Ramona and Her Mother (2 page)

In the kitchen Willa Jean set Woger carefully on the chair before she climbed up beside him, displaying her ruffled underpants, and grasped her orange juice with both hands, dribbling some down the front of her fresh pink dress.

Mrs. Quimby, assisted by Beezus, set out a platter of scrambled eggs and another of bacon and sausage beside the gelatine salad. Hastily she snatched two small plates from the cupboard and dished out two servings of brunch, which she set in front of Ramona and Willa Jean. Beezus, acting like a grown-up, filled a basket with muffins and carried it into the dining room. Guests took plates from the stack at the end of the table and began to serve themselves.

Ramona scowled. If Beezus got to eat in the living room with the grown-ups, why couldn't she? She was no baby. She would not spill.

“Be a good girl!” whispered Mrs. Quimby, who had forgotten the marmalade.

I'm trying, thought Ramona, but her mother was too flurried to notice her efforts. Willa Jean took one bite of scrambled eggs and then went to work, patting the rest flat on her plate with the back of her spoon.

Ramona watched her charge give her egg a final pat with the back of her spoon, pick up her bear, and trot off to the living room, leaving Ramona alone to nibble a muffin, think, and look at her artwork, arithmetic papers, and some cartoons her father had drawn, which had been taped to the refrigerator door for the family to admire. Nobody missed Ramona, all alone out there in the kitchen. Conversation from the living room was boring, all about high prices and who would be the next president, with no mention of children or anything interesting until someone said, “Oops. Careful, Willa Jean.”

Then Mrs. Kemp said, “No-no, Willa Jean. Mustn't put your fingers in Mr. Grumbie's marmalade. It's sticky.”

Mrs. Quimby slipped into the kitchen to see if the coffee was ready. “Ramona, it's time to take Willa Jean to your room and give her your present,” she whispered.

“I changed my mind,” said Ramona.

Mr. Quimby, refilling the muffin basket, overheard. “Do as your mother says,” he ordered in a whisper, “so that kid will give us a little peace.”

Ramona considered. Should she make a fuss? What would a fuss accomplish? On the other hand, if she gave Willa Jean her present, maybe she would have a chance to hold that lovable bear for a little while.

“OK,” Ramona agreed without enthusiasm.

Mrs. Quimby followed Ramona into the living room. “Willa Jean,” she said. “Ramona has a present for you. In her room.”

Willa Jean's attention was caught.

“Go with Ramona,” Mrs. Quimby said firmly.

Willa Jean, still clutching her bear, went.

“Here.” Ramona thrust the package at Willa Jean, and when her guest set her bear on the bed, Ramona started to pick him up.

Willa Jean dropped the package. “Woger's my bear,” she said, and ran off to the living room with him. In a moment she returned bearless to pull and yank and tear the wrapping from the package. “That's not a present.” Willa Jean looked cross. “That's Kleenex.”

“But it's your very own,” said Ramona. “Sit down and I'll show you what to do.” She broke the perforation in the top of the box and pulled out one pink sheet and then another. “See. You can sit here and pull out all you want because it's your very own. You can pull out the whole box if you want.” She did not bother telling Willa Jean that she had always wanted to pull out a whole box of Kleenex, one sheet after another.

Willa Jean looked interested. Slowly she pulled out one sheet and then a second. And another and another. She began to pull faster. Soon she was pulling out sheet after sheet and having such a good time that Ramona wanted to join the fun.

“It's mine,” said Willa Jean when Ramona reached for a tissue. Willa Jean got to her feet and, pulling and flinging, ran down the hall to the living room. Ramona followed.

“See me!” Willa Jean ordered the grown-ups as she ran around pulling and flinging Kleenex all over the room. Guests grabbed their coffee mugs and held them high for safety.

“No-no, Willa Jean,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Mrs. Quimby won't like you wasting her Kleenex.”

“It's mine!” Willa Jean was carried away by the joy of wasting Kleenex and being the center of attention at the same time. “Ramona gave it to me.”

Ramona looked around for the bear, which was sitting on Mr. Grumbie's lap. “Would you like me to hold Roger?” Ramona asked, careful not to say Woger.

“No.” The bear's owner saw through Ramona's scheme. “Woger wants to sit
there
.” Mr. Grumbie did not look particularly pleased.

Willa Jean's parents made no effort to stop their daughter's spree of pull and fling. Ramona watched, feeling much older than she had earlier in the day. She also felt awkward while Beezus moved around the living room, dodging Willa Jean and pouring coffee as if she were a grown-up herself.

At first guests were amused by Willa Jean. But amusement faded as coffee mugs had to be rescued every time Willa Jean passed by. Pink Kleenex littered the room. Ramona heard Mr. Huggins whisper, “How much Kleenex in a box anyway?”

Mrs. McCarthy answered, “Two hundred and fifty sheets.”

“That's a lot of Kleenex,” said Mr. Huggins.

When Willa Jean came to the last piece of Kleenex, she climbed on the couch and carefully laid it on Mr. Grumbie's bald head. “Now you have a hat,” she said.

Conversation died, and the party died, too. No one called Willa Jean an angel now or blessed her little heart.

The Grumbies were first to leave. Mr. Grumbie handed the bear to Willa Jean's mother as Willa Jean filled her arms with pink tissues and tossed them into the air. “Whee!” she cried, and scooped up another armful. “Whee!”

Their departure seemed to be a signal for everyone to leave. “Don't you want to take the Kleenex with you?” Mrs. Quimby asked Willa Jean's mother. “We can put it in a bag.”

“That's all right. Willa Jean has had her fun.” Mrs. Kemp was helping Willa Jean into her coat.

“Bye-bye,” said Willa Jean prettily as her father carried her and Woger out the door.

Other guests were telling Mr. and Mrs. Quimby how much they had enjoyed the brunch. Beezus was standing beside them as if it had been her party, too. Mrs. McCarthy smiled. “I can see you are your mother's girl,” she said.

“I couldn't get along without her,” Mrs. Quimby replied generously.

“Good-bye, Juanita,” said little Mrs. Swink.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Swink,” answered Ramona, polite to the end.

She tossed an armful of Kleenex into the air so that her mother might notice her, too. Somehow tossing someone else's pulled-out Kleenex was not much fun, and Mrs. Quimby was so busy saying good-bye to other guests she did not pay attention.

At last the door was closed, and from the porch where the neighbors were opening umbrellas, Ramona's sharp ears caught her name. “Willa Jean certainly reminds me of Ramona when she was Willa Jean's age,” someone said.

And someone else answered, “She's Ramona all over again, all right.”

Ramona was filled with indignation. Willa Jean is
not
me all over again, she thought fiercely. I was never such a pest.

“Whew!” said Mr. Quimby. “That's over. What's the matter with those people, letting the kid show off like that?”

“Too much grandmother, I suppose,” answered Mrs. Quimby. “Or maybe it's easier for them to ignore her behavior.”

“Come on, let's all pitch in and clean up this place,” said Mr. Quimby. “Ramona, you find a bag and pick up all the Kleenex.”

“Kleenex is made of trees,” said Beezus, already helping her mother collect coffee mugs from the living room. “We shouldn't waste it.” Lately Beezus had become a friend of trees.

“Put the bag of Kleenex in the cupboard in the bathroom,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and let's all remember to use it.”

I never was as awful as Willa Jean, Ramona told herself as she went to work collecting two hundred and fifty pieces of scattered pink Kleenex. I just know I wasn't. She followed the trail of Kleenex back to her bedroom, and when the two hundred and fiftieth piece was stuffed in the bag, she leaned against her dresser to study herself in the mirror.

How come nobody ever calls me my mother's girl? Ramona thought. How come Mother never says she couldn't get along without me?

T
he day Ramona's father went to work at the checkout counter of the ShopRite Market, life in the Quimby household changed. Sometimes Mr. Quimby worked all day; sometimes he worked afternoons and evenings. Sometimes he took the car to work while Mrs. Quimby took the bus to her job in Dr. Hobson's office. Sometimes she drove the car while he took the bus, or one would drop the other off at work.

Life was different for Ramona, too. She now went home with Howie Kemp after school. The Quimbys paid Howie's grandmother to look after Ramona until one of her parents could come for her after work. Mrs. Quimby said she could not hold a job unless she knew where Ramona was. Every single minute. Beezus also went to the Kemps' house after school unless she telephoned her mother for permission to go to a friend's house. Ramona had no choice.

One rainy Saturday morning, when Mr. Quimby had worked at the market for several weeks, Ramona asked her mother, “Where do you have to go today?” Mr. Quimby always worked Saturday, the busiest day at the market, which meant Mrs. Quimby had the use of the car to run errands. Ramona was concerned about her mother's errands because she always had to go with her, or as she thought of it, be dragged along. Most of them were of no interest to her.

Mrs. Quimby thought a moment before she said in surprise, “Well, what do you know? No place. We have groceries in the cupboard. No one needs to go shopping for shoes. No one needs a present to take to a birthday party. I can stay home.”

“Then what are you going to do?” asked Ramona. She hoped her mother would not decide to clean house.

“Sew,” answered Mrs. Quimby. “I've been trying to finish a blouse for weeks.”

Sewing seemed like a cozy way to spend a rainy morning. Ramona watched her mother get out the portable sewing machine and set it on the dining-room table along with a pattern and bundle of fabric.

“I'm going to wash my hair,” announced Beezus.

“Again?” inquired Mrs. Quimby. “You washed it only the day before yesterday.”

“But it's so oily,” complained Beezus.

“Don't worry, it's just your age,” reassured Mrs. Quimby. “You'll outgrow it.”

“Yes,” said Beezus gloomily. “In about a million years when I'm too old to care.”

“You'll never be that old,” said Mrs. Quimby. “I promise.”

Ramona, bored with her sister's daily complaints about oily hair, leaned on the dining-room table to watch her mother.

“I like it when you stay home,” she remarked, thinking of the days before her mother had gone to work when the house had smelled of baking cookies or homemade bread on Saturday morning. “Can I sew, too?” she asked, picturing a companionable morning close to her mother. She imagined a neighbor dropping in and saying, Ramona is her mother's girl, as the two of them stitched away together. Yes, her mother would answer, I can't get along without Ramona.

“Of course you may sew. You know where the scrap bag is,” answered her mother with a smile. “What would you like to make?”

“I'll have to think,” Ramona said. She went to her room and in a moment returned with a tired-looking stuffed elephant and a large piece of red-and-white checked cloth left over from a dress her mother had made for her when she was in kindergarten. Ramona had liked that dress because it matched the red plastic hat the firemen gave her when the kindergarten class visited the fire department.

Mrs. Quimby looked up from the sewing machine. “I haven't seen Ella Funt for a long time,” she remarked as Ramona stood the elephant on its four feet on the table.

“I'm going to make her some slacks,” said Ramona as she spread out the fabric. “All my other animals have clothes. Except that snake.”

Mrs. Quimby considered. “Slacks for an elephant won't be easy. Why not make slacks for Chevrolet?”

“She's too beat up,” said Ramona critically.

“If I were you, I would—” began Mrs. Quimby as Ramona studied the checked cloth.

“I can
do
it,” interrupted Ramona, who was impatient with instructions. Mrs. Quimby said no more. The sewing machine began to hum. Ramona picked up her mother's pinking shears and began to cut. There was something satisfying about using pinking shears and watching fabric part in such a neat zigzag line. Working quietly at the table with her mother was even more satisfying. Even the grouchy old cat, Picky-picky, sitting on a corner of the dining-room carpet washing his paws, was behaving like a satisfactory pet.