out was a drop of drool. My mother wiped it away.
Abby started yapping again, but he kept his eyes on me. For a second I thought I saw him in there, the old Scooter, trying to get out. Suddenly Abby shut up and looked down and smiled. His good hand was clamped tight around her wrist.
In the car going home Abby said, “Will Scooter be better by February first?”
“That’s your birthday,” said my mother.
“I know. Will he?”
“Not all better. It takes a long time to recover from a stroke.”
“How about baking? Will he at least be able to do that?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s going to be working in the kitchen for quite a while. Why? Are you afraid I’ll fire Mrs. Linfont and start cooking myself?”
Mom hired Mrs. Linfont a couple days ago. She’s supposed to come one day a week to clean the house and do the wash and three days to cook dinner for Abby and me. So far she made one dinner for us. It stunk.
Abby groaned. “I wanted him to make catfish cakes for me to take to school for my birthday.”
My mother told her, “We’ll get you something nice from the bakery to take in.”
Abby whined, “I don’t want that. It won’t be the same. I want catfish cakes!” She kicked the back of my seat. “I won’t have a party!” She was crying. “He’s never gonna call me swabbie again!”
Later, I felt clammy in the house, so I took myself for a walk. It was almost dark when I got back. I still didn’t feel like going in. I wandered into the backyard.
As backyards go, ours is pretty big. Bigger than Uncle Herm’sor Mike’s, anyway. Bigger than Webb’s whole property. There’s ten or fifteen trees and lots of bushes and stuff along the edges.
And the dollhouse. I thought I saw something on the front of it. I went over. There was a cardboard sign Scotch-taped to the front. It read MOUSE HOUSE.
I knelt down to look inside. Furniture was in there—tiny chairs and tables and beds and a kitchen stove. The dining room table was about two inches long and had four chairs around it with legs as skinny as toothpicks. On top of the table was the very end tip of a slice of pizza.
As I got up from the Mouse House, something in the bushes caught my eye. I looked closer. It was a pile of sticks, about the size of a heaping plate of spaghetti. Ten feet away, you’d never see it.
I walked along the line of bushes. There was another stick pile … and there … and there. All along the three sides of the yard.
As I headed for the house I saw another one under a tree, right next to the trunk. I checked out the other trees. About every other one had a pile. Before going into the house, I turned to look back. Not a stick pile in sight. The ones by the trees were on the far sides; you couldn’t see them from the house even in broad daylight.
I don’t know why, but I just stood there for a minute. The leaves were long gone from the trees. Some of the bare branches were forked and jagged. They looked like black lightning against a sky smeared with raspberry jam.
This morning, when I left for school, I stopped to check Mouse House. The pizza tip was gone. The tiny tabletop didn’t have a crumb.
36
F EBRUARY 1
My mom had gone off to work as soon as she woke up. My dad was away on business. Mrs. Linfont wasn’t in yet, and me and Abby were in the kitchen with four boxes of cookies from Hannah’s Bakery.
Abby smacked one of the boxes. “I told her not to get anything. I told her I won’t take them in.” She clawed one of the balloons my mother had gotten at the party store. It popped. I was waiting for her to attack the big HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ABBY sign. “I won’t,” she growled again.
“So don’t,” I said.
“I won’t.”
I reached under the sink and pulled out a plastic bag. “Take these.”
The grump fell from her face. She looked at me, she looked in the bag, she looked back at me. “What are they?”
“What do you think?” I said. “Catfish cakes.”
Her eyes
Abby started yapping again, but he kept his eyes on me. For a second I thought I saw him in there, the old Scooter, trying to get out. Suddenly Abby shut up and looked down and smiled. His good hand was clamped tight around her wrist.
In the car going home Abby said, “Will Scooter be better by February first?”
“That’s your birthday,” said my mother.
“I know. Will he?”
“Not all better. It takes a long time to recover from a stroke.”
“How about baking? Will he at least be able to do that?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s going to be working in the kitchen for quite a while. Why? Are you afraid I’ll fire Mrs. Linfont and start cooking myself?”
Mom hired Mrs. Linfont a couple days ago. She’s supposed to come one day a week to clean the house and do the wash and three days to cook dinner for Abby and me. So far she made one dinner for us. It stunk.
Abby groaned. “I wanted him to make catfish cakes for me to take to school for my birthday.”
My mother told her, “We’ll get you something nice from the bakery to take in.”
Abby whined, “I don’t want that. It won’t be the same. I want catfish cakes!” She kicked the back of my seat. “I won’t have a party!” She was crying. “He’s never gonna call me swabbie again!”
Later, I felt clammy in the house, so I took myself for a walk. It was almost dark when I got back. I still didn’t feel like going in. I wandered into the backyard.
As backyards go, ours is pretty big. Bigger than Uncle Herm’sor Mike’s, anyway. Bigger than Webb’s whole property. There’s ten or fifteen trees and lots of bushes and stuff along the edges.
And the dollhouse. I thought I saw something on the front of it. I went over. There was a cardboard sign Scotch-taped to the front. It read MOUSE HOUSE.
I knelt down to look inside. Furniture was in there—tiny chairs and tables and beds and a kitchen stove. The dining room table was about two inches long and had four chairs around it with legs as skinny as toothpicks. On top of the table was the very end tip of a slice of pizza.
As I got up from the Mouse House, something in the bushes caught my eye. I looked closer. It was a pile of sticks, about the size of a heaping plate of spaghetti. Ten feet away, you’d never see it.
I walked along the line of bushes. There was another stick pile … and there … and there. All along the three sides of the yard.
As I headed for the house I saw another one under a tree, right next to the trunk. I checked out the other trees. About every other one had a pile. Before going into the house, I turned to look back. Not a stick pile in sight. The ones by the trees were on the far sides; you couldn’t see them from the house even in broad daylight.
I don’t know why, but I just stood there for a minute. The leaves were long gone from the trees. Some of the bare branches were forked and jagged. They looked like black lightning against a sky smeared with raspberry jam.
This morning, when I left for school, I stopped to check Mouse House. The pizza tip was gone. The tiny tabletop didn’t have a crumb.
36
F EBRUARY 1
My mom had gone off to work as soon as she woke up. My dad was away on business. Mrs. Linfont wasn’t in yet, and me and Abby were in the kitchen with four boxes of cookies from Hannah’s Bakery.
Abby smacked one of the boxes. “I told her not to get anything. I told her I won’t take them in.” She clawed one of the balloons my mother had gotten at the party store. It popped. I was waiting for her to attack the big HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ABBY sign. “I won’t,” she growled again.
“So don’t,” I said.
“I won’t.”
I reached under the sink and pulled out a plastic bag. “Take these.”
The grump fell from her face. She looked at me, she looked in the bag, she looked back at me. “What are they?”
“What do you think?” I said. “Catfish cakes.”
Her eyes
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