light.
“Look!” she shouts.
My eyes fling open.
Delilah points at the sky.
A hawk crosses in front of the moon.
“He’s comin’!” she shouts.
At least I thought it was a hawk.
“Soon he’ll show his ghost face,” she says.
Then we wait and wait for my brother to come.
Something jostles the bush beside us. We both gulp.
“It’s him!” Delilah whispers.
But then Flapjack scampers out from under a bush and prances into the cemetery.
“Oh, no it ain’t,” Delilah says, and sighs.
We wait and wait. Before I know it, Delilah’s snoozing, sitting up, back against Daddy’s stone. Here I am, teeth chattering in the dark, hugging my knees to my chest, praying my brother’s ghost won’t show. The cemetary’s a grainy black-and-white photograph stuck between morning and night, when at long last the first rooster crows.
“He didn’t come!” I tell Deliliah. “He’s still alive.”
My groggy-faced friend rubs the sleep from her eyes.
“You know what?” she says, and yawns. “You’re right! He must be alive ’cause this ghost ceremony works every time.”
Well, all I can say is this was the best ghost ceremony that ever was! It filled me with new power, just what I need to race back home and climb through my window into bed, all before Mama finds me up and gone. I give Daddy’s stone a quick rub and I’m off running. Flapjack follows close behind.
CHAPTER 14
August 24, 1963
Ralphie has three words now: doggie, cat, and pickle. Every time Mrs. Tate hears him say something, she can’t help but run and hug her boy, she’s so proud. And since his talking’s coming along so good, Ralphie’s concentrating on walking. Today he wraps his little hands round the legs of the changing table, pulls himself up to stand.
“Let go, Ralphie! Walk!” I say.
Just then Mama pokes her head into the room, and Ralphie topples onto the floor in a heap. “Change the baby for the party,” she says.
“He’s not a baby,” I tell her.
“Well, just change that big boy and bring him down fast.”
I’m glad to see Mrs. Tate’s set out a respectable outfit for her son: a red cap, a white button-down shirt, and red knickerbockers. I dress him, pick him up, and shuffle down the stairs. The smell of roasting pork makes my stomach rumble. And I pray I’ll get a bite.
When Ralphie’s father hears me coming, he calls, “Addie Ann, bring me my little boy,” so I carry Ralphie into the living room, where the guests poke their toothpicks into the fruit salad Mama set on the table.
“How old’s the baby?” one of the men asks.
Ralphie’s not a baby!
I want to tell him.
He can talk and he can almost walk!
But I keep quiet and hand Ralphie to Mr. Tate.
“Fourteen months,” Mrs. Tate answers.
“Oh, he’s darlin’!” coos a lady. Her beehive hairdo’s so high on her head, she’ll likely need a harness to keep it perched up there for the rest of the night.
I slip into the kitchen. Mama fusses about the pork roast and I cook up the green beans, while we listen to the lady with the beehive hairdo ask Mrs. Tate how the garden’s coming along.
“It’s only been a few weeks since the planting,” Mrs. Tate says, “but Mr. Mudge called the other day and told me to hurry on over. It was the perfect time in his busy schedule to give me a tour. And I have to say everything looked marvelous till the sky split and we was stuck out there in the thunder and lightning without an umbrella. Mr. Mudge said, ‘You can never know the weather in advance,’ but I tell you, that’s the last time I get caught out in the middle of a garden like a soaked squirrel!”
“Golly!” says the lady.
“I still can’t get the mud stains off my shoes!” Mrs. Tate says.
“I reckon it’s safer to check on things from the garden gate,” says the lady.
“You’re probably right,” Mrs. Tate agrees.
Then the lady with the beehive hairdo tells Mrs. Tate how to get the mud stains off her shoes with carbonated
“Look!” she shouts.
My eyes fling open.
Delilah points at the sky.
A hawk crosses in front of the moon.
“He’s comin’!” she shouts.
At least I thought it was a hawk.
“Soon he’ll show his ghost face,” she says.
Then we wait and wait for my brother to come.
Something jostles the bush beside us. We both gulp.
“It’s him!” Delilah whispers.
But then Flapjack scampers out from under a bush and prances into the cemetery.
“Oh, no it ain’t,” Delilah says, and sighs.
We wait and wait. Before I know it, Delilah’s snoozing, sitting up, back against Daddy’s stone. Here I am, teeth chattering in the dark, hugging my knees to my chest, praying my brother’s ghost won’t show. The cemetary’s a grainy black-and-white photograph stuck between morning and night, when at long last the first rooster crows.
“He didn’t come!” I tell Deliliah. “He’s still alive.”
My groggy-faced friend rubs the sleep from her eyes.
“You know what?” she says, and yawns. “You’re right! He must be alive ’cause this ghost ceremony works every time.”
Well, all I can say is this was the best ghost ceremony that ever was! It filled me with new power, just what I need to race back home and climb through my window into bed, all before Mama finds me up and gone. I give Daddy’s stone a quick rub and I’m off running. Flapjack follows close behind.
CHAPTER 14
August 24, 1963
Ralphie has three words now: doggie, cat, and pickle. Every time Mrs. Tate hears him say something, she can’t help but run and hug her boy, she’s so proud. And since his talking’s coming along so good, Ralphie’s concentrating on walking. Today he wraps his little hands round the legs of the changing table, pulls himself up to stand.
“Let go, Ralphie! Walk!” I say.
Just then Mama pokes her head into the room, and Ralphie topples onto the floor in a heap. “Change the baby for the party,” she says.
“He’s not a baby,” I tell her.
“Well, just change that big boy and bring him down fast.”
I’m glad to see Mrs. Tate’s set out a respectable outfit for her son: a red cap, a white button-down shirt, and red knickerbockers. I dress him, pick him up, and shuffle down the stairs. The smell of roasting pork makes my stomach rumble. And I pray I’ll get a bite.
When Ralphie’s father hears me coming, he calls, “Addie Ann, bring me my little boy,” so I carry Ralphie into the living room, where the guests poke their toothpicks into the fruit salad Mama set on the table.
“How old’s the baby?” one of the men asks.
Ralphie’s not a baby!
I want to tell him.
He can talk and he can almost walk!
But I keep quiet and hand Ralphie to Mr. Tate.
“Fourteen months,” Mrs. Tate answers.
“Oh, he’s darlin’!” coos a lady. Her beehive hairdo’s so high on her head, she’ll likely need a harness to keep it perched up there for the rest of the night.
I slip into the kitchen. Mama fusses about the pork roast and I cook up the green beans, while we listen to the lady with the beehive hairdo ask Mrs. Tate how the garden’s coming along.
“It’s only been a few weeks since the planting,” Mrs. Tate says, “but Mr. Mudge called the other day and told me to hurry on over. It was the perfect time in his busy schedule to give me a tour. And I have to say everything looked marvelous till the sky split and we was stuck out there in the thunder and lightning without an umbrella. Mr. Mudge said, ‘You can never know the weather in advance,’ but I tell you, that’s the last time I get caught out in the middle of a garden like a soaked squirrel!”
“Golly!” says the lady.
“I still can’t get the mud stains off my shoes!” Mrs. Tate says.
“I reckon it’s safer to check on things from the garden gate,” says the lady.
“You’re probably right,” Mrs. Tate agrees.
Then the lady with the beehive hairdo tells Mrs. Tate how to get the mud stains off her shoes with carbonated
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