eat.”
Vern shook his head. “I lifted his eyelid yesterday, and, Mom, I couldn’t see his eye at all. It was like, well, he wasn’t in there anymore.”
“I don’t believe that,” Junior said. He went down the steps, and Maggie shifted to make room for him.
Junior drew in his breath. Mud seemed worse than he had just that morning when Junior put fresh water in his bowl. Mud reminded Junior of himself that awful afternoon when his head started floating off his body.
Hesitantly Junior reached out his hand. He raised Mud’s eyelid. The white showed bloodshot; the golden iris was rolled up into Mud’s head.
“Pap’s not dead,” he told the unseeing eye. “I thought he was, too, but now I think he’s not.”
Mud did not move.
“I would never lie to you, Mud. Pap is alive.”
“Save your breath,” Vicki Blossom said.
At nine o’clock the next morning Dump limped into the Blossoms’ yard on three legs. His left hind leg was swollen. The skin beneath the much-licked fur was red.
Junior was out on the porch steps, having a one-sided conversation with Mud. “Mud,” he was saying, “I’m going to get to talk to him on the phone, but I can’t bring the phone out here. The line won’t reach. You just have to believe me. You just have to!”
Just then Junior caught sight of Dump. He jumped to his feet.
“Mom! Everybody!” he called as he ran. “Dump’s back!”
“Yippee,” his mom said flatly from the kitchen.
Junior wanted to throw his arms around the dog, but he was afraid he’d hurt him. His hands fluttered over Dump. Finally he scratched him behind the ear with one finger.
“I’ll go get you something to eat,” he said. He ran to the steps and picked up the slice of ham. “I’m going to borrow this,” he told Mud. Then he ran across the yard, dusting the ham off on his pants. “Here,” he said.
Dump ate the ham out of Junior’s hand, and then he licked Junior’s palm.
“You’re just in time to help,” Junior told him. “Mud’s under the house and he won’t come out. He may even be dying. See, he thinks Pap is dead, and I’ve told him and told him that Pap’s alive, but he won’t listen. If anybody can get him out, it’s you. Come on. Hurry as fast as you possibly can.”
CHAPTER 24
Dear Maggie
Ralphie was composing a letter to Maggie. He frequently started letters to her, but he never mailed them.
His mother passed behind him. “Are you actually writing a letter?” she asked. Quickly Ralphie turned the paper over, facedown on the table.
“I can write a letter if I want to,” he said.
“I’m surprised because I remember I had to physically threaten you to make you write your birthday thank-you notes.”
“That was because I got underwear.”
“You did not get underwear. And last week I watched you in complete misery because your teacher made you write to an author.”
“And then I didn’t get to send it,” Ralphie said.
“Perhaps that was because it started out, ‘I haven’t read any of your books, because your titles stink.’”
“Mom! You read over my shoulder.”
He waited, arms crossed over the sheet of paper, until she went out of the room. Then he turned the sheet of paper over. “Dear Maggie,” he read.
He paused and scratched his head with the end of his ballpoint pen.
“Ralphie, I asked you to help me with the balloons,” his mother called from the bedroom. Ralphie’s mother had a business called The Balloonerie. “I cannot get twenty-one balloons into the back of the station wagon and put on a clown suit at the same time.”
“Mom, I’m writing a letter. You saw that.”
“The letter can wait.”
Ralphie sighed. He got up from the table. “My next letter will be to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.”
“Put the four ‘Smile, it’s a nice day’ balloons in first. Those are my last deliveries. Then the fourteen ‘Happy Birthday’s—they’re for a party. Last to go in will be the Mickey
Vern shook his head. “I lifted his eyelid yesterday, and, Mom, I couldn’t see his eye at all. It was like, well, he wasn’t in there anymore.”
“I don’t believe that,” Junior said. He went down the steps, and Maggie shifted to make room for him.
Junior drew in his breath. Mud seemed worse than he had just that morning when Junior put fresh water in his bowl. Mud reminded Junior of himself that awful afternoon when his head started floating off his body.
Hesitantly Junior reached out his hand. He raised Mud’s eyelid. The white showed bloodshot; the golden iris was rolled up into Mud’s head.
“Pap’s not dead,” he told the unseeing eye. “I thought he was, too, but now I think he’s not.”
Mud did not move.
“I would never lie to you, Mud. Pap is alive.”
“Save your breath,” Vicki Blossom said.
At nine o’clock the next morning Dump limped into the Blossoms’ yard on three legs. His left hind leg was swollen. The skin beneath the much-licked fur was red.
Junior was out on the porch steps, having a one-sided conversation with Mud. “Mud,” he was saying, “I’m going to get to talk to him on the phone, but I can’t bring the phone out here. The line won’t reach. You just have to believe me. You just have to!”
Just then Junior caught sight of Dump. He jumped to his feet.
“Mom! Everybody!” he called as he ran. “Dump’s back!”
“Yippee,” his mom said flatly from the kitchen.
Junior wanted to throw his arms around the dog, but he was afraid he’d hurt him. His hands fluttered over Dump. Finally he scratched him behind the ear with one finger.
“I’ll go get you something to eat,” he said. He ran to the steps and picked up the slice of ham. “I’m going to borrow this,” he told Mud. Then he ran across the yard, dusting the ham off on his pants. “Here,” he said.
Dump ate the ham out of Junior’s hand, and then he licked Junior’s palm.
“You’re just in time to help,” Junior told him. “Mud’s under the house and he won’t come out. He may even be dying. See, he thinks Pap is dead, and I’ve told him and told him that Pap’s alive, but he won’t listen. If anybody can get him out, it’s you. Come on. Hurry as fast as you possibly can.”
CHAPTER 24
Dear Maggie
Ralphie was composing a letter to Maggie. He frequently started letters to her, but he never mailed them.
His mother passed behind him. “Are you actually writing a letter?” she asked. Quickly Ralphie turned the paper over, facedown on the table.
“I can write a letter if I want to,” he said.
“I’m surprised because I remember I had to physically threaten you to make you write your birthday thank-you notes.”
“That was because I got underwear.”
“You did not get underwear. And last week I watched you in complete misery because your teacher made you write to an author.”
“And then I didn’t get to send it,” Ralphie said.
“Perhaps that was because it started out, ‘I haven’t read any of your books, because your titles stink.’”
“Mom! You read over my shoulder.”
He waited, arms crossed over the sheet of paper, until she went out of the room. Then he turned the sheet of paper over. “Dear Maggie,” he read.
He paused and scratched his head with the end of his ballpoint pen.
“Ralphie, I asked you to help me with the balloons,” his mother called from the bedroom. Ralphie’s mother had a business called The Balloonerie. “I cannot get twenty-one balloons into the back of the station wagon and put on a clown suit at the same time.”
“Mom, I’m writing a letter. You saw that.”
“The letter can wait.”
Ralphie sighed. He got up from the table. “My next letter will be to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.”
“Put the four ‘Smile, it’s a nice day’ balloons in first. Those are my last deliveries. Then the fourteen ‘Happy Birthday’s—they’re for a party. Last to go in will be the Mickey
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