle and yanked on it until the door started to open.

  But then it seemed that she forgot to let go of the handle, because as the door swung outward, she went right along with it. At first, her legs and feet stayed inside the truck. She kind of looked like a hammock made of a little girl, hung between the door and the seat.

  Let me tell you, the shrieks that came out of her then were something! I didn't even bother trying to talk to her after that. It seemed the truck was moving a little faster, and as it did, there was less and less of Marcy inside.

  And then she lurched forward and disappeared!

  I threw myself across the seat to where I could see her. She was screaming even louder than before, and I didn't blame her. The back tire had rolled forward, catching the material from her skirt under it. In a few more inches, that truck was going to run right over Marcy!

  There was no time to get turned around. I nose-dived toward the pedals and shoved my hands hard on the one on the right, not knowing which of the three was the brake. Nothing happened. I let go of it and pushed down the middle one and the truck jolted to a stop.

  Marcy was still wailing her head off when Grandma showed up.

  "Oh, oh, oh," Grandma said.

  "Help me!" Marcy sobbed. "Don't let the truck run over me!"

  "Stop that and listen!" Grandma said sharply. "I'll see if I can pull your skirt loose; you try to wriggle out."

  The next few moments were filled with the sounds of grunts and groans. I could tell when Grandma got the skirt free because she fell backward and landed on the ground with a thud. Right after that, Marcy stood up, still crying while she brushed herself off.

  Grandma reached out and steadied Marcy, then she peered into the truck at me.

  "Come out of there now, Elizabeth," she said sternly.

  "I can't, Grandma."

  "Why not?"

  "If I let go of the brake, the truck will start moving again," I said. "It will hit the barn."

  Grandma glanced toward the barn and then stared at the pedal I was holding down. "This pedal is the brake?" she asked. "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure," I said. It had to be—it had stopped the truck from killing Marcy, who chose that moment to speak up.

  "I told Ellie not to touch anything!" Marcy said. "I told her we shouldn't be in that truck at all. She wouldn't listen, and look what happened! Why, she nearly got me killed is what!"

  I felt my mouth fall right open in shock at what that lying Marcy Knowles was saying. But before I could protest, Grandma was sp
eaking again.

  "Roger will have to come," she said. "He'll know what to do. Marcy, you run through to the third field from here and find him. He's on the tractor so you'll see him, no trouble. Tell him to come home at once. Quickly now!"

  Marcy hesitated, but she did what Grandma told her. As soon as she was gone I took a deep breath and said, "Grandma, I didn't—"

  But Grandma held her hand up to stop me. "I know what the truth is," she said. After a pause she added, "And something else I know is who screamed and who used her head to do something smart."

  I couldn't quite believe my ears. A huge feeling of happiness swelled up inside me. The feeling stayed there while I waited, even though my arms were starting to shake from the strain of holding down that pedal.

  Before long, the shaking had become pain and it was all I could do to keep from letting go. It seemed to take an awful long time for Uncle Roger to get there. I heard him first, his feet pounding along the ground.

  Grandma's head turned in the direction of the sound just as he called out, "Ellie! Is she all right, Ma?"

  "She's fine," Grandma told him. "No need to make a fuss."

  Uncle Roger was out of breath when he reached the driver's side of the truck. He reached in and pulled on something. "There," he panted. "The hand brake will hold 'er now, Ellie. You can come on out."

  It was a huge relief to finally be able to let go of the pedal. When I scrambled out of the truck, my arms started to rise up in the air all on their own. I'd hardly reached the ground when I felt myself being swung up and pulled tight against Uncle Roger's chest.

  "I'm not cross at you," he said. "Not at all. But I don't want you to play in the truck anymore."

  I knew right then that Marcy had told him the same lie she'd told Grandma. I waited for Grandma to tell him the truth. But she just turned around and went back into the house without another word. And then it was too late for me to say anything, because Marcy was coming through the field, gasping and sweaty, her face as red as a ripe tomato.

  Uncle Roger let me down and slid into the truck. He pressed his foot on the pedal on the left and pushed on the gear shift with his hand. That reminded me of how Marcy had bumped the gear shift just before the truck started to move.

  When he got back out, I said, nice and loud, "Marcy, my uncle fixed the thing you were jiggling and he doesn't want us to get in the truck again."

  "Who'd want to get in there again anyway?" Marcy said.

  "Well, like I said a while ago—" I began, but Marcy cut me off by grabbing my hand and yanking me away from there.

  "I hope you didn't tell on me," she muttered as soon as we were a ways off from Uncle Roger.

  "Why shouldn't I tell on you?" I asked crossly.

  "Because I'm the guest and that's the rule."

  "What kind of dumb rule is that?"

  "It's just the rule. And anyway, if you did something wrong at my house, I would take the blame for it for you."

  I doubted that, but I didn't say anything else to Marcy. She might be bossy and she might tell lies, but she was the only friend I had here. I didn't want to go through the whole summer with no one to play with.

  With Marcy, it seemed as soon as she said something, it was settled, whether anyone else might agree or not.

  "I know what we can do now!" she said, just as if the whole truck thing had never happened. "Let's go ask your grandmother if we can make cookies."

  Fourteen

  Grandma wasn't in the kitchen. That was lucky because Marcy just tromped right in. I had to call her back to the doorway.

  "We have to take our shoes off," I whispered. I'd forgotten the shoe rule a few times when I first got there, and Grandma had asked me, did I think I was in the barn? I wanted Grandma to see that I wasn't letting Marcy treat her kitchen like a barn either.

  Marcy stepped on the heels of her shoes to get them off, then sent them skittering up against the wall. I was straightening them out when I heard Grandma's heavy step coming down the hall. She stopped just inside the kitchen door and looked back and forth at Marcy and me.

  Marcy stood there staring at me and waiting. I knew she was expecting me to go ahead and ask about the cookies, but the look on Grandma's face stopped me. I opened my mouth to speak a few times, but nothing came out. I probably looked good and silly—like Sheila's goldfish, who spends his days opening and closing his mouth for no good reason as far as I know.

  "Ellie wants to know if we can make some cookies."

  I don't know who was more surprised—me or Grandma. We both turned to Marcy at the same time.

  "What?" Grandma said. I kept right on imitating Sheila's goldfish.

  "Cookies. Me 'n Ellie were wondering if we could make some."

  Grandma frowned.

  "Oh, sorry!" Marcy said quickly. "I meant Ellie and I. Momma tells me about that all the time, but I still forget."

  "What kind of cookies?" Grandma said.

  Marcy glanced at me. If she was looking for a suggestion, she didn't get one. "I like oatmeal raisin," she said. "They're my favorite."

  Grandma frowned again. "Roger doesn't like raisins," she said. "We will make sugar cookies."

  "Okay," Marcy said. She clapped her hands. "Mmmm! Sugar cookies are yummy, too. Don't you just love them, Ellie?

  "Don't you, Ellie? Don't you?" Marcy repeated before I could even answer. She skipped around the room. I saw Grandma's forehead crease, but I couldn't think of a way to tell Marcy she shouldn't be skipping in the kitchen. I couldn't remember the reason for it.

  "Yes," I said finally. "Sugar cookies are good."

  I hoped I hadn't jinxed it. Sheila says that you have to be careful when something good is going to happen. She says that if you're too happy about it, that might keep it from happening at all. Daddy says that's silly superstition, but I don't like to take any chances, just in case.

  But everything was okay. We helped beat the shortening and sugar, and then we added the eggs while Grandma mixed up the dry ingredients and measured the milk. Once the cookie dough was ready, Marcy rolled it into balls and I pressed the balls down on the cookie sheets with a glass that had been dipped in sugar.

  The recipe made sixty-three cookies, and you wouldn't believe how good the kitchen smelled when they were baking. That was nothing compared to the taste, though. We all had one when they were still warm from the oven—even Grandma. Those cookies were big and soft and so delicious that Marcy and I agreed later on we could have eaten a whole dozen between us.

  When we'd finished washing the dishes and cleaning up from making the cookies, it was time for lunch. Marcy and I set the table while Grandma fried up some leftover potatoes and wieners with chopped onions. Just before she served it, she cracked some eggs over top of the whole thing, added a good dose of paprika and covered it for a few minutes. Then she lifted portions out with a big spatula and everything was stuck together with the eggs.

  My mouth was watering by the time Uncle Roger came along, bringing the scent of the fields with him. He washed his hands at the sink and sat down at the table.

  "Something sure smells good in here," he said right after he'd said grace. "Is it you two girls?"

  "No!" Marcy squealed. "We made cookies!"

  Uncle Roger looked over at the counter where the cooling racks were sitting. His eyes got big and round like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. That made us laugh since he'd been right there beside them, washing his hands a minute ago.

  "Cookies!" he said, pretending to be surprised. "Well, well, well.What do you know!"

  Like most grown-ups, Uncle Roger wasn't very good at make-believe.

  "The food is getting cold," Grandma said. So we all quieted down and ate our lunch. Even Marcy stopped chattering after a couple of stern looks from Grandma. All you could hear after that was the kitchen clock and the sounds of our forks scraping along the plates.

  The food was real good, even though it was leftovers. I didn't like to admit it, but it tasted better than when D
addy makes potatoes and wieners.

  But at least when Daddy and I eat, we talk to each other instead of just listening to the sounds our forks make.

  Fifteen

  Uncle Roger saved the day after lunch. I'd been wondering what we could do that Marcy wouldn't complain about, and I was trying to think of something fun when he spoke up.

  "I don't suppose you girls would be interested in being any taller."

  "Being taller?" Marcy and I echoed.

  "Sure. All you need are some magic sticks."

  "Magic!" Marcy clapped her hands.

  "Roger…?" It seemed that Grandma was going to ask something and then stopped. Whatever it was, Uncle Roger seemed to understand.

  "It's all right, Ma," he told her. "I made these before lunch. They're brand new.

  "Come on," he told us then. "I'll just show you girls what to do, and then you can come back and help clean up from lunch."

  "No, no," Grandma said, shooing us away like we were flies. "Guests don't help with the chores. You girls go and play."

  Marcy and I were out the door with Uncle Roger in a flash. He led us to the side of the barn where we could see four slender poles leaning against the tired gray wood.

  "Stilts!" Marcy cried as soon as she saw them. "I love stilts! I'm very, very good at walking on them. Momma says it's because I'm naturally graceful."

  "Izzat right?" Uncle Roger said. He picked up the stilts and carried them back across the yard. We followed along like baby ducks after their mother.

  When we reached the clothesline stand, Uncle Roger stopped and motioned for us to go up the steps to the platform.

  "Stop when you get about level with these here wedges," he told us. He pointed to triangle-shaped pieces of wood that were nailed to the poles.

  We did as we were told and Marcy, who insisted on going first because of all her experience, took hold of the poles, stepped onto the wedges, and took a few steps. Then her arms started to wobble, the poles jerked about wildly, and she came crashing down.