want to talk to you about.” I reached into my pocket, feeling the grosgrain ribbon and Grandpa's medal under my fingers. I held it tight.
“A World's Fair pickle?” He took a few steps closer to me, and I wondered if I should run, so I put up one hand, almost like a policeman, and he stopped.
“Something else,” I said. “And something about me, too.”
Someone was calling him from the house. I looked up. “You have a mother?”
He glanced over his shoulder and waved. “Of course I have a mother.”
“We took your ice cream,” I said. “Lots of ice cream.” And then all of it was spilling out, words tumbling one over another: my allowance, and Uncle Leo's dollar bill, the only thing Harlan had left of him.
“You wrote the note about the key,” he said.
I nodded.
“I thought so. You were always writing things.…”
“You watched.…”
“I see everything,” he said.
I looked up at him, surprised to see that his face had rearranged itself. It was round, and acne marks dotted his cheeks. He didn't look angry or even like a spy.
And then I realized I had said it aloud, gasped it aloud through my crying. “You don't look like a spy.”
“Spies don't look like spies,” he said. “They look like ordinary people.”
But then he took a step backward, and I could see the red come into his face. “I'm not a spy.” He raised his hand to his mouth, and his fingers weren't quite steady. “But I'm a coward.”
Chapter Nineteen
I turned the corner to see Dad standing on the front step. “Meggie,” he called, and I went toward him, still thinking of Arnold. Arnold with tears spilling down over those acne marks on his cheeks.
I had wanted to run away from him, but I hadn't. The whole time we talked I had kept one hand in my pocket, clutching Grandpa's medal so hard it made dented crescents in my palm.
“Where have you been?” Dad said now. “Mom is home, we're both waiting.” He pushed up his glasses so he looked like an owl. “And you have mail again, Meggie.”
I looked up at him quickly, but he shook his head. Not Eddie, then.
Mom was in the kitchen. The wash on the line was dry now, and she was sorting socks, dark ones for Dad, stripes and plain for me. And on the table was a letter in a pale blue envelope and a package addressed to me.
“Like Christmas.” Mom rolled the socks into balls and piled them into neat mounds on the table.
I didn't know which to open first, so I slit open the blue envelope with neat slanted handwriting and circles instead of dots over the
i’
s. “It's from Virginia Tooey.”
Mom glanced at Dad. “I never thought of Virginia,” she said. “I should have written. If only I had thought …” She broke off and went to the counter to begin a Spam loaf. “Poor Virginia. What did she say?”
I opened the letter:
“Dear Meggie, I'm so glad you wrote to me. I know about Eddie. All of Rockaway does, every single one praying for him. But I want to tell you something, Meggie. I know he's coming home. Just believe it. He promised me. Love, Virginia.”
For a moment there was silence. Then Mom turned from the sink. “It's the first time,” she said, “the first one who has given me hope.” She raised both hands almost the way the choir in church did on Sundays.
“All of Rockaway praying
.
”
Have hope
. That's what Grandpa would say.
Haf hope
. Mom came to the table. She leaned over to take the letter from me and held it up to her face. “I believe it,” she said.“I have to believe it.” She put her arms around me. “And you, Meggie, writing to her. How grown-up you've become this summer.”
I sat there with Dad across the table, nodding at me and smiling a little. He reached out to reread the letter as Mom went back to the counter. He cleared his throat. “I like Virginia Tooey, I really do.”
We listened to Mom stirring the wooden mixing spoon against the bowl. She began to hum the pilot song Ronnelle was always singing: “Coming In on a
“A World's Fair pickle?” He took a few steps closer to me, and I wondered if I should run, so I put up one hand, almost like a policeman, and he stopped.
“Something else,” I said. “And something about me, too.”
Someone was calling him from the house. I looked up. “You have a mother?”
He glanced over his shoulder and waved. “Of course I have a mother.”
“We took your ice cream,” I said. “Lots of ice cream.” And then all of it was spilling out, words tumbling one over another: my allowance, and Uncle Leo's dollar bill, the only thing Harlan had left of him.
“You wrote the note about the key,” he said.
I nodded.
“I thought so. You were always writing things.…”
“You watched.…”
“I see everything,” he said.
I looked up at him, surprised to see that his face had rearranged itself. It was round, and acne marks dotted his cheeks. He didn't look angry or even like a spy.
And then I realized I had said it aloud, gasped it aloud through my crying. “You don't look like a spy.”
“Spies don't look like spies,” he said. “They look like ordinary people.”
But then he took a step backward, and I could see the red come into his face. “I'm not a spy.” He raised his hand to his mouth, and his fingers weren't quite steady. “But I'm a coward.”
Chapter Nineteen
I turned the corner to see Dad standing on the front step. “Meggie,” he called, and I went toward him, still thinking of Arnold. Arnold with tears spilling down over those acne marks on his cheeks.
I had wanted to run away from him, but I hadn't. The whole time we talked I had kept one hand in my pocket, clutching Grandpa's medal so hard it made dented crescents in my palm.
“Where have you been?” Dad said now. “Mom is home, we're both waiting.” He pushed up his glasses so he looked like an owl. “And you have mail again, Meggie.”
I looked up at him quickly, but he shook his head. Not Eddie, then.
Mom was in the kitchen. The wash on the line was dry now, and she was sorting socks, dark ones for Dad, stripes and plain for me. And on the table was a letter in a pale blue envelope and a package addressed to me.
“Like Christmas.” Mom rolled the socks into balls and piled them into neat mounds on the table.
I didn't know which to open first, so I slit open the blue envelope with neat slanted handwriting and circles instead of dots over the
i’
s. “It's from Virginia Tooey.”
Mom glanced at Dad. “I never thought of Virginia,” she said. “I should have written. If only I had thought …” She broke off and went to the counter to begin a Spam loaf. “Poor Virginia. What did she say?”
I opened the letter:
“Dear Meggie, I'm so glad you wrote to me. I know about Eddie. All of Rockaway does, every single one praying for him. But I want to tell you something, Meggie. I know he's coming home. Just believe it. He promised me. Love, Virginia.”
For a moment there was silence. Then Mom turned from the sink. “It's the first time,” she said, “the first one who has given me hope.” She raised both hands almost the way the choir in church did on Sundays.
“All of Rockaway praying
.
”
Have hope
. That's what Grandpa would say.
Haf hope
. Mom came to the table. She leaned over to take the letter from me and held it up to her face. “I believe it,” she said.“I have to believe it.” She put her arms around me. “And you, Meggie, writing to her. How grown-up you've become this summer.”
I sat there with Dad across the table, nodding at me and smiling a little. He reached out to reread the letter as Mom went back to the counter. He cleared his throat. “I like Virginia Tooey, I really do.”
We listened to Mom stirring the wooden mixing spoon against the bowl. She began to hum the pilot song Ronnelle was always singing: “Coming In on a
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